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Posts Tagged as ‘exercise’

Honesty

Jan 31 2011

So my resolution this New Year was perhaps a bit too broad. I had basically three different parts of my life I wanted to improve: my health, my career, and my creativity. All of these I found to be in some ways expressions of who I am, who I was, and who I want to be. For my health, I decided to make more of a concerted effort to follow a diet, which in this case was weight watchers, because I can simply count the various different things I’m putting in my body to hold myself accountable for my actions. I also wanted to work out more often in order to get into a basically “good” shape, and I didn’t specify to myself how I would do it, other than guarantee I would work out at least three times a week, no matter what days or order they came in. For my career, I decided I would push myself to do things that scared me, including working harder than I’ve ever worked before, and be willing to make drastic decisions regarding my career path. Finally, for my creativity I decided I would read, write, compose, or practice an instrument at least once a day.

So far, I’m amazed at how well I’ve kept up with all of these things. And the reason, I’ve realized, is because I’ve been truthfully, brutally honest with myself. I haven’t been as honest with everyone else, so I’ve decided to start sharing this stuff on the most public and potentially embarrassing place possible: the internet.

In the last couple of months, I’ve:

  1. worked out at least three times a week, in some cases five
  2. lost about fourteen pounds
  3. quit my job (because I realized I wasn’t doing what I wanted to do and accepted a job closer to where I wanted to be)
  4. written three short stories, over thirty poems, three pieces of music
  5. practiced piano, bass, guitar, and tin whistle

In spite of all of this: I feel like I have not yet come close to the spirit of my resolution. Why?

I have lacked honesty. I have lacked truth and the ability to express it in my personal and professional lives. Recently, I read an interview with Francis Ford Coppola, and it’s been running through my mind a great deal in the past couple of days. He said two things that really struck me, so I’ll just quote them both and then go into why they’re so important to this realization.

In the old days, 200 years ago, if you were a composer, the only way you could make money was to travel with the orchestra and be the conductor, because then you’d be paid as a musician. There was no recording. There were no record royalties. So I would say, “Try to disconnect the idea of cinema with the idea of making a living and money.” Because there are ways around it.

What’s the best piece of advice you’ve given to your children, inside and outside of the industry?
Always make your work be personal.

And, you never have to lie. If you lie, you will only trip yourself up. You will always get caught in a lie. It is very important for an artist not to lie, and most important is not to lie to yourself. There are some questions that are inappropriate to ask, and rather than lie, I will not answer them because it’s not a question I accept. So many times we are asked things in our work or in life that you want to lie, and all you have to do is say, “No, that is an improper question.”

I wake up some mornings and wonder where I am, or more importantly how the hell I got here. I graduated one of the hardest music composition programs in the country in four years with honors and no debt, and I was so completely sure throughout that time that I would be destined for musical greatness that I never really paused to think about what that even meant. I saw myself living in a loft in the city with nothing but my bass to keep me company, hunched over scores, or perhaps against the glow of a flickering crt monitor plugged into a desktop on its last legs as I struggled to create my true art.

And here I am, sitting comfortably in a suede chair in the living room of my two-story home, staring at an embarrassingly expensive gaming laptop and writing about my wasted potential. I have become a parody of myself, and I couldn’t figure out why for the longest time.

Now don’t get the wrong impression, I’m not wealthy; I’m barely living paycheck to paycheck against a mountain of student and personal debt, some of which I inherited from my wife, some of which I racked up before I was responsible enough to not live above my means. I have this house because of a government tax credit and a loan from my parents, and I am on this laptop because my company was willing to finance it for a year with no interest for me. As a matter of fact, this comfy sofa is a hand-down from my parents (it didn’t go with their new wood floor). BUT: I write code for 8+ hours a day, most of which thus far powers completely deprecated and inefficient systems in an industry I simply have very little to no interest in (disclaimer : anyone who works for any successful company in any industry knows their app is a kludge, and it’s probably a very profitable kludge). Anyone who knew me from sophomore year of high school to my graduation from UNT would be amazed that I haven’t spontaneously combusted in irony, or that the word “sellout” is not branded to my forehead.

But now I have to step back and realize exactly what has happened and who I’ve become. I’m actually sitting here, for real, and I can actually see and feel all of these things: so this is not the illusion. The dream of working on movie scores or video game music and being a respected musician was the lie. My true art would be laughed out of Hollywood or any “serious” game industry professional’s office. Why? Because it’s not honest.

I think the problem never had to do with me not having the skills or dedication. My ultimate, stinky, sweaty fear under all of those pretty and dressed up excuses was that I would be bound to a lose/lose conundrum. Either I would suffer for an eternity for no ultimate success or reason, or I would be vastly successful and hate myself for what I had allowed myself to become. I would have twisted the thing that has inspired my deepest reserves of personal passion and dedication into some kind of commercialized monstrosity in order to survive to make more, or I’d starve to death (which when you’re married is actually killing two people, more if you have kids). And then it struck me: this sudden clarity came from my personal dedication to this new resolution.

I was honest with myself about my weight. I didn’t feel attractive, healthy, or energetic any more. Being married, you stop worrying about attracting the opposite sex nearly as much, but deep down you’re the same insecure squirming kid you were in the seventh grade, hoping that no one noticed you just pick a wedgie. And how better to better myself than to devote my time and energy to honestly doing the things I’d always wanted to do? I bought a heavy bag (which I’ve wanted since I saw Rocky as a kid), started hitting the gym and the exercise bike and I’ve felt leagues better because I finally told myself the freaking TRUTH: Nathan, you’re a fatass. Do something about it.

I was honest with myself about my career. I got praise at almost every review, and was constantly being told by my co-workers that my input was needed and valued on almost every aspect of development. They told me that I was being considered for a senior position, to be a decision-maker on the system, and I was amazed at how much that failed to inspire me. I finally was honest with myself and asked a very important question: if you work these sixty hour weeks for another year and make it to a senior developer position are you still going to be in the same incredibly restrictive industry, doing business logic that makes people fall asleep when you explain what you do for a living? Being brutally honest, I said yes. So when a friend said his company was looking to fill a designer/front-end developer job, I had to admit it was time to make a change. A terrifying and potentially disastrous (for me) change. And I did.

I was honest with myself about my talent. I told myself for so long that I simply didn’t have the time to work on new designs, write new stories and songs, and practice one of the more than ten instruments I have lying around in the house. I would pine for the opportunity to go and play them or sit down and write, and every time I would stare at a blank screen or just noodle around with songs I’d played a thousand times, and went back to playing video games or watching TV, letting my mind wander to things that were in no way constructive or helpful. For this, I have to thank my wife, who is now living her dream. I was playing a really hard guitar song on Rock Band 3 and said “I wish I had the real guitar controller… or even better that I was just playing guitar right now.” She looked at me as though I had been replaced by some kind of 50s sci-fi monster and said “then… go play your guitar.”

She has said something similar to me for years, but sitting at her computer with her tablet in her lap working on a commission made me realize: 1) Holy shit. 2) I’m an idiot.

So most importantly, I got really honest with myself about my life. No, it’s not going to be easy. No, it’s not going to be cheap, and it’s not going to be fast. But I’m going to start working on myself a lot more aggressively. I’m going to start being the man I want to be, one step at a time. And the most important step, right here and right now, is being absolutely, breathtakingly, irrevocably honest with myself and everyone else. Da Vinci had Pope Alexander VI’s son, and various other patrons to pay his bills as he created everything he ever wanted to. Charles Ives sold insurance to finance his career and support his family. I can’t compare myself to such legends of the things I respect, at least not if I’m being honest with myself.

But maybe in a few years, I can say I even came close to that. Being honest, I may fail. I may end up fading into obscurity like everyone else who wanted to make their mark on the world. But being honest: I’m okay with that. At the very very least, I’m going to try. I’m never going to stop trying. Being honest with myself, I may not always rise to that challenge, I may have to put off this nebulous dream for years at a time. But living with purpose is a full-time job, and sometimes you need weekends off.

Breathe

Jan 03 2011

Shards of ice cling to each breath of air, scathing and shimmering as they enter his nose. He sneezes, shaking his head and staggering his steps for a moment to avoid the urge to breathe deeply in from his mouth. Narrowly avoiding a curb, he regains his stride and begins to count again. Left, two three, right two three. In, two three, out two three. The sky is clear save for a few wispy clouds far at the edge of his peripheral vision. The skittering of bare branches blowing in the wind against each other is the only counterpoint to the plodding taps of his cold shoes. Left, two three, right two three. His foot lands just a bit too hard and a cold pain shoots up some hidden nerve from his right knee. Wince, two three, grunt two three. He shakes the pain from his eyes and pulls the sides of his tuque down around his ears. A clump of dark hair drips a line of sweat onto his cheek, and he shakes again to free himself from it. He feels the strain in his leg and remembers to lean back a bit, bring his arms down and focus on landing each stride somewhere in the middle of his foot. This isn’t the one hundred, he reminds himself.

A child laughs somewhere off to his right and he snaps his head immediately to the source. Four children in new Christmas sweaters are throwing back and forth a shiny new ball with some kind of lights and whistles on it. They run back and forth between two yards, and he can’t help but smile. It happens before he realizes it. The world shifts and he falls backwards into a memory.

The sky was the silver of late February, and a dozen puffs of warm breath filled the air with thin wisps of vapor. He idly shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to keep his legs warm in the chill. The team captains looked back and forth between he and his ten and eleven-year-old fellows, all eagerly bouncing in anticipation. He kept his eyes down, trying not to seem too eager, knowing he wouldn’t be the first picked. “Walker,” said one of the captains. “Eric,” said the second one almost instantly. The two boys joined their friends. “Adam,” said the first. The second waited for a few seconds before saying “Kirk.” He grunted, knowing his time would be soon. But it continued in this fashion, each successive pick sounding less and less enthusiastic to be added to that team, until finally it was down to him and one other boy. “Don’t pick him,” Walker said to one of the captains. “He can sprint okay, but he’ll be tired in five minutes.” “Typical fat kid,” the other one returned. He looked down.

The road was rushing by, the cracks in the concrete slipping beneath his feet like a pattern of cracking late winter ice on a lake. Shaking his head, he looks back up. A beeping sound had been exploding from his wrist, and he isn’t sure how long he’d been ignoring it. Looking down, his heart rate monitor whines of a drastic increase in pulse and drop in oxygen. Breathe, he says to himself. Left, two three, right two three. Pretend, two three, ignore two three. No, he says to himself. Don’t run away: run towards. He looks up, seeing his garage only another hundred meters or so away. Spotting a ninety pound punching bag hanging from the ceiling of his garage, a flush of anger suddenly wells up inside of him. Taking a deep breath, he leans forward slightly, pushing his legs up higher and extending them further, landing on his toes with each stride. Trees on the streetside whoosh as he runs by them. He feels the heat of his body focusing deep in his chest and rising, and he sprints hard towards the bag. Left, two three, right, two three. Rage, two three, pain, two three. The world disappears in a cloud of red haze.

He narrowly ducked the blow, glancing it somewhere on his cheek. The blonde-headed boy in front of him was a good foot taller, although they were around the same age. Blondie laughed as he rained blows down, not bothering with form or technique. The towheaded assailant knew that his enemy could never get inside his reach if he just kept swinging. He felt more than heard a muffled din of shouts and cat-calls around him, blending in slowly with the sound of the blood pounding in his ears. Another blow came down, but he ducked into it, multiplying the impact. The scene was replaced by a high-pitched squeal and the flash of a million tiny multi-colored lights. Shaking his head and looking up, the rage in his body congealed into a solid ball, and then suddenly there was silence. The world was still, the slight brush of warm Texas summer air blew in his hair, and he saw something he hadn’t before. A shard of what could be fear glinted in the tall boy’s bright blue eyes. With absolute calm and no sense of urgency, he shifted his weight over the front leg, whizzing by a sloppily laid jab. Using the gathered potential energy in his leg, he pushed his entire weight upwards. His arm was already curled beneath him from the earlier blow, and he pushed it up, gathering with him the energy of his shoulder and waist. When the blow connected to the boy’s chin, a satisfying crack resounded, and the blow followed through well over the height of the boy. He was vaguely aware that both his feet had left the ground, and he calmly readied himself for a landing. When he struck the earth, the silence was still there, and dozens of eyes were on fixed mutely upon him. Rather than the pure rage or random sense of calm he had felt, now a sudden wave of shame and remorse covered him. Had he been wrong to fight back? A slow and steady clap began to resound in the group, and cheers rose up. He looked down at the blonde boy, who had bitten his tongue on the uppercut, and was fighting back tears as blood drizzled from his mouth. This wasn’t revenge, this was just sad. The sudden urge to run overcame him, and he accepted it. He shoved through the crowd and ran until his lungs filled with acid, tearing at each breath.

His hands are sore beneath two layers of handwraps, and he can feel blood welling up somewhere in the palm his right hand. The rage was gone, at some point replaced by a slow and steady sense only that he was punching. Each blow lands on the bag in a rhythmic thud, and he is at once alerted to the fact that his entire upper body is numb. He takes a deep breath, and blood rushes into his ears and his arms. In, jab cross, out, duck hook. Before he has time to question how long he’s been landing blows on the quivering mass of nylon, a screeching alarm sounds. Five minutes are up. Is that the third round? The fifth? He can’t remember. It doesn’t matter: this is his last one. Suddenly, he is painfully aware of how heavy his body has become from fatigue, sweat, and spent emotion. He unlatches the bag from the ceiling and heaves it to its resting place on the wall with a grunt. He plods slowly into the house, closing the garage behind him. He barely hears something over the groan of the door as it closes.

“What?” he asks.

“How was it?” he hears his wife as she comes around the corner. She wears a bright pink robe he bought her for their second anniversary, and she’s sipping on a hot chocolate from a machine she got for Christmas. He hears the rattle of his dog’s collar as he runs in from the den with a stuffed gingerbread man in his mouth. He smiles as he kneels to pet the dog, rubbing beneath his chin.

“Keep breathing, and you’ll finish eventually,” he finally answers his wife.

Confused, she cocks her head a bit to the side with a smile. “So… it went well?” she asks.

“It is now,” he stood with a smile, bringing her in for a one-armed hug. She responds with a grunt and pushes his sweaty form away with a laugh.

“You smell awful!” she chuckles. He keeps pulling her in.

“Just breathe, it’ll finish eventually.”

He smiles, and she lets him hug her a bit before insisting he run upstairs to the shower. As he mounts the stairs two at a time, he breathes on each step. Smile, two three, peace two three.