Array of Questionable Literature: 26 June 2012.

Without being fully aware of it, I have been hitting walls for the past three or more years. As I have continued running, and my knees have slowly disintegrated, I've been filled with a certain resentment which I imagine to be common among runners: time is catching up with me. One does not simply run on hard surfaces for fourteen years without one's own body engaging in a sort of reprisal for these misgivings. When the going is good and the running is easy, overlooking the state of your knees is almost a given. When, however, those knees finally scream back for all of the unrequited abuse you have placed upon them and they give back this pain liberally, it is all you can think about.

In a perfect world it would be simple for me. I am Dustin and I like running. So I run. The end.

The human body, in all its majesty, is a more complex system than that. As a paramedic I should abide by this reality, but just like the physician who smokes incessantly, I persisted with high mileage running as if this reality did not apply to me.

As I type this entry, my knees are in much better shape than this time a year ago. In this way, this is a retrospective assessment of the problem I've been having. However, I still find myself hitting walls. Running anything faster than 8 minute 10 second miles over the course of a 5K has been difficult. In all of my wisdom, I had simply assumed the best way to become a faster runner was to run more, and perhaps to some with better genetics, this is true.

Finally, I need to commit more fully to strength training if any of the following are of interest to me: 1) running for a long time.
2) running faster.
3) becoming stronger.

As of this past week I have finally acquiesced to strength training. No isolating machines, no gimmicks. I dove right in to Starting Strength by Mark Rippetoe, and began to implement the lessons I've learned from certain blogs on the internet. Before I post those links, here are my workouts, borrowed from the ensuing linkage:
Exercise A (Superhero "A" workout)
Squats - 4 sets / 4-8 reps
Overhead press - 4 sets / 4-8 reps
Pull-ups - 3 sets / max reps
Sprints - 200 meters / 4 sets

Exercise B (Superhero "B" workout)
Deadlifts - 3 sets / 4-8 reps
Bench press - 4 sets / 4-8 reps
Bent-over rows - 3 sets / 6-10 reps
Plank rows - 3 sets / 10-15 reps per side

I have modified the existing workout to incorporate sprints. Instead of going into lengthy explanation, now is the part where I give credit where it is due.

Questionable Literature
How To Get Big & Strong Like a Superhero - NerdFitness  
Excellent information contained in the above link. I highly recommend subscribing to Steve's site as he has a vast understanding of strength training as well as the underlying anatomy and physiology of the training he proposes. For maligned runners such as myself who are suffering from lingering injuries or hitting performance ceilings which seem to be placed lower than they should be, the information therein is vital.

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways: Deadlifts
Freetheanimal is an outstanding resource for paleo diet and strength training interests. The above article really screams for my friend Tony to look at it. It talks about chronic cervical/spinal pain from previous injury and how to overcome it through psychology and strength training. In addition, Freetheanimal is working on a new ebook which will surely have tons of great information.


Anonymous Launches Cyber Attack on Japanese Government
I guess I shouldn't be especially surprised at this. Japan is an industrialized capitalist economy, though the economic disparity is not as profound as in the US and Europe.

Until next time, namaste.

Array of Questionable Literature: 21 June 2012.

Welcome to the inaugural installment of the Array of Questionable Literature: a brief reminder of my existence in Iraq as well as questionable links excavated from some of the most degenerate annals the internet could ever afford. I mine all of this for you, and I do it for free. What a guy!

But first, me. 

Drama, Iraq style.

The back story: high ranking official in camp wants everyone to shut off the AC units in their CHUs during the day, while everyone is presumably at work. If they find our AC units running during the day, they will kill the power to our AC untis, and we'll have to plead to have them turned back on.

Caveat: some people work nights, and therefore sleep during days, and therefore! they require their AC units to be running during the day so they can sleep comfortably. As such, us night shift people have been told we must put a sign on our front door indicating we work nights. Hence my pleasant sign.

Moral of the story: when you're met with a hostile glare, smile back. It confuses them.

Housing chicanery aside, all goes well here in sunny Iraq. As mentioned above, I work night shift in the emergency department of the on-base hospital with gents Jonathan and Micah. To muster the strength to endure an entire shift, we first gaze upon the majesty of turkey dubstep and then, reinvigorated, we roll up our sleeves and get to work.

BATHROOM PUNISHMENT!

Emphasis mine. Because Micah does loathe having the bladder capacity of a kookaburra suffering from dwarfism, he has decided to punish his own mortal body by doing fifty push-ups for every time he goes potty. As a show of solidarity I have joined Micah in this senseless destruction of skeletal muscle by doing one minute planks, minimum. Three days into this witless undertaking, Micah has tender breasts and my abdomen is burgeoning with surreptitious hernia-a-plenty. We go forth regardless with the bathroom punishment.

Tomorrow is Friday. Casual Friday in the emergency room. Pictures will inevitably accompany.

ARRAY OF QUESTIONABLE LITERATURE:

Japan Probe: Tottori Mystery Animal - Dog? Bear? Tanooki? 

 Japanese woman rescues dog from an avian attack. Nurses dog to health. Realizes dog isn't a dog. Bear? k, bear. Maybe not a bear? Clearly it's Mario in a tanooki suit.

Dedroidify: Us VS Them   

A visual reminder not to hastily engage in partisanship. Keep that mind limber! Things aren't always as they appear.

Free The Animal: Focus on Nutrients - Beef Liver Ideas & Alternatives  

Excellent paleo diet/lifestyle blog. He presents some interesting information about the nutrient density of beef liver. To wit: "A mere 4 ounces of beef liver roughly approximates the total nutrition of 5 pounds of fruit" Interesting stuff!

Peace!

Veiled, Translucently.

There are simply times when I am met by this overarching feeling that life is at once strange and endearing. Endearing, perhaps because of its strangeness. Presently, I am met by this feeling and I largely attribute its occurrence to the fact that sleep has been difficult to come by for the past three days. I would estimate I have amassed six hours of sleep in three days. It's nothing at all to worry over, of course, because sleep debt is always repaid eventually.

I took medicine to help myself sleep this morning. After some time, it finally took effect, and I unknowingly was met by sleep, for a time at least. Finally, however, I awoke far too quickly drenched in sweat. The reason for this was because the power was out, and the air conditioning unit in my room had long since working. Now, in a foggy veil of translucence, I rose from bed, resigned to the fact that I would now spend more time awake. The very first thought I had was that we are not supposed to be awake this often, although I could not explain precisely why that is.

Whether due to this lack of sleep or the lingering effects of the medication I had taken, I approached the mirror. What I gazed upon was obviously me, yet I felt it an alien presentation. Continuing with this thought, I regarded myself as a stranger trapped in my own body. I surveyed my body, my arms and legs. I was content to be in this body. My hair was messy but in a composed sort of way, as if I intended it to be this way. Is this the trend? I have no way of knowing, because I am in Iraq and these things go unnoticed to me. Finally, the stranger within me is contented with its new body. 

I have approached the rest of the day in a similar fog. I do not work today, so I don't feel any pressing need to sleep or be at any particular engagement. I have read over two hundred pages of the current book I'm reading, and will likely read hundreds more as the day goes on. It is a timeless day, the likes of which I haven't experienced in some time. If I were to allot a certain time in my life to liken to this moment, I would reference to summer break when I was in elementary school. No obligations and no pressure to do any one thing.

Furthermore, just as in those times long ago as a kid in the summer with no particular expectations placed upon him, I spend my time in solitude. It never really occurs to me that I am alone, and especially never lonely. I suppose I attribute this to being an only child, and a child who grew up fascinated with books.

When I consider the many chores which must be carried out to survive -- eating, drinking, cleaning oneself, sleeping, to be very basic -- I feel at times that we as human beings are just very high maintenance. Yet, when I consider that it takes not much more than these things to be happy, and to thrive with a sense of meaning in one's life, I cannot help but feel we are very complete creatures. True, we're born into this world with everything we're ever going to need. With hope we all come to this realization at some point in our lives, and all of the extraneous possessions and longings and resentments just gradually subside. That is when we get on with the business of really living well.

As I looked into the mirror at my own image -- and I did this for some time -- I regarded myself as this creature. The creature who was brought into this existence with all the faculties needed to prevail in every moment. On the other hand, I do not always feel this way, because my mind is still very much untrained and I do let my guard down. Yet this is something to celebrate, because with every new moment I am afforded, I am granted hope. Hope is each moment given to us to live true to ourselves, with authenticity.

Perhaps I should forego sleep more often. Perhaps I should be in Iraq, foregoing sleep, staring blankly at my own image, more often. Then again, maybe I should simply be, hm?

Winding My Spring. [How I'm Doing; 2nd Edition]

Pictured above is a wind-up bird, illusory to Haruki Murakami's novel, "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles." To this point I am highly enjoying this novel. Haruki Murakami is very quickly endearing himself into my top three favorite authors. If you enjoy truly good writing -- imbued with a careful craftsmanship that can at times be very difficult to find -- then I suggest reading Haruki Murakami's work. For starters? "Norwegian Wood."

Haruki Murakami is known for creating protagonists who are similar to him, and they live out lives that he himself has lived out. If not precisely, then as an analog, running roughly parallel to his very own life. Though he [Murakami] is secretive about what aspects of his works are adaptations of his own life and what aspects are not, there is a vague sense of this analog that the reader can feel as they navigate through his novels.

One such reference is Murakami's characters "winding their spring," which basically refers to the mannerisms these characters have and the tasks they perform to gain momentum toward a meaningful day. This is a very recent adaptation I have made unto my own life as I spend my days in Iraq. You see, I live encapsulated within concrete walls. This means that every day, the views are the same. Every day there is sand, the intense sun, and there are fifteen foot tall, two feet thick walls of concrete everywhere. 

Existing within this bubble is troubling to many who live here, including myself. My home is a shipping container converted into a room. It is quite literally a cube with no windows. I do have the very great fortune of having two lockers, a night stand, a desk, a bed and a refrigerator. Oh, and a wall AC unit. If this paints a lusterless picture for you, then you are not far off from the reality of my situation.

I cannot change my setting. At least, not for now. Nor do I want to. There is a great amount of enjoyment I derive from living this way. Even prior to coming here, I had intended for this time of my life to act as a sort of sabbatical. The austerity imposed allows no means of escaping oneself. In many ways, that has been an absolute godsend. The residual level of stress here is very low, in stark contrast to the heavily industrialized United States. Though I have every reason to be afraid or even sad, I have few reasons to be stressed.

Yet I am not afraid, sad or stressed. I am nearly two months in, and I have found a way to thrive. Every day I rise from bed and I wind my spring. There is a great certainty in what I will survey when I step outside of my cube in the morning to walk to work, but that has absolutely no bearing over how I must interpret it. I wind my spring very tight to that I can give a day's long effort at work, and even late into the night find meaningful ways to spend my time. Reading, breathing, walking. Very simple ways in which I wind my spring.

A sabbatical I intended it to be, and thus far, a sabbatical it has been. A modified sort of sabbatical. One in which I do not yearn for what I don't have; rather, I embrace what is already ever-present. I have the air I breathe, I have the ability to engage and to change my reality, and I have a debt to nearly ten books that I can't wait to read. Beyond that, I have a vast expanse of paper to write on and plenty of ink to do so with. Though the scenery never changes, I have never felt so compelled to write about it.

There are times when memory tries to win me over. I find myself closing my eyes and slipping into a decadent vision of lush green grass, rivers, karaoke and beaches. Going deeper into these memories, I see the faces of people I love: friends and family that I am withheld from seeing and spending time with. As quickly as I engage in these memories, I am brought back to the surface of reality. How accurate is a memory and how worthwhile is a memory? I find that the accuracy of memories is invisibly swayed by the emotions I tether to each of them. 

There is little value in longing for a memory or acquiescing to forlorn thought. There is great value in enjoying this present moment for what it is. There is infinite hope in rooting oneself in the present moment and experiencing everything for what it is, instead of being absent from the present moment and later recalling that moment for what I thought it was.

Before I allow this tangent to spiral out of control, I will return to the origin of this post. I am well. I am well on a consistent basis because I wind my spring every day. I realize the inherent challenge in making every day meaningful in a setting that is not incredibly conducive to meaningful living. It is the acknowledgement of this challenge that allows me to triumph as often as I have over it. 

Even as I attempt to grasp each and every moment, time surreptitiously moves along. Closer to 30 than 20, closer to 29 than 28. These are just numbers. In the end I will identify this as time well spent.

I Claim Switzerland.

While staying in Cape Canaveral, during inevitable times of dispute, my friend Erik would often state "Hey, I'm Switzerland" as a way of voicing his neutrality or ambivalence at whatever subject was at hand. A great deal of the time, I found myself wanting to claim Switzerland as well. It isn't that I can't be bothered to care strongly about any given debate, it is simply a matter of entertaining opposing notions in my mind simultaneously. I have mulled over this trait of mine considerably and have yet to assess whether it is a good or bad thing - some more neutrality.

This is simply the way of things for me. I find that when I survey someone beating their drum loudly and with vehement judgment about a topic which they have not bothered to research much, I feel a sort of disdain. At times I feel like the reckless fanatics, zealous and less-than-studious of their subject matter, simply compel me to withdraw from the social engagement entirely. Instead I assume the role of a passive observer, and only as a matter of invitation from someone else would I interject with my thoughts. Thoughts are so fickle, and I don't always enjoy playing to the whim of judgment, because historically my judgment has been amorphous.

There is a bumper sticker that a co-worker of mine had in the past. It stated: "If you don't stand for something, you will fall for anything." The imperative that I have gathered from this bumper sticker is that I should race out and declare my values forthright and stick with them arbitrarily despite the fluid nature of reality. The reason you cannot nail down values and keep them in one place is because life is less like a stop and go traffic jam and more like a flowing river. Life flows, it doesn't fall into slots, move forward at a predetermined speed, stop, and proceed again. It snakes surreptitiously around bends, down falls, it ripples and then sometimes is placid. Why should I want to immobilize my mind by making affirmations about the various values in life?

There is a necessity in certain circumstances to stand by your beliefs, of course. I would not suggest that we stand for nothing, but rather that we play the role of a limber mediator, capable of truly opening a dialogue with someone and all the while, being open to change as logic permits. It may do us all a great service to one another to be more diligent and deliberate in forming opinions. Innumerable times I have reconsidered my stance on various topics, and surely as I age I will continue to go back and forth.

Switzerland is a beautiful and happy country, and I don't mind claiming it. I find that a baseline disposition of neutrality makes the presence of strong opinions/debate seem less inflammatory. Nothing really bothers me any longer. You have your thoughts and feelings just as I have mine. Sometimes we agree and sometimes we disagree, and life goes on all the same.

The Lost Art of Longing.

There are sources of energy abound within and without us. Inspiration, deep thought, locomotion, postulation, curiosity, creativity. What these all have in common is an ability to generate energy within us. Though they all create energy in their own way, how we regard that energy and the means of getting there varies greatly. Even still, we have never arrived at an absolute regard for any one energy-maker. There are times when deep thought is good energy, and times when deep thought is bad energy.

Today I will ruminate about longing, and to what regard I presently place upon the act of longing. Longing, in its own fashion, manufactures energy within us. Many times in my life, longing has compelled me to write, to muse, to draw, to think. Occasionally it has led to sadness for what I don't have, or fondness for what I once had (and perhaps, may have again, given enough determination and the right circumstance). Longing is a reminder, a gut-punch of a memory. "You loved her once, and wasn't that a very good time in your life?" I might say to myself, in a state of forlorn longing. Or, to wit "These we very good times you had with her; thinking of her makes you happy, even though she is not yours presently." And I reassure myself that as long as I am alive, breathing and with pulses intact, she could be mine again.

This is longing energy. Throughout every day I am compelled by energies from myriad origin. Some energies make me want to write to the object of my longing beautifully. On the other hand, some energies leave me cursing previous objects of my longing under my breath. The most surprising aspect of longing, is that this object of longing can be at one time endearing, and a week removed, reviled. Having been alive long enough to experience recurrent longings of the same object or person, I have become circumspect in allowing this longing energy to move me at all.

But there is little harm in the art of longing coercing me into writing, for all writing is good writing to me. At this point I am not mandated to write, so it is all leisurely; truthfully, it is all artwork, until it is demanded  of me.

Victor Frankl, a Jewish man who survived placement in a concentration camp during WWII, spoke both warmly and despondently of longing. There were times, naked and shivering in bitter cold, when Victor Frankl would be digging ditches for plumbing infrastructure, and the only thought which sustained his efforts was a longing for his wife, of whom he was not certain was even still alive. But the mere act of longing sustained him, allowed him to deny the fate of succumbing to unforgiving cold or bitter prognosis in general. Throughout his inhumane incarceration in various camps, the art of longing sustained him just as much as it sent him into a deep state of melancholy, reaching for that which he could not have, or may never have again.

I cannot liken my stay in Iraq to the experiences of Victor Frankl, but I can relate to the energies loaned to me as a result of longing - both positive and negative energies, depending on how I regarded that particular moment of longing.

For now, I am longing, and for what, I will not say. Just know that the art of longing compelled me to write this entry, and in the future will be the impetus for writing several more. But for now, I wish to write no longer, and instead enjoy this warm longing for what it is.