A Sixpack of Silence

Curious about what's come of this blog, I took a look back. In August of 2009, I wrote my first post, which I called The Baptism of Fire. I think it was supposed to make a reference to reverse culture shock, as I had just returned from living in rural Japan for two years. I decided to start a new blog when I came home because while I was in Japan, I had written a "travel blog" that I called The Flophouse (my brother thought that's what my house in Japan looked like - a cheap, run-down hotel, generally providing minimal services - which offended me in the moment, but it did in fact not offer many amenities. So, in a late sort of way, I apologize to all of my guests for the substandard visits you endured while at The Brett and Breakfast). But since I wasn't really traveling anymore, I thought to start a new space.

Since then, it's been thirty-three months and to date I've written forty entries. This mathematically means I've monthly made an entry without error, but I can't claim that was or is my aim. It's also untrue. There were several stretches of two or three months when I didn't write a sentence (or one I liked). I can remember nights when I'd stare at the list of pending posts and panic. If I don't finish one of these by tomorrow night, then I won't have published anything in the month of March, I'd think. For the rest of the night, I'd toss and turn on tunes, hoping the harmony would free up the bumper-to-bumper thoughts. But you can't go around making garden forks out of needles. Knowing this, my mood would dampen, motativation flatten. I'd open another beer and put my laptop and mind to sleep. Another month, I'd say and sip, another unpublished post.

But why the worry? What if I don't publish anything in March? My readers will have nothing to read over a morning cup of coffee? My publisher will be upset? I don't have (m)any readers* and I haven't thought of a pen name yet, so the real root of the restlessness likely lies elsewhere. Perhaps near here: when I write, I am able to release unreal worries and focus on where, what, and who I am. When I don't, I orbit out of order. As if I've left a car door ajar, a noise from nowhere says something isn't right, and it's tough to know which while moving. And so, on umpteen evenings, I find myself in a room with a lamp lit, sixpack of silence, and battery full of life. Searching for the peace of pace or vice versa, I don't always have something to write, and that's okay. I own plenty of books.


*In the month of April, my top five audiences (with # of views) were: Russia (117), United States (40), Panama (15), Brazil (10), and Japan (7). Historically, United States is still number one overall with close to 2,000 views, compared to Russia's total of 144. But if this recent and rapid increase of Russian viewership is indicative of something larger, then watch out US of A, I might have a new best country. Are they actually reading my posts, you ask? I don't care - a view is a view. I'm an economist at heart. 

What I See When I See Myself Running

My physical therapist, pen napping behind his carefully created ear, was pointing at a television screen. "You see how your right arm swings up and in front of your stomach as the rest of your body twists right to compensate for your weak left thigh?"

I thought to talk but've recently realized it's not questions but answers that're stupid, so I kept quiet. "And do you see how you land on your heels, spring upward instead of forward, and drool all over your shirt?" Now that he had highlighted it, I could see a string of definitive drool. Together, we watched a minute-long recording of my running form that we had just taken. In normal motion, it looked like I had been shot in the femur. In slow motion, I looked like a wounded wild animal making a final dash before being flattened into a dust of death.

"Today," he told me, "we're going to work on your running form." I sharpened my mental pencil, velcroed my shoes, and pretended to stretch my hamstring. Flipping through my charts, he told me to hop on the treadmill. Upon first hop, he whipped around and screamed for me to cease. "Christ, what's got into you?" A bit out of breath and calf a touch tight, "You said hop on the treadmill," I reminded him. Goddamnit, he said with his eyebrows. He turned on the treadmill and I began to run. For the next several minutes, he chiseled away at my imperfections. Shorter stride, stop prancing, front of the foot, to the metronome, ninety degrees elbows, relax your shoulders, light landing, stop thinking, next time wear deodorant. At last, he seemed pleased with his presentation of me. "Now, maintain that form while we record for another minute," he said. Done in sixty seconds, he turned the treadmill to zero and said I could get down. "Can I hop off?" I asked. He didn't respond, so I pretended I was on a snowboard, stomped a stalefish grab, and nearly sprained my ankle.

He carted a second television over. "Time to compare and contrast," he said. He slid the new video in and pressed play. I felt like microwaving popcorn, but within moments the motion pictures were playing. "Don't speak or think," he instructed, "just look. This screen," he pointed to the left, "is the video we just took. And this screen," he pointed to the right, "is the one we took before you underwent open-eye surgery. Watch and we'll chat about what you see." As the figures came into focus, I felt like I was falling in between realities. In my head, I knew these televised twins were me. My short term memory isn't that bad and moreover, I was in fact wearing blue Asics, white Adidas shorts, and a quarter zip Champions top from Buffalo Exchange. But apparel aside, there wasn't a single other similarity. "So," he interrupted my thoughts, "what do you see when you see yourself running?" What are you, I thought, a therapist? Realizing he is, I answered his question.

The Form. First, I went on to tell him, I saw a marked difference in form and perception of form. Before you had made changes to my form, I remember feeling like myself while running. But watching that me run on the treadmill, I didn't see what seemed something natural. Rather, it looked like an equilateral limp. But when you began making adjustments to my form, I remember thinking, No one runs like this. I feel like Forrest Gump unable to break away. But seeing that me running, I looked like I was treading air in a horizontal free fall. My movements looked mindless, like a bird flying just above a body of water. 

The Dismount. Next, I continued, I saw a difference in stepping off the treadmill. In the first video, I staggered off the treadmill as if stumbling drunk down a set of stairs, only to save a face plant by a late but tight grip to the cold, steel handrail. Then, bending head over hip, I sucked in air like a broken vancuum cleaner, only to rise because I began seeing a celestial canvas of dilating stars. Christ, I can remember thinking, is this it? But in the second video, I hopped off the treadmill, landed on my tippy toes, and approached the closest woman I could find. That to say, I was walking with confidence. 

The Afterwrath. And last, I concluded, there was a difference in how I felt. After the first jog, my body felt like a lost rain cloud. "When you asked me how I felt," I confessed, "I was actually writing haikus about treadmills in my head." Go on, he nodded. "I titled them 'Dreadmill' and 'Afterwrath.' Would you like to hear them?" I asked. He told me he didn't but said he has a good friend he thinks I should see. "So how did you feel after we corrected your form?" he asked. "I felt like I was in hot pursuit of my passions," I told him. "My mind felt like it was freed up. I was no longer repeating things like this sucks or only .25 miles to go. My mind was able to wonder, and wander, about other things. For instance," I continued, "I realized that by setting soul and sole to street, it's within that we compete, I am simply me." He was jotting down some notes. "Is that another one of your haikus?" he asked. I shook my head yes and he jotted down some more notes.

After that appointment, I kept up a decent routine of jogging or running. But frequency and duration seldom entered the equation. Some weeks, I run only once while others I go every day. Some runs, I last five minutes while others I go for thirteen miles. I don't know what the runner's high is or how to achieve it, but there have been random moments during a run when I feel as if I'm breaking through the final cloud. No ceilings in sight, my mind flies in free formation. It doesn't happen every run, but nor is every day enjoyable.

I think what I started to realize was that once I made the decision to run correctly, the decision of whether to run or not never had to be made. I was simply doing what my body woke up wanting to do: be in motion. Shorter stride, light landing, next time wear deodorant, I sometimes repeat to myself.

Stocking Stuffers, Wonders, and Blunders

There's nothing I like less than a single sock. It means I have to lose another, search for its cottoned cousin, or put up with imperfection. Unless of course, it's the morning of December 25th. On that ageless morning alone, they become carriers of undiscovered desires.

Stuffers

As a child, I can remember sitting on the sofa having a staring contest with my stocking, which was floating above the fireplace. I wasn't allowed to touch it until my brother was ready for Christmas. My parents would try to sidetrack my focus. "Brett," they'd say, "what do you think is over in that big box?" "A nerf gun?" I'd offer. My parents would look at each other and smile, as if to say, Nope. Think far better. But truth be told, I didn't care for the wrapped presents beneath the tree. I already knew what they were. The week leading up to Christmas, I had taken inventory of the garage (and other obvious locations) during midnight ninja missions. Wish List in hand, I'd cross off each item I uncovered. Occasionally, I wouldn't be able to find a couple items. Those years, I would conduct Observation Operations on Christmas Eve and watch my parents bring all the gifts downstairs. I had learned patience was a virtue, and for once, I was able to cash that virtuous check. "Where should I put Brett's X-Box?" my dad would ask my mom. Running my thumb down my legal-lined gift-list, I'd spot X-Box, think check, and put a single strike through it. My dad would also say things like, "Did you get Chris' amp?" Happily, I'd add a bullet point to Notes to Self at the bottom of my pad: If Chris takes too long tomorrow morning, tell him he is getting an amp. I never did ruin my brother's surprise, though I imagined doing it each year. Chris, I'd dream of declaring, Dad got you an amp. Also, this just in, you're stupid. So, hurry up. But I was afraid this would get in the way of unlocking my stocking, so I always kept quiet.

Wonders

As I've aged, I've noticed the normal distribution of stuffers has slightly shifted. In my single digit days, I'd get trinkets. In my teens, I'd get gift cards. In my adulties, I'd get donations in my name to charities. Some items, however, have shown up time and again. Sleeves of golf balls, for example. As a kid, I had a horrible hook. As a teenager, I had a horrible temper. As an adult, I swing and drink like John Daly. So life has taught me that there are the predictables. A couple years ago, however, life taught me there are also the never expecteds. These gifts are gateways into how a person perceives you, which is exactly why I was stunned a couple Christmases ago when I unwrapped a breathalyzer. It was pretty easy to figure out who it came from. By process of unnecessary elimination, I knew Santa didn't - he'd've given me a beer. I also knew my mother hadn't, but that's because she was sitting next to my dad, who was covered in laughter. As I went to get offended, I knocked over my Christmas Morning Beer. Somewhat flustered, wanting to be offended, but kind of curious, I blew my boozey breath for a test into the breathalyzer. Decisively, I was over the limit. So, I tossed my keys into the firepit, cracked open another beer, and made sure to not look my mom in the eyes for the rest of the day. Whether it was the gift, my dad's roaring laughter, or my brother's year-long reminders, you could say this stocking stuffer caused me to wonder and, in the end, consider cutting back by a couple cans.

And Blunders

This past year, we celebrated Christmas in Florida. My mother, knowing just how much Chris and I enjoy stockings, brought them along with her. But on this morning in Florida, something had changed. Looking at my stocking, I began to see a single sock. Seeing it sitting next to the other stockings, I realized why. I noticed for the first time that my brother's stocking had his name and a full-sized Santa stitched from top to toe. Mine, hanging one nail to the right, was an empty landscape of red.  On the front, sides, and back. Not a thread sewn anywhere.

Everyone was still getting ready for Christmas, so I cracked open a beer and sat on the couch. When they came out, my mom grabbed the stockings from the mantle. "Here you go, Chris" she said, "here's your stocking." My brother thanked her, smiled, and sat down on his love seat. "Here's your stocking, Brett," she said. Hands at home, "That's not mine," I told her. Somewhat taken aback, "Sure it is," she said. I stood my ground. "Oh yeah? How do you know?" "Well," she started, "we put your things in this one." My questions were lined up like dominoes and every answer was falling into unfortunate place. "Why does Chris' have his name and an elaborately stitched Santa on his and mine has nothing?" Chris, realizing this for the first time too, started doing victory laps around the living room. My mom sat down next to me, placed the stocking on her lap, and told me the short story of the two stockings. My grandma, bless her beautiful heart, labored hours over Chris' stocking. When I was born, she went to sew another, remembered how long it took, and instead bought my mom a gift card to KMart. "Get one for Brett," she asked. While it hit home, I can't blame her. I'd've done the exact same.

Cracking open a new beer, I pulled out my breathalyzer, put it on my car keychain, and drank until dusk.

Starting From Stretch

On a foggy day in some December, I climbed into the morning vanpool bound for work. As I clicked my seatbelt into safety, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. “Brett,” he said, “as a runner, what kind of shoes would you suggest I buy if I want to get into running?”

This was weird to hear and is hard to type, as I've never been one to run. I have them all the time, why seek one out? I'd think. And were I ever on the trot, it was always part of another activity - away from bullies, late to class, or on fumes. This to say, I never viewed it as an activity in and of itself. And yet, some how and way, there behind me sat a person who perceived me as a regular runner.

I struggled for an answer, as a mind divided in two cannot think. One half of my brain felt the pressure of actual runners watching over my response. I could see them sitting on a closeby cloud saying, Look Erik, he’s pretending to be one of us. Squinting to see me, Erik would agree, I know. Oh yuck, look at his thighs. Hey Tommis, do me a favor and toss me those Kahtoola crampons. I hear there’s still snow at the top of Grand Col Ferret. The other half of my brain was trying to figure out why my breath smelled like a McDonald’s Pale Ale. Just then, I saw ketchup residue on my right thumb. I tried to dodge reality, but it double-jumped my every mental move. Shit, I resigned, I bought a street dog after my tenth beer last night. While pretending to scratch my beard, I licked the ketchup off my thumb. Delicious, I obviously thought.

Since I had no answer, I asked a question. As if it mattered, "What kind of shoes do you have now?" "Currently," he began, "I wear LA Gear Cruise Boys, but I used to wear The Reeboks until they discontinued my color." I could see him now, running down the Burke Gilman, looking like a blinking metronome. I bet he still wears turtlenecks, I terribly thought. But with the bar perceived low, I took an easy exit. "I wear Nikes. You should, just, do it." Seemingly satisfied, he mulled over the words like a lightly lit fire. To put out every conversational ember, I plugged in MyPod, turned on the Killers, and listened to "Andy You're a Star," but substituted each Andy with Brett.

While the above is based on a mostly untrue story, there is some truth to the takeaway. Someone considered me a runner, and I had no idea why. Though, neither of those mattered. Before two years ago, I had always just done. As a kid, I'd slap on my shoes and play whatever sport was closest to me, be it wall-ball, soccer, or pickle. And then, in November of 2009, at the careless age of twenty four, I slapped on my indoor soccer shoes and ran in pointless pursuit of a defender. He had a ball at his feet that I wanted. Approaching my prey, he darted right. As I went to follow, my left knee felt like going straight. I slammed into the three foot hockey-like wall, closed my eyes, and cursed my nowfound condition. A few doctor appointments later, I was told that my femur and tibia had kissed. I tried to refrain from immature questions, but I couldn't. What kind of kiss?, I asked. The doctor didn't react, so I took more liberty. "Was it a peach? Prune? Plum? Alfalfa? His facial features still frozen, Was it a one-night stand? Are they sexually active?" Less impressed, I took it a social step further. I whipped out my phone, signed into twitter, and hashtagged bone-bumping @mydoctor'soffice, and then checked into "The Crazy Clinic" on Facebook. Checkmate, I thought.

"We're going to do a cadaver replacement," he said. Clearly, I didn't understand what this meant. He simplified it for me. "We're going to screw a dead person's achilles tendon into your tibia and femur." Still confused, he spoke my language. "Your thigh-bone and shin-bone got into a heated argument and broke up. But, we think that with a little counseling, they'll be able to look patch their differences." Oh, I thought, well shit, do what you can, Doc.

The surgery was two years ago and for longer than I should've, I struggled to find fitness. Partly because my thigh had lost the little muscle it barely had, but primarily because I had an incorrect idea of activity. My first physical therapist asked what types of things I want to do in the long run. I listed sports. She said okay, forgot my name, and kept printing out stretches for me to never do. We didn't last that long. A year and several re-injuries later, I decided to re-seek physical therapy. Ironically enough, I ended up at Real Rehab. When setting up my initial appointment, they asked how I would like my therapist. I felt like I was ordering steak. "Would you like your therapist with a specialty in biking, running, or swimming?" they offered. I wanted to ask if they had any therapists in magic, but first impressions are important. Since I'm drownaphobic and hate helmets, I opted for the trotting tycoon. I was told my first appointment was the following week, to wear shorts, and get ready.

During my first appointment, the PTist asked, "What kind of exercises do you do?" I said, "often soccer, snowboard in winter, and golf in sun." He wrote some notes, looked back up, and said, "So what type of exercises do you do?" Christ, I thought, why are all physical therapists idiots? As I sought to speak, he told me to shut up and listen. After ten minutes of what seemed like pure pansophy, I realized that what was missing was my comprehension. For twenty six years, I hadn't ever made a habit of what is the prerequisite to that I enjoy the most about this green globe.

When I left that day, I remember feeling like I was playing a human game of Chutes and Ladder, and shittily or luckily enough, the die I rolled landed me at the top of a long drop to square one. And so, it was six months ago that, with my mindset mended, I started from stretch.