words, words, words
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If I begin to detail myself here, will you understand?
P. I am me
Q. I don't always know exactly who that is
R. I am Quaker
S. I like words and playing with them
T. I like genmaicha tea
U. I like the word napkin more than most others
V. I spend time walking my neighborhood
W. I cook rice often
X. I sleep well most every night
Y. I eat large amounts of fruit and vegetables
Z. I munch, sleep, write, create, cook, bike, watch, walk, listen, hope, learn, drink, live, breathe, touch, know, question, taste, copy, read, stare, carry, talk, dance, finger, try.
raisin@gmail.com
albums:
Magnetic Fields: 69 Love Songs
Erasure: I Say, I Say, I Say
Depeche Mode: Black Celebration
The Beach Boys: Pet Sounds
Marvin Gaye: What's Going On?
David Bowie: Hunky Dory
George Michael: Listen without Prejudice
George Gershwin: Porgy and Bess
Yo La Tengo: And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out
songs:
Wild is the Wind: Nina Simone
Come Undone: Duran Duran
Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini: Rachmaninov
My Funny Valentine: Chet Baker
Feeling Yourself Disintegrate: The Flaming Lips
This Must Be the Place: The Talking Heads
Hyperballad: Bjork
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Monday, June 14, 2004
i learned to like lifting weights, after a couple of years. The response to my body became more and more positive around me. During the summer after my eighth grade year, as i turned 14, i benched 285 lbs, and word traveled fast. At a weeklong summer camp, random guys would come up to me and try to verify my bench pressing - they even convinced me to do a bit of showing off in the gym, although i refused to go very high because i didn't trust any of them to spot me. I've always been a cautious person. i did one-armed push-ups for show, did push-ups while people sat on my back, and largely enjoyed the attention. Except, it was still hurtful, still something that I had no control over, something that I was only learning how to be proud of. It's like having a famous grandfather of dubious reputation, people always want to make sure that the rumors are true, that you really are someone's grandson, blame you. and as much as the attention was flattering, it felt hollow and embarrassing.
During my eighth grade year though, my dad worked on me. He would watch a football game and make me sit with him, talk to me about it, explain to me better how it worked. It was a friendly gesture, but I couldn't talk to him about football, couldn't get over the anxiety I felt in my stomach every time I saw a football game, every time i heard a whistle, or a coach. I was scared of football, and scared that he would find out, would broadcast that fear to my Mother, that they would make me growl in front of them again, make me pretend to be tough. i would say it was all about my morals of not hurting others around me, but it was of course also my shame about them ridiculing my very nature. i listened to my dad's speeches about football, how it was my only way to college. They don't give full academic scholarships, and we don't have enough money to put you through college, my dad told me. You have to play football in order to get to college, you need to play during high school and during college, or you'll never get an education. He told me there was no other way. You want to go to college, right? You'll never make it otherwise. i would just look down at the floor. Fine, don't listen to me, what do i know? He would lecture me about God and country, about how a young man has to give back to his school, how he is expected to sacrifice for God. My parents loved the phrase "to whom much is given, much is required." My dad used it against me, arguing that since I was the strongest guy in my class - almost in my high school before i even entered - I had a responsibility to play football. There was no other way.
i wanted so badly to not listen to him, to be sure he was wrong. He twisted every belief in me that year. I wanted to be a good son, to do what he wanted me to. I wanted to be a good Christian, to do what God wanted me to. I wanted to be good in school, to be a good citizen. He painted it as a sacrifice, and I fell for it. I tried not to, I tried to remember how bad it was, how useless I was on the football field. I wanted to believe him though, he was my father, and I wanted him to be always right, even if it bothered me that he cheated in card games, even if he never did seem fair, I wanted him to be fair. I wasn't an easy target that year. He worked on me almost every weekend, not letting me escape the conversation, forcing me to listen to the speech repeteadly, that it was my duty to play football, that other kids weren't blessed with a strong body, that they wouldn't be as good as I would be, that because I had such potential, I had to use it. And i wanted to please him. I had few motivating factors in my life. Loving God, obeying and honoring my parents, learning as much as I could . . . I wanted to please him. i wanted to do what was right, and he had used the right word, sacrifice. Once he convinced me it was a sacrifice for God and for the other students, i felt I had to do it. I trusted him and assumed that I was wrong.
5:32 PM
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