First off, I’m not abandoning The Story of Me. Ok, I guess I have already kind of abandoned it, but I fully intend to finish it as soon as I can get the remaining chapters to make sense in my head. In the meantime though, I starting a new segment [...]]]>

At USC, we swim in former Olympic stadiums...

Distance: ?
Time: 12:30-1:30

First off, I’m not abandoning The Story of Me. Ok, I guess I have already kind of abandoned it, but I fully intend to finish it as soon as I can get the remaining chapters to make sense in my head. In the meantime though, I starting a new segment to get me writing consistently again…I’m calling it “beginner swimmer” to follow my attempt at becoming a weekly swimmer.

I’m doing this for two reasons. One, it is hard for me to force myself to write unless I have something solid to draw upon. I’m planning on spilling the thoughts that go through my head on here every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday. Some days are certain to switch, but I want at LEAST three days a week. Which leads me to the second reason, that is my inability to finish things I start. I’ve tried being a weekly swimmer before, but I let myself stop doing it as life got busy. I don’t want to do that again. I finished the 90-in-90 because people were reading and keeping me accountable. My hope is that the same thing will happen with this.

My plan is to write these as soon as possible after finishing my workout and just throw them up here. I’m not sure what form the writing will always take. I’m sure some will be fully formed arguments while others will be little more than utter nonsense. Like today for example.  Here’s some stream of consciousness coming your way…

“Jump splash.

Alright. I’m here. Time to do this. Here we go. God this pool is long. Were they this big at Ball State? They couldn’t have been. Maybe they were. Stop it. Get going. Go.

Not so bad. Just one stroke at a time. My form is terrible. Who cares? I do. At least I’m entertaining the lifeguard with my impression of a wounded fish. That’s not what this is about.

Breast stroke. Breast stroke. I should try freestyle but I’m not as good at that. Never been able to float enough to do backstroke. Wish I could do butterfly. That just looks freaking cool. I’ll stick with my horrible impression of something vaguely resembling the breast stroke though. It’s the best I can do.

I wish I could do flip turns. Just adds how awkward this must look. I have to clumsily bash into the side, realign myself, and push off again. Not fluid at all. Pushing off the wall is cheating. I’d be doing it if I flipped turned anyway though. Still, it saves at least 4 strokes. Whatever, those 4 strokes can suck it.

Ok this is starting to get a little hard. Quarter of the way back. Push yourself dammit, don’t be a wuss. Halfway back. Why do my lungs refuse to breath? 3 quarters back. The side of the pool is mocking me. I keep swimming but I don’t get any closer. There. Pant. Pant. Pant. I suck.

Have to rest. Wow, one lap and I’m down. This does not look good. I’ve been slacking off. I’ve been lazy. Deal with it.

This guy next to me is resting too. That means I’m allowed to rest. No, don’t leave the side yet! Dammit, now I feel guilty for staying here. I’ll give it 30 more seconds. Maybe 45. Stop. Keep going. Two laps this time. Go.

Ok. Steadier. You’re not racing anyone. That fucking life guard is totally staring at me. She’s probably amazed that a human being is physically able to move so slowly. Whatever, I don’t care. Yes I absolutely do. There. Now back. Remember Dory. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.

You’re overthinking everything. You wanted to brainstorm ideas while you were swimming. Ok, ok. Next project. Who should I ask to help me? Um…um…can’t do it. Must remind myself to breathe. Must try not to die. Just keep swimming.

Ow. What the hell is that pain in my side? Is that cancer? Shut up, you’re fine. That really effing hurts. Swim through the pain. Stroke. Ow. Stroke. Ow. These first laps are surely the roughest. It’ll get easier. Back. Pant. Pant. Pant. Pant. Pant. I’m going to die.

New guy in my lane. Oh, he is swimming slowly too. Is that swimming? Kind of looks more like controlled drowning. Lots of flailing legs and facial contortions. I bet I can swim faster than him. I know I can swim faster than him. Ok, I’ll give him a head start. Ready. Go.

Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. Breathe. Keep your head down. Keep moving. Faster. Ow, my side still hurts. Tough it. Pretend I’m Michael Phelps. Michael Phelps’ ass doesn’t jiggle when he jumps in the pool. No longer Michael Phelps. Just try to catch him. Now. This lap. Can’t he’s too far ahead. Keep trying, push through it. Damn.

Try again. Give him less of a head start. Go. I’ll definitely get him this time. I’m not catching up to him near fast enough. Does that mean I am swimming that slow too? Shut the hell up satanic demon spawn lifeguard cackling at my pain. Catch him. Pass him. Barely swim faster than someone who isn’t even using their arms. Not a race. Still.

I should write a blog about this. Need to start writing again. I could call it “Beginner Swimmer”. That doesn’t make sense. I’m not a beginner. Whatever, I like rhymes.

Pant. This isn’t working. Pant. I can’t keep taking breaks every two laps. Pant. Lane’s empty now. What if I closed my eyes? Oooo. Zone found. Just keep swimming. Stop thinking. Stroke. Stroke. Wall. Leave it alone. I can keep going. I don’t even need to take a break. Move. Move.

How long have I been out here? 15 more minutes. Just keep swimming. No breaks. I know I’m going slow but fuck it. Just keep swimming. Close your eyes. Block everything else out. Glance every few seconds to make sure I don’t run into someone. 5 minutes. No breaks. Just keep swimming. Zone.

Time. I’m not breathing hard enough. Have to remember to work harder next time. Push myself further. Pull myself out of the pool.

Jesus I can’t move.”

Its not the walls.

My new house is an old governor’s mansion that is part of a historical district in LA. As such, there are several strict rules [...]]]> Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt,
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
- Othello (Othello)

Its not the walls.

My new house is an old governor’s mansion that is part of a historical district in LA. As such, there are several strict rules dictating how residents are to behave while living there. No eating in the rooms. No unannounced guests. No opening windows on the first floor. And certainly no hanging anything on the walls. Within minutes of me arriving at my new residence, the impetuous/tyrannical landlord whisked me away to give me the 3 hour (no exaggeration) presentation describing what I could not do whilst living under her roof. After receiving my lecture I promptly walked to my new room, locked my new door, crumpled onto my new floor, and proceeded to cry for several hours.

I spent this past summer preparing my childhood home to be sold. Hours upon hours spent going through every minuscule memory from my past and asking whether their physical artifacts were worth holding onto. Teddy bears, costumes, books, toys, pictures; all donated or discarded in the name of conserving space. All the while, I counted down the days to when I would officially pack my life in my car and head west for California. There was a running clock in my mind: 3 months, 1 month, 2 weeks, 3 days, it was an omnipresent force that colored every action I took. Despite that, I ignored the various consequences that came with leaving home. In my mind, I was just going for a drive.

The morning of my departure, I went through the same routines I had gone through the months and years before. Wake up, shower, flick on SportsCenter, get dressed. Everything felt like it should be different and nothing actually was. I began to feel like this wasn’t such a major event; that I could just let go. Before I knew it I was in the garage realizing I hadn’t even taken a moment to acknowledge the house that had helped raise me, that has been my safe zone for 22 years, that I would never see again. It was too late then, I was already on my way. And it felt so insignificant.

My girlfriend accompanied me on the drive, and I enjoyed the time with her. We would drive through the middle of the US, going through Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, and Utah in 3 days with about 9 hours of driving a day. Miles of empty space followed by mountains and canyons the likes of which I had never seen with cozy hotel stays sprinkled through the middle. We had decided to spend 2 nights in Las Vegas since she had never been and I loved it there. To me, that was our destination. We were driving to Las Vegas: a fun excursion to an adult playground, not a terrifying venture into a new world of unknown circumstances. I smiled at her, played cute road games, focused on driving, and counted down the hours we had left on the road. We were driving to Vegas, that was it.

The morning we left Vegas felt like how I had expected leaving home to feel. From the second I awoke, every cell in my body screamed that I was doing the wrong thing. As I waited for the valet to retrieve my car, my brain couldn’t reason why I was leaving this paradise that I enjoyed so much. I had to force my limbs to turn my car left and not right onto the highway. I felt trapped. I was headed to California and I couldn’t escape. I focused on not hyperventilating as the reality slowly sunk in. I was dead man walking. As I walked into my landlord’s house, she asked where I had stopped on my drive.

“We stopped in Vegas for two nights. That was definitely interesting.”

“Well, I don’t find it interesting.”

Here we go…

I spent much of those first days bawling. I was plagued with ideas of how little of California I knew, how unprepared I was for school, and how far away I was from anything I had ever known. As I laid my head down on my bed, I knew that for the first time in my life, I was completely alone. There was nobody left to run to, it was time to be an adult. I gazed around my room in disgust, hating every centimeter from the revolting green carpet to the pianos I wasn’t allowed to touch. And the fucking blank walls.

Eventually the thoughts subsided and I was able to move forward. I know this is a necessary step for anyone who matures into adulthood. Some people face it going to college, I just happened to get to it much later. “Cutting the cord” is a rite of passage, and I’m sure it is relatively horrifying no matter who is going through it. It’s not the walls that are scary, it’s the unknowns beyond the walls. Still, I have been preparing for this for my entire life. And I’m ready.

But this isn’t home.

Not yet.

“Can I come in?”

“Oh yes, of course, of [...]]]> This is the excellent foppery of the world, that,
when we are sick in fortune,–often the surfeit
of our own behavior,–we make guilty of our
disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars
-Edmund (King Lear)

“Can I come in?”

“Oh yes, of course, of course.”

“If you’re busy I can come back later.”

“No no, you’re fine, sit down.”

“Thanks.”

“So what do you want to talk about?”

*sigh* “How about everything?”

“You may need to narrow that down for me.”

“I don’t know, I just keep getting more and more frustrated with how things are going.”

“You mean how you’re getting cast?”

“Partially. Don’t get me wrong, I’m unbelievably grateful for what I’ve gotten so far.”

“We appreciate your appreciation.”

“But I guess I’m just not satisfied with myself.”

“You’re upset that you haven’t gotten cast in a straight play.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Well I can see how that could be frustrating.”

“I just feel like I deserve verification that I can, in fact, act.”

“You’ve spent the last three years studying theatre without thinking you can act?”

“No, I know I’ve got talent…”

“Then why do you need verification?”

“For my bruised ego I guess.”

“I see. Look, I’m going to level with you Chris. I think you’re a talented actor. You have an understanding of classical text and dialects that is worth exploring. In fact, every semester when it’s casting time, your name always pops up as someone who could play the roles in the straight plays you’re asking for. You’re consistently among the top people listed. But that’s just it Chris, you’re never THE guy. We don’t look at you and say ‘We want him,’ we say ‘Well, he could do it.” Not once, since you’ve been here, have I ever seen you win a role. And the tough part is that I’m always rooting for you, I’m always hoping you’ll be cast, but I can’t in good conscience say I’ve walked away thinking you deserved the role you were called back for.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not saying this to beat you down. I’m trying to give you what you need to work on. You’re coming to me saying you think you deserve something, and I’m trying to tell you why you haven’t gotten it yet.”

“Do you think I have what it takes to do this? Honestly?”

“Yes. Yes I do. I’m interested to see where you’ll go.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”