spending my days*

Have you ever been on the brink of death?  That’s not a rhetorical question, it’s an honest one.  I’m curious.  Because I don’t think I have been (at least not that I know of).

The brink.  The edge.  The precipice of life.  I’ve wanted that.  I still want it, I think.  I mean, I don’t crave it with any degree of pleasure.  Any of you that answered in the affirmative to the first question could probably tell me that I most certainly do not want to be in that position.  Anyone who has ever been seriously ill, in a terrible car wreck, or had a gun pressed into their cheek would probably advise against chasing near-death experiences.

Of course, I’m not looking for what most of popular culture would consider an “extreme” experience.  I’m not looking for the thrill of momentarily shaving 50% off my survival rating (sky-diving, racecar-driving, bungee-jumping, shark-swimming, or hang-gliding).  I don’t even want to include myself on things that just seem to be dangerous just for the hell of it  (e.g. war journalism, ape research, arctic fishing, high-rise window washing).  In fact - I think that the more I seek out for whatever it is that I’m looking for, the more inauthentic it will feel and the less psychological benefit I’ll derive from it.  

Truthfully, I’m only looking for a moment.  One moment that forces me to take measure of my worth, account for my values, and answer that one question that is important to me beyond all others: do I have courage?  Do I have what it takes? Am I able to keep my ground when I stand to lose everything?  I don’t know the answer to this question.  And just like you don’t know how you’ll feel about sending that angry email until after you send it, I really don’t know how I’d react on the brink.  

I want to think that people who have been to the brink and back emerge in two different ways: half of them come out finally knowing who they are, knowing the cost of all things and their willingness to pay the price if needed.  They are happy.  Truly happy.  Happy to be alive, understanding the weight of their breath and the treasuring the fact that their skin is intact and their organs are still quivering and gurgling.  They know that every day they wake up is actually on borrowed time, and they’re more than pleased to be playing with house money.

The other group is broken.  Hopelessly and utterly broken.  They can’t ever regain their identity or feel safe again.  They can’t relate to “other people” and don’t understand why they’ve had the plight they’ve had.  They are filled with anger that rushes out and scalds.  They observe a hollowness in life - speaking on any topic other than their own immediate needs seems completely worthless.  After all, no one really knows how they feel about anything until they’re on the brink.

What is the heuristic about certainty?  Negative certainty is better than positive uncertainty.  So it is.  I’ve wanted to know what I’m made of.  I want to know I’d make the right decisions when it counts.  So I’ve waited.

And waited.

And the opportunity has never come.  And the older that I get, I’ve realized that the waiting has colored the concept I have of myself more than anything.  It’s made me think that I’m unproven.  I’ve never been tested.  I’m not worthy of true praise or acclaim because I’ve never pulled someone from train-tracks, jumped in front of a bullet, or stood up to the bad-guy when everyone else hides.  And while I’ve waited - for 27 years, no less - for this big, huge, epic, heroic moment, I’ve missed something.

I’ve missed something small.  More than something - I’ve missed many small things.  I’ve missed each and every little opportunity to rise above, to conquer, to prevail.  I’ve missed the fact that life isn’t episodic; it’s not crammed into a two hour movie with a build-up, climax, and resolution.  It’s a long haul.  It’s drudgery.  It’s busy work.  There are big successes, to be sure.  But most successes don’t have ribbons awarded or plaques handed out.  They are small successes over the “trivialities” that try to conquer us each day.  

It is my opinion that happy people understand this better than most of us.

Ultimately, even if my assumptions regarding how people feel after such an experience are even remotely correct, I still have a 50/50 chance of being cognitively destroyed.  It is a “quick-fix” of a peculiar kind that I have been looking for so very long - infinite insight granted in a split second.  It a far better plan to glean the insights I can from all of these little moments in life rather than wait for some cataclysmic moment (especially because if the moment is dangerous enough, I won’t live to but any new insights to use.)

It’s not as if that’s a particularly new idea (see also: Middlemarch by George Eliot), but it’s a big one for me - a guy who usually wants truth to come in brilliant electrical storms rained down from the heavens. 

This is Matthew Manning.

And I wanna know when it happened.

I wanna know

When everyone decided they were average,

ordinary,

plain.

When they decided that people on TV

had more important lives than they did.

That glossy faces in magazines

Had more meaning than the ones in mirrors.

When they became a spectator,

a consumer,

a fan.

I wanna know when people stopped having dreams for forever

And started making plans for next Tuesday.

When they stopped pondering potential

And started thinking about interest rates.

I wanna know when everybody gave up on the fire,

the need,

the billion possibilities.

When the collective sigh swept the land

And breathed out little bits of human souls.

I wanna know who you are,

and how alive you still are inside. 

This is Matthew Manning -

You’re our only hope.

There were four times in my life when I thought the world was magical.

The first was for a brief second when I was a kid, and I was still under the assumption that a morbidly obese cookie gorger slunk his fat ass into my house once a year and left me toys under a tree that was inexplicably placed in my living room.  The jig was up when I orchestrated a year-long campaign to get a Power Wheels for Christmas and came away with nothing more than what I can only describe as a flannel-colored foot-push wagon.  Disgrace.

The second time was when I became very religious in college for a short stint, and began to think that all the little voices I could scarcely hear in the distance were secret messages from god.  This Augustinian delusion ended when I thought I heard one say “radish…sour-freckles,” and I reasoned that no heavenly emissary could possibly string together such a smelly sounding word combination.

In all seriousness, my religious phase lasted a good two years, and in that time, I did form some good foundations for what later became more serious meditative practices.  It was also during this time that I encountered the idea of “meaning,” or, more appropriately, “my meaning.”  As in my specific meaning.  I often find myself nostalgic about that time.  It was a time in which everything felt like it was being offered to me or pulled away from me with infinite, cosmic importance.  There was a certain artfulness involved in stringing together the tenuous links of causes and effects relating to the circumstances in my life, and then attempting to puzzle out what next step these phenomena indicated I should take.  A very beautiful time in my life, a very magical time, if only it was truthful.

The third time I felt the world was magical was the most powerful time, and it was when I fell in love.  There are no words to describe that magic, and far more gifted individuals have fumbled about trying to capture that magic throughout written history.  Suffice to say, to be truly in love is a confluence of feelings so powerful that one might feel compelled to cry if they sat with themselves in that state for long enough.  In fact, some probably have cried.  I wonder how many of you have cried for the sake of love alone?  If you have, then you definitely know about the magic.  The easy acquiescence to the impossible, the desire to kiss the sky with gratitude, the calm acceptance of the fact that, indeed, love probably could move a mountain.

If you’ve never been in love, you probably know about the fourth time I thought the world was magical.  That time is now.  When I am alone.   Let me tell you what that magic looks like.

I wake up each day and I stare at the perfectly-sized wall clock that I proudly purchased, and I put on slippers that I always think are a bit too worn but never bring myself around to buying new ones.  I drink coffee and squint as I think of things, and then I become conscious of my squinting, and forget what I was thinking about to make me squint in the first place.  I write notes to myself throughout the day on little scraps of paper.  Nothing serious or inspirational - just reminders about things I need to do or ideas that I have.  Sometimes I see a person as I walk down the streets and I smile at them, or maybe I reserve a smile and say to myself that “I’ll save it for later so that the next one really counts.”

I shove my hands into my pockets and think about something that happened at George Webb’s one night in Milwaukee.  I start to smile, and then I consider whether or not that was actually a Denny’s?  I look at the stars and reason that I like them, I’m just not blown away by them the way other people are.  I practice my Spanish as I climb down the hill to my office.  I work on something and then close a manilla folder around it and check my watch.  There is a sense of accomplishment in closing that folder.  I pick out a new song on iTunes.  I feel empowered about holding out on the gift certificate I got - “don’t buy a new album just because you have the gift certificate, wait for something you really want.”  I take account of the ways I am gifted and the ways in which I am limited.  I try more and more to be less and less of a person that has to be great at everything.  I openly admit when I’m no good at something, like making a weekly schedule or doing a budget.  I have a box on my floor labeled “shred bin,” though I have no shredder nor any plans to purchase one.

I wash a stain from a white tile floor, and I relax back into a sitting position for a minute as I relax my arm.  I stare down and ahead and I breathe.  I can feel the breath pouring in and out of me.  Ticking.  Ticking.  Ticking.  My life is passing out of me.   The current is inevitable.  It draws us out to sea.  Such a small blip in the history of everything.  My breath is pouring in and out, tidaling forward and back.  The blood is rushing in my ears, I can imagine the outline of my heart.  I think in my head, “there is no one to comfort me.”  I like the thought.  It take a lot of maturity to say it, and so I figure I’ll say it out loud; “there’s no one to comfort us, we must comfort ourselves.  We must breathe.”

I sigh deeply and with resignation, the way my mother used to sigh when she folded clothes.  So much unfulfilled, so many feelings of obligation, of anxiety, of fear.  A sigh is still a breath, is it not?  If I sigh, do I fail to respect the magic that’s washing in and out of me?  Do I disrespect the current?  What will I become?  

Anything, I suppose.

by Matthew Manning

At first, I was surprised by the amount of vitriol spawned from the kickoff of the #KONY2012 campaign.  It seemed unreasonable to me that so many people could voice such vehement opposition to a program that is ultimately aimed at making the lives’ of children better.  In retrospect, however, I suppose I should have seen it coming – but I’m still a bit surprised at some of the places it came from.

The first group was predictable – right-wingers (and libertarians) making fun of hippies “selling t-shirts” to stop a warlord.  It’s certainly no use to try and argue with these folks, though it is worth pointing out that their poking fun at the left’s position on military intervention in the Middle East vs. Uganda (et al) shows their true colors.  That is to say, they would rather mock a perceived ideological inconsistency than work together on what could be common ground.  After all, I thought we were in the Middle East to spread truth, justice, and the American way?  Is Africa not eligible for that? 

One needs to slide a little higher up on the un-predictability scale to find the second group, but only a few degrees.  We’ll call this group the socially-(dis)conscious hipsters.  I choose this moniker because – like all other hipsters – they experience significant secondary emotional gains from being “ahead of the curve” on social issues.  The time and energy dedicated to debunking and out-smarting a heavily supported social movement like #KONY2012 has no limits.  The tragedy here, of course, is that if even a fraction of that time and energy were dedicated to worthwhile causes, there could be some profound social momentum.  Instead, these individuals are socially conscious enough to perceive the emergence of cultural memes (whether those are pop-cultural or social-justice oriented), and then hurry out ahead of them to begin their mocking (the socially disconscious aspect of their shtick).  There’s no question in my mind for this motivation, as their criticism is all but absent on the countless other less popular advocacy organizations that function in exactly the same way.  Common social activities for these types include pointing fingers and laughing at all the “busy-bodies” dancing and fretting about, as well as generally doing nothing while the world burns. 

The final group – which came from nowhere – is the left-wing conspiracy theorists that have actually gone so far as to claim sinister underlying motives for the movement.  Among these bizarro inferences are that #STOPKONY is a government front to cover the impending war in Iran, or even that #KONY2012 is a covert evangelical Christian operation.  I find both of these hypotheses exceedingly unlikely, especially due to the fact that IC has released many ground-breaking films and snippets, and none of them have ever reached this level of popularity.  This one caught fire in social media and hasn’t looked back.  This was the will of the people, not the creators (who numbered their original goal for views at a mere 500,000).

The more moderate among these individuals are those (mainly left-leaning) academics asserting their tiresome arguments that the situation is simply “too complex” or that white neo-colonialism is afoot.  Many of these folks have some great peer-reviewed research that has a bunch of excellent information in it.  I assert - with high levels of confidence - that the combined mass of their academic papers – all of them combined – have probably only been read by a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of those who were reached by the 30-minute video.

In my line of work, it is easy to see how running on good intentions alone can lead to a lot of bad – especially for people of developing countries who have been victimized by good intentions many times over.  It is also my position that - after a certain point - the more we continue to perseverate about the “complexity” of a situation before doing anything, the more momentum we lose.  For evidence of the inverse proportion between complexity and popularity, please refer to the number of people who have stopped reading this paper by the time it reaches this sentence (and this is nowhere near the density and length of any run-of-the-mill social-scientist piece).  I don’t think anyone from IC is charging into Africa without doing their homework, though it is obvious that many supporters back home will have varying degrees of information about the situation.  Who is to determine the knowledge saturation point?  Or is it merely a question of instinct?  Must everyone pasting a STOP KONY sign on a factory wall be equally informed?  Who is to say?

Luckily for most of us (who aren’t hampered by the incessant hunger to build ourselves up by tearing down anything that seems to think it’s doing some good), the video has garnered tens of millions of views and IC has been pulling in commensurate financial support.  I’ve made a small donation myself, and hope to donate more as my modest income permits.  I won’t be available in the states on April 20^th, but I will certainly be supporting my friends back home who are putting in the legwork to spread awareness.

For those of us that understand how organizations like Invisible Children work, we know that the perfect awareness campaign is a mixture of style and information.  A happy balance is the goal - too much style and it’s just fluff, too much information and it reaches only a few.  The reason the video is so powerful – and the reason that the director intentionally included the scene where he’s teaching his son Gavin about Kony – is because it is quite obviously a bit light on the details for the purpose of garnering the widest audience possible.  The question is not how extensively did the video present all of the details, but how many people are now unearthing more and more details on this situation (as we speak) because they watched the video.

I hear the rallying calls of those crying “SLACKTIVISM,” and I want to join in because it has been my call before.  But, alas, this is not the case.  I reserve that critique for those organizations that call for “awareness” when it is either not needed or not helpful.  Not. The. Case.  Anyone who has supported an organization like Amnesty International knows the power of advocacy and political pressure in cases of human rights violations.  Ergo, we do not feel at all repulsed when we hear criticisms of IC’s financials.  Likewise, we are happy that our donations are being split up between operations, support on the ground, and advocacy.   We are impressed that IC so seamlessly manages to offer groundbreaking media, relevant and innovative in-country development, and a hardcore dedicated group of employees pounding the pavements here and in East/Central Africa.

The final point we are yet to deal with – and perhaps the most “sigh-inducing” point – is the critique of those claiming that Kony is not even in Uganda anymore (gasp!)  Alright.  Thanks for the update.  Does this fact in any way remove our moral responsibility to bring a man who has committed atrocities against humanity to justice?  Is it not amazing that we have the ICC – a body created to deal with situations just like this – to put this man on trial?  Is it merely empty words when we talk about setting a precedent for those in his position in the future?  I hope not.  I hope that we have not lowered ourselves as a species to a standard that only seeks to make things right when they are in progress (what have you done against me lately?)  This man is a war criminal and he should be prosecuted as such.  No question.

This campaign is not perfect.  Those that know me already understand that I’m not unaware of the fact that there are compelling social reasons to be involved in any youth movement.  There is also something deftly cheeky about a thirty-dollar “action kit” that arrives in an orange Krispy Kreme box.  And of course I am fully aware of the Orwellian language of “military advisers.”  I’m not against all military action, but more against it than most, and I can definitely see how “advisers” can quickly become “soldiers.”  It is also possible that the situation can be exacerbated by this deployment (or continued deployment, as it were).

On the other hand, the fact that the organization and collaborative bodies have tried and failed five times to bring about peace makes me think that other actions might be necessary.  The collaboration with and between the area governments/armies should be a cause for positivity, not distrust.  Though human rights abuses have been committed by both sides, the level of outside observation could do wonders for the standards of the state military members (for more information on this, do some reading on Human Rights Watch’s role in the collapse of Soviet Russia).  Their continued improvement over the years as well as their commitment to being beyond reproach is promising as well.

The day may come in which I take in the progress and direction of this movement, and decide that I no longer support it.  I may decide that I was mislead about the meaning and objectives of #KONY2012.  I may even decide that supporting it was supporting a bad thing.  But I refuse to hedge my bets because of an amorphous future fear.  And I most definitely refuse to be a person that stands for nothing.

#STOPKONY 2012

The distant unreality of death is its most defining feature.  Our thoughts about death, if purchased at all, are usually placed on extended layaway.  Then every once in awhile, they sort of rise up and greet us - none too kindly - with an ankle trip on our way to work or a punch in the face while we’re answering the phone.  

Death.  It’s all around us, actually, and it makes no attempt to hide itself in either its literal or metaphorical manifestations.  Each day we watch birds fly over head, counting down remaining wing flaps in the double digits, as we step on insects and slide virucidal wipes across countertops below.  Relationships - either on television or in our own household - drag themselves along their last steps, gargling pools of anti-respirational phlegm, and die on our stoop.  We are surrounded with death.  Our awareness of it makes us human.

Yet it is a truth that few of us are willing - or able - to deal with until we have to.  We wait on it, we “table it” until the right time comes along.  Then it just shows up, and we find ourselves begging for more time (our due time).  If we die at 30, we should have lived to 70.  Death at 30 is a perversion, we might think.  As if death at 70 is any more welcome.  As if the difference between 30 years and 70 years is even minutely significant in the history of the cosmos.

Like a famous comedian once said, we all know that we are going to die, but none of us actually believe it.  

And why should we?  As small children, we are taught to embrace life as an absolute. Living in the moment is the best way to live, and thoughts of death are a macabre sort of thought only reserved for drafting an estate plan or picking our power of attorney.  

The very fact that we are destined for extinction is the worst kind of fact; a fact that is detestable, offensive, and seems to nullify the very thought that provokes it (why spend any time when I’m alive thinking about the time after I’m alive?).  Thinking about death is, for many people, a crime against living.

I always think about death.  I can’t actually identify any early traumatic events that might have triggered this preoccupation.  I think about it often, and it’s a common topic of conversation amongst my friends.  In health care, I have always had a fascination with how people react to death and how others face their own death.  In my travels, I often spend time observing how death is greeted in other cultural and economic realities (much more warmly, which means far more tragically).

As I type this, I can think of the misconceptions that people might have about someone who thinks a lot about death: I like sulking, I like being contrarian (to the masses that abhor death-talk), I am suicidal, I paint my nails black, I have corner-curled Misfits posters around my room, etc.  Most people that know me know that these things certainly aren’t true. 

I just think that death is absolutely the most fascinating part of the entire human existence.  It drives everything.  In fact, it is often a secret suspicion of mine that more people think about death than let on.  Perhaps not consciously, but it’s there.  They can’t help it.  Like I said, death is not only everywhere, it’s every thing. 

There is no meaning without death.  Our lives hold no value if they extend indefinitely. There is no risk involved if there is no chance for ultimate loss.  There is no need for children to carry our chromosomes and memories.  There is no need to create “financial security” other than comfort alone (which, on a long enough timeline, would certainly take on a different meaning).  

Without death, there is no reason to be an individual.  There is no reason to have adventures - or at least no reason to feel any pressure to take an adventure now rather than later.  Despite every commercial telling us to “buy gold” - we know that the most very precious things in life are those that are fleeting, ephemeral, and fading.  How many people on their death bed talk about their favorite piece of jewelery?  Of course not!  They talk about moments - episodes - that filled them (if only for an instant) with the most important thing of all: meaning.

There is no meaning without death.  

And of course we can’t forget, “‘til death do us part.”   There certainly is no love without death. I should say; there is no meaning for love without death, because there is no meaning of trust.  We talk about becoming vulnerable in a relationship (especially marriage).  We are vulnerable to be hurt, to be cheated on, to be forgotten, to be betrayed.  But what are we really afraid of?  We are afraid to be left alone.  Which - outside of The Notebook - usually happens to at least one member of a marriage.  That’s the deal in marriage.  One of us has to bear the awful burden of - ultimately - being left alone.  And I love you so much, I’ll gladly do it if it turns out that way.  

Without death, there is no value in trust.

Something I read recently postulated that it usually takes a little over 100 years to veritably “wipe” our existence from the earth.  Other than the infinitesimally small group that defy this (Twain, Washington, Khan, Caesar), no one will know us in 100 years time.  If you care to argue this, please send me an email detailing the life of your great great great grandfather, and make it more than three sentences.

We’re all going extinct.  Each one of us.  And after we die, we’ll soon disappear.  One or two of you reading this will probably create a legacy beyond 100 years.  Most of us will not.

Question: What do we do now?

Answer:  I haven’t figured it out yet, but I’ll die trying.

P.S. If you’re reading this, I love you.  And not in a “bro” sort of “high-five turns into a back-patting hug” way.  I mean, honestly, I love you.  Take care of yourself.

An Essay Written Purely from Native Knowledge (No References) 

            There lies a certain impossibility in determining the five greatest movies in American film history.  Firstly, there is a great deal of ambiguity in how one might define “greatness.”  Greatness can be interpreted as highest grossing, most socially impactful, most artistically influential, and about a thousand other ways.  Secondly, there is a limitless trove of movies dating back to the dawn of film (roughly about 100 years from today).  It would take a great deal of dedication (and extended unemployment) to view even a majority of them.  Finally, the very act of narrowing this tremendous number of films to only five of the greatest would be a nearly unforgivable act of circumscription; any critic that ventured to do so would be haunted by their choices for decades.  Perhaps even the rest of their life?

            As such, there is really only one way in which this assignment can be approached, and that is to provide a list of one’s five favorite movies, followed by some feeble attempt to declare their superiority (while all the while understanding how insular any such exercise would be). 

            The following are the five greatest films in American history:

1.     Adaptation

Nicholas Cage is at his best when he’s playing Nicholas Cage.  This is the golden rule of Nicholas Cage.  The sheer magic held within the successful violation of this rule is almost enough to justify the inclusion of Adaptation on this list.  Kaufmann does the impossible here by writing his dissociative neuroses into a script that is beyond tolerable – it’s actually fascinating.  The level of self-awareness in this film shoots the moon and then some, and succeeds so brilliantly because it veers off this course at exactly zero points.  As it turns out, the depiction of the writing process as an analog for the most vital life process (self-actualization) is an undertaking so grand that it can only work one in a billion times.  This is that one time.

2.     The Fountain

Where does Science Fiction go from here?  That is what Requiem for a Dream director Darren Aranofsky thought aloud while emerging from the theater with Jared Leto after seeing The Matrix.  The ultimate eventuality of that thought is The Fountain.  Other than being one of the most heartbreakingly beautiful films ever made, it also manages to capture the viewer and hold them tightly through three disparate story lines – each one doing no less than encircling the entire human experience.  This romantic meditation on the human inability to deal effectively with death (widely criticized for being “too inaccessible” by nearly every critic) is brilliant enough to know that it will not need to explain itself in the annals of time.  Its plot has already spanned the annals of time and come back in one piece.  Some day soon, history will recognize this film the way it was meant to be – as a masterpiece.

3.     Shawshank Redemption

If you don’t feel good when you walk away from one of TNT’s nine thousand yearly screenings of this movie, you may want to Google “sociopath” to find out a little more about yourself.  This Stephen King-inspired piece of fiction should be referenced in the darkest time of any man’s life, as it answers any and all questions about whether or not the human spirit can be imprisoned (it cannot).

4.     Kundun

If there were one reason to hate Brad Pitt (there are not many), then it would be that his heap of shit known as Seven Years in Tibet was released in simultaneity with Kundun.  This biopic on the Dalai Lama’s early years – directed by Martin Scorcese (!) – is quite possibly the only movie (other than Mallick’s Tree of Life) that is actually able to induce a meditative state within the viewer, while still moving them along in the historically heavy plot.  One might call to mind the quote from Maya Angelou - about not remembering what someone said or did, but how they made you feel – while watching this film.  You might not become a scholar on Tenzin Gyatso, but you will be shaken to the core by the colorful labyrinth through which this film sends you.

5.     Inception 

Had enough of time travel?  Had enough of different galaxies – or even other dimensions?  Welcome to Inception, a movie that takes a trip through what most theologians and philosophers already know of as the actual “final frontier” – the human psyche.  Of movies that make one’s brain hurt (in a good way), there is no other like Inception.  The amount of meta-analysis that is required of the viewer’s brain in a screening of this film is perhaps the best example of film’s form matching it’s function.  Each subsequent layer of action-addled depth in Inception pulls off a cinematic trick that few besides Nolan are able to do with today’s savvy audiences: they pull you forward without giving you time to think.  At the end, you don’t know whether to give a standing ovation or light up a cigarette.

Regrettable Omissions: Man on Fire, Sin City, Synecdoche New York, The Graduate, a thousand other great films.

This week, upon waking, I forced myself to press ‘Play’ on my computer and dance without reservation to whatever song came on.  

That’s right.  I don’t just mean doing a little bit of boogying while brushing my teeth, I mean I SOLD OUT, gave everything I had, every morning, for seven days straight.  I know, I can’t believe I’m admitting my little experiment to all of you either.  I know the mere mental image of me doing this is enough to spit coffee on your computer screen.  Let me explain.

The thought occurred to me over last week that one of the best ways for me to start my day was with some physical activity.  The problem of course, is that there is a good ten minutes between waking up and exercise - even if that’s just going for a walk.  For someone as famously self-manipulative as myself, that’s a lot of time to figure out other things to do.  For instance, go back to sleep.

I tried to think of things that I could do in my own room that would get my heart pumping.  As my quarters are somewhat limited these days, even the full-flex of doing pushups would be a stretch.  Not to mention I hate pushups.  So what physical activity do I actually like doing?  What would get the old pressure up?  Biking for one (out of the question in my room), hiking (no), football (could do it but don’t have a field goal post in my room), reading my Aunt Claire’s ignorant Facebook postings (not on FB anymore), and…dancing. Dancing?

Yes, it’s true.  I like dancing.  No, not dancing at weddings, or awkward slow dances with room for the holy spirit, or “spin and clap” dancing at clubs.  I’m talking RECKLESS dancing.  I’m talking CONCERT dancing.  The only kind of setting where you can - literally - dance like no one’s watching.  Because they aren’t.

So I did it, woke up every day, jacked my bass, and danced like a fool.  Like I had nothing to lose.  Like I was performing a choreographed routine.  Like I was channeling Om.  Like I was on fire.  Like I was graceful and lithe and not 300 pounds and hulking.

And I have to say, it has been one of my favorite experiments I have ever done.  Not only did I start out my day on the right foot by getting my blood pumping, I have also felt marginally better throughout the week (I would go so far as to estimate that I’ve felt at least 7% better throughout the day, on average) (for reference, going bowling is about a 4% improvement for me, so that’s not bad).

I don’t know if I can keep up the streak, but I think that I am pretty sold on the idea of spontaneously dancing ape-shittedly as a means to raise my morale.  Maybe you should try it?

And of course, because I know you’re all dying to know, here is the list of the 7 songs that I danced to.  Miraculously, five of them were AMAZING picks by my iTunes shuffle, while two of them required some creative interpretation…especially number 4.

1.) STS9 - Beyond Right Now (5:04)

2.) I Think I’ll Start a Fire - Faunts (3:47)

3.) Wasted Daylight - Stars (3:45)

4.) Advanced Conversational Spanish 3 - Reflexive Verbs  (8:42)

5.) High Life - Big Gigantic (3:47) 

6.) Seven - Fever Ray (5:11)

7.) Gravel Pit - Wu Tang Clan (4:51)

It was Elizabeth Barrett Browning (I think) who said that we tend to exaggerate the heroes of our past.  So the question is, have I over-exaggerated the biggest hero of my past – Milwaukee?

I spent nine years of my adult life in the Brew City.  When people here ask me where I’m from, I proudly proclaim, “Milwaukee!” (even when I have to begrudgingly reference Chicago to describe it’s location).  

I became an adult in Milwaukee.  Sure, I lived 18 years in Chicago, but how much Chicago can you really get in your first 18 years?  I feel a closeness to Milwaukee.  A kinship.  It’s my tribe, my team.  It’s my home, through and through.  When I read the Journal Sentinel, I’m reading about my city.  I feel a sense of pride when an article about Milwaukee shows up on a national news website.  When the day comes when a man no longer has to feel ashamed of loving another city, I will go on the rooftop of the US Bank Building (the branch bank on 27^{th St.}, not downtown - afraid of heights) and proclaim it to all the world!

My feelings of nostalgia – which is literally “the pain of memory” (once again, I think) – are most acute here when thinking back to what one friend recently referred to as my “mundane existence” in Milwaukee.  The things I miss the most are not merely my friends, they are the various Milwaukee scenarios that I occupied with those friends.  I’m talking about the background noise, the day-to-day experiences that defy my ability to recall by exact date or even season.  I speak of: uneven tables at Hi-Fi, drinks outside at Balzac, cigarettes (!) and coffee in front of Rochambo, tailgating at Miller Park and then sneaking away before the game (don’t really like baseball), beers at Burnhearts, birthdays at Wolski’s, late-night gluttony at Pizza Shuttle.  I can’t forget walking along the lake in front of the Art Museum or pulling my car up to the parking lot behind North Pointe Snack Bar and watching the sunrise.  These are my memories of Milwaukee that twirl around my mind.

But the mind plays tricks.  I know that many of those scenarios often found me paying more attention to biting my nails than to chewing on what was in front of me (often a sub sandwich).  So many times did I sip coffee to accelerate anxiety or smash out a cigarette with the frustration that comes with stasis.  Was I really even ever there?  Did I ever even take advantage of the stubble-chinned, beef-gutted romance with the city that I claim to so profoundly profess my love to?  Or are these snapshots in my brain mere idyllic memories of time that passed without my notice?

Did the promise of Milwaukee hold more than my experience of it?

Was it my sanctuary, offering a place to run away from the rules of my parents and the banality of my high school life?  Was it an addiction, a fanciful experiment of which I was afraid to let go?  Was it an excuse, a way for me to put my dreams and aspirations on hold?  Was it a fantasy, existing most excitingly in reports to those that didn’t live there? (I always had a gift for making a Milwaukee pitch to others).   Was it just a good story?

The answer is yes, it probably was a good many of those things.  But I can’t say that this means it wasn’t real.  In fact, it’s probably the confluence of the good, the bad, the ephemeral, and the eternal that made my Milwaukee experience so important.  I grew up there.  I lived my life there.  And you want to think that you can live your life somewhere and it can be poetic and moving and graceful all the time.  And I hope that my life can be those things more often as I move forward.  But looking back, it was what it was.  It wasn’t pretty, I didn’t appreciate it enough, I wasn’t able to do everything I wanted, much of it probably only existed in my mind, and it was absolutely perfect.

That is to say, it was “Milwaukee.”  And I miss it there a lot.

Yes.

That’s right.  Not my business, or my non-profit, or my school, or anything else.

ME.

I’m starting a newsletter on Tinyletter (a dandy little website) in which I will attempt to email out updates on my travels with some degree of regularity.

I hope you sign on!  You can subscribe here or click below!

Mateo

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