I plan to cut myself later for the hair rock title reference.

I got on the bike today – first time this year. I didn’t ride much last year to my shame. The stress of my job, moving a couple times and general despair kept me away. As a result, I’ve become a lazy, out of shape bastard. But, “Oh,” you say. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, ” you say.

I’d like to take such warm advice and wishes from you, but its largely true. I rode 5.5 miles today, and it took some work. Though, as usual, it feels more a problem of getting my lungs caught up with my muscles. I went from our apartment to a Franklin Park, and around it. Franklin park is the largest in the Boston area. Its kind of shabby, and I really don’t think the fucking golf course should count towards the acreage. Its also pretty shabby and beat up. Any paths are in sore, sore shape. I went from street, to path and such trying to find my way around it. Not a bad ride in all, but the first time on a new route can be tougher. I did appreciate being able to legitimately stop when I was figuring it out.

Despite the burning lungs, it was a lot of fun, and there was almost no one on my route. I always forget how much I like it until I do it. And, better to do a simple fitness test as such, and know where I am rather than talk about my glory days as I get deeper into the non-fitness downward spiral. A chum and I talked about doing a century this year, but I am not hopeful. We’ll see once I get in shape, but there are also some logistical concerns. I lost a chunk of time off with the move, and have a couple obligation vacations this year.

The general goal right now is to see if I can get myself riding to and from work. Quite a different challenge than DC, as it appears to be a bit less than double the distance. If I can do it, it’ll mean 18-20 miles a day. That’d be damn sweet, and I’d be looking damn good by the end of the summer. And probably feeling good, which I typically do after just about any post-ride shower.

As a side note, I can hardly wait to get the the freaking doctor who rescheduled my appointment later so I can get to another doctor so I can get allergy shots. I have cause to worry, though I can’t show you, as it seems I’ve disabled the image-adding-gui in my blog. So, I’ll tell you. Pollen counts are rated on a scale of 0-12, with 9.7+ being the OMG range. Depending on the pollen, I can start having issues at half that. Often, if its in that OMG range for a few days, medications will only take the edge off. So Sun | Mon | Tue | Wed 9.9 | 9.3 | 10.9 | 11.6

Similar to allergies, I seem to readily forget the impact she has on my life. In this case as a stabilizer, reminding me to take care of my self a bit. Its always a shock, 3 days in, to realize I’ve gotten 4 hours a sleep each night and getting fatigued. Its some primordial lack of discipline, to be sure. Throughout the absence, I oscillate back and forth between states of focus and doing, and states of surrealism and being damned tired.

It was in one of these fatigued states I had a mini-revelation, that I’ve not completely sorted out as yet. First, I must provide some context and a bit of history.

Friends in recent years have heard me lament numerous times my concern that I’ve lost my edge. I don’t feel like I take enough chances, speak out enough, muster the same rage at the system as I used to. Kind of the plight of the aging punker. I’ve a difficult time moving on from who I was trying to be, even when it doesn’t fit anymore. As a result, I often lag behind myself and what I should be doing. I’ve been trying to reconcile the former agitated self and the new self, and not doing a very good job of it.

There are certainly life-explanations. I have a lot more education and age now. It makes sense that I am more attuned to the nuance of situations and recognize “its just not that simple”. As I’ve gained more stability and success, it also makes sense I take less risk, put myself out there more: I have something to lose now and the system benefits me. I imagine an element of burn out plays in, especially with my inability to quickly adapt myself to the now. I put a huge amount of effort into cultivating who I was in a particular environment. It’s exhausting to always make choices according to how you think things should be, rather than just riding along. Often, I get Nihilist about the world, and don’t feel it matters or I cede all my agency, not seeing what meaningful impact I could have.

So, I find myself riding along more and more. I don’t like this person. While the argument of maturity certainly assuages some of the sell out guilt, it robs me of the meaning of my own actions. I used to take pride in my stances. (Some would argue too much.) Its one of the things that my friends came to value in me. I stood strong, was thoughtful and even-minded. Aside from a lifestyle that made sense to me, I think it also provided some anchorage to people around me.

Now, I find myself asking myself what I stand for. What I believe in. I have a difficult time maintaining passion. Part of it is environment to be sure. I am now around more educated folks who seem afraid to be angry, and make it feel inappropriate for me to feel that way. (Also, the amount of ignorance among the educated is an astounding.) I find I oft’ have little in common among my colleagues, as such. This makes it hard to get excited about socializing. The same old discussions bore me to no end, and represent a kind of mental masturbation. “We are clearly superior, seeing the world as we do. If only those slobs we smarten up and see it our way…” Even when I muster the anger needed for action, it ushers in a hopelessness as I struggle to see how I might really affect change.

Looking back, I believed that my life and choices would have impact. I possessed an almost singular focus and vision. At work, at school, with my friends, in the store, I always had a sort of social scanner going. It was like I trained myself to recognize any number of patterns that were counter to my world view. My thoughts ran deep and critical, and I even managed to articulate them.

Now its different. Again, I’ve left behind depression (though gained some anxiety) and my unstable trapped world. Along with this, left that focus and vision. I’ve tried to find a way to regain it, to no avail yet. I don’t know what drives me right now. Part of moving on from depression was believing I could take some of it with me, but what I did seems to ebb more and more. (To clarify, the vision was more sociological than personal, if that makes sense.)

What’s this got to do with Dana in Atlanta? The sleep. The last day or so, I found myself so tired I had to struggle and fight for wakefulness. I was beyond tired – I was exhausted. I was fatigued enough to almost ache. That’s when I noticed – the sociological third-eye had returned. Even the literal way I saw the world was the same as a decade ago. I was removed from my body. Disconnected and looking out from my mind. Not distracted, I saw the world more truly, sharper.

I know that anxiety caused my depression, and depression was in part because of the exhaustion caused by being constantly anxious. Now, I am left wondering what this means, that the person I was, and who I was, is completely bound up in me being horribly tired. More importantly, I wonder if knowing this helps or hinders me in reclaiming some of the passion and vision when I am wakeful.

Our plan was to pack on the 8th, drive up on the 9th, and unpack on the 10th. We got a 17 foot U-haul with a car trailer – making us very semi-ish. Friday night, we pretty much slept on the floor. It wasn’t so bad – the internet was one of the last things to be disconnected!

Much to our happiness, a number of people were set to help us load about 10 in the morning on Saturday. We got up, got straight, and got the truck, by 9ish. Egress was blocked in the living by boxes, so I started a pre-move and started hauling boxes out the curb.

For most of the pre-move, things went ace. I had boxes all along the walk, and even a few in the yard. Turns out, I am definitely not as fit or strong as I once was… I lifted one large box I should have put down. A few boxes later, the spasm and pain hit, just as folks were showing up.

Apart from the pre-move, I was 99% useless. I could hardly move, and frankly it was quite embarrassing. Our helping chums were awesome about it, and made sure I didn’t try to help. I think I was walking with a side angle of about 20 degrees and generally breathing through clenched teeth.

Dana kept them loading not that they needed the inspiration. Like the move to Takoma Park, I’ve never had so much help! Dana and I are still quite grateful about it. 3 hours or so, they had the truck completely loaded and locked down. Plants, temporary bedding and computer crap went into the car.

Sunday, the 9th

My back was definitely a problem, painkillers aside. I have had numerous back issues throughout my life, typically from my own stupidity. This one was a doozy. Getting up from the mattress on the floor took a great deal of time. I was trying to pretend its not that bad, and Dana was considering if we need to postpone to get to a doctors.

We (or rather Dana) finally got the last bit loaded, and we picked up the car trailer and got it loaded and set out. You will have to ask Dana about the trip up. I spent most of my time sleeping, thanks to the pain killers. I think I also tried because the truck made me nervous. See – I have been doing public transportation and biking enough that car travel sometimes tweaks me.

Even though we had a good and easy pace, I think we got started a bit later than we intended, and the trip crawled on. The new place is on a dead end street, where just a truck alone would be challenging to turn around – nigh impossible for us mortals with the car in tow. We’d hoped to get to a U-haul to drop off the car, but they close much earlier on Sunday’s.

By the time we were getting to Framingham (west o’ town), it was evident going to the apartment was a bad idea. We opted to spring for a hotel room, and found a place just off the highway, that had parking set up to make it super easy for Dana to park the pseudo-semi. (Hooray, iPhone!)

Monday, the 10th

When we got up, Dana took full advantage of the Dunkin’ Donuts next door, for us. Anyone else notice their once great coffee now tastes like ass? Ewww.

We got the trailer dropped off, and headed to the new apartment. One of the landlord’s workers was kind enough to let us in. We were also lucky in scoring great truck parking. I went down with the car, as Dana waited, to minimize acrobatics in driving. By the time I got back to tell her we were out of luck for the moment, and we got to the apartment, it opened up. Yay!

Dana’s family were the helpers on this end. They came down from Vermont and New Hampshire and got us in. The place is a bit smaller than we thought from our whirl-wind check out and grab. It’d later become apparent the difference was mostly because we no longer had a dining room. Great space though, with the move in, we were setting ourselves up for a mammoth, 3-d 8-puzzle.

But, things were moved in, pizza was eaten, people were seen off, and Dana’s parents would be there soon to help us for a day or 2 installing things, and doing some of the shifting around.

I woke up Saturday into Sunday morning absolutely freezing. I was so cold I actually considered just stealing Dana’s blanket. As it happens, I had a fever. A fever which would last until late Monday, and crop up again a bit on Tuesday. I had one terrible bout of chills during the whole thing, where, with 4 blankets, I was still freaking cold.

Most of the time was sweating though, feeling dizzy and crappy. I did end up going to urgent care, and got told bland food and Gatorade. Three quarts later I was sorta hydrated again. Stomach flu does a number to the backside too. (oi, does it.)

This photo captured exactly how I felt…

It coulda been me Going to school at V – T It coulda been me Alone, cold and angry

I mean, I never thought I’d live past 23 And if I’d lived, I would never be free Now I am thirty-five and shocked Because it could have been me

Every day life bearing down Sucking me under making me drown Laying awake, dreaming of escape Because it could have been me Going to school at V – T It coulda been me Alone, cold and angry

I am afraid of everything cruel or kind It takes a toll and bends the mind Mostly afraid of one day SNAP Because it could have been me

No one to listen, no to one care No one to love, no to one share Alone with this brutal legacy Because it could have been me

Violence is my first and last choice I hate you because I have no voice I write and joke and talk Because it could have been me Going to school at V – T It coulda been me Alone, cold and angry

For his despair, I take responsibility For this my part in the patriarchy And the sorrow I feel Because it coulda been me

(cross posted at GPI)

It’s gotten pretty nice here, and I had the windows in the flat open to let the light breeze in. Ahh. Wait. What is that smell? Fortunately, there wasn’t much concentration on the game at hand to lose. I could smell it coming from the kitchen. I looked down at my pan of teriyaki rice, and puzzled. I had already thrown out the last rice leftovers, and that only occurred when the refrigerator was opened. (How plain rice can get stinky, I don’t know. But that’d be a brief essay on microbiology, not chess and smells like you are participating in now.)

It slowly seeped into my head and nose that it was a burning plastic kind of smell. Very faint, and almost elusive, I could pick up the plastic-ness of it up at the fringe of my Spring battered senses. With concern, I drifted into the kitchen. Ok, maybe not so much as a drift as a hop-step-step. My brow furrowed at what I might find. The little stove that could is an electric one, and I thought maybe I didn’t turn the burner off. I hated to see what in the kitchen could heat enough to smell like plastic. I expected melted rayon-ish curtains!

But no, no that was not it. Not at all. Hmm. I stuck my head in the bathroom. All clear there. ::thinkthinkthink:: It was plastic-y but different, and I know I smelled it before. A few slow breathes later (to let the scent linger, you see), I had it. Someone was burning trash. They do that here, as many other places. The trash burning includes plastics.

You can see it being done as you drive through the hills and mountains. Little wreathes of white or black smoke coming from fields near villages quietly nestled in the rolling hills. (Picturesque, eh?) It is troubling to see, to be honest. I suppose years of Smokey the Bear have taken their toll, but there is something not quite right in my head about watching people rake their yard waste into neat piles that look remarkably like fresh graves and set them on fire.

With all this burning, you get the smells to go with. The damp vegetation burn, the plastic burn, the what in gods name was that burn! I don’t think it would trouble me as much if it didn’t drift into the flat when the neighbors did it. I am coming to grips with Spring here, which is no kinder than Spring “there”. This just adds to the malice of it all for me.

Other smells I have found, besides the delightful new soap in the OSCE restroom, are less notable. There is a diesel motor smell, especially in the morning, when the air is thick, and you are waiting on the side of a busy transit road for the shuttle bus to come. That one is interesting, because you descend into from the flat. Curious indeed. We are high enough up, and far enough from traffic, you don’t smell it even near the flat. I can’t describe the food smells. Food is food, and usually delightful. Occasionally, I meet someone who kind of makes my eyes water. I offer no conjecture.

Also, in this nose assault is the smell of Matchball. Matchball is a bar and tennis club. The bar part is poured concrete with Astroturf sort of flooring. Maybe it is a carpet of some sort. The part you should focus on is the musty basement smell that has increased through out winter and into Spring. I understand this is the cycle; it will dry up with summer, and begin again like the decay Phoenix in winter again.

Yes, more bad or queer smells than good ones. I think I have two reasons for this. Something has to smell REALLY damned good for you to take note, like the new OSCE restroom soap. It doesn’t take much foulness to get you talking though! Also, it is kind of like moods. Everyone sees happiness as a shared thing, easy to understand. Sadness and pain are always seen as personal. After all, how many happy poems have you read? Foul smells are personal. You don’t believe anyone could know them like you. Fun, huh?

In the OSCE washroom, they have changed soaps. This one smells just like the faint cologne of an old school barbershop. It’s great.

Looking at a sign, and being startled that I understand a word.

Getting the right amount of instant coffee and water and milk for a tasty cup. I should really keep measurements, and create a taste index.

A recent one is the rush from squeezing something out of a PC application that isn’t any more obvious than “We oughtta be able to.”

Walking past a copier and realizing no one has asked me to un-jam it, or for assistance in making 2 sided copies. –Not in the entire time I have been here.

When I am talking with someone here, usually newer, and realizing I DO have a handle on things.

When I order something in local language and the waiter doesn’t turn to someone else at my table for clarification.

When Anja forgets herself and starts to sing a little or dance in her chair.

Email from people. I love getting mail, snail or e. Ask Dana.

There are no doubt more. I am actually really pleased with the soap, but thought I really, really ought to put it in another context. ;-)

I smile at this. The sun feels good when I am out; not too warm, but warm enough for no jacket. Then the soft palette of my mouth starts to itch. Thirty seconds later, I am sneezing in rapid fire and wondering if I really did take my allergy medicine only 2 hours ago. My eyes water, and I sniff a bit, and let the oxygen pour back into my bloodstream. Sometimes, a good bout of sneezing can give me spots and light headedness.

This is my annual dilemma, and the source of my eternal naivety. I have had wicked allergies through my life, though after 13 years of medications and shots, they did seem to toddle off for 4 or 5 years. I know what green does to me. I speak about it. I have long had a general, knowing aversion to the outdoors. Everyone who knows me knows about it. I can offer informed critiques of most ever allergy medication available.

Why, oh why then does it only take one winter to convince me that I am probably cured of them? Oh, sure. I know I am allergic. But, how can the severity fade from my dread and misery to an academic subject that I don’t wholly believe. How is it,most every spring I am stunned at how worn out they make me feel?

Thankfully, I still make sure I have meds available. I have enough here to get me to the States again. I even thought about rationing during the first part of my visit, in preparation of spring! And now, with my head clogged, my body feeling a bit tired, and my palette itching faintly, I wonder how I didn’t anticipate this. It’s the worst kind of mental bureaucracy. I have a tidy little report on the severity of my allergies, and when they will hit. I have an office set up to ensure the proper medications are on hand. The trouble is, the clerk in charge rarely gets out of the office, and is shocked each year by the human element of my situation.

I say normally, because I was to have my first weekend class on Saturday, which would take place at my instructor’s flat. We set each new class at the current class to keep it all nice and flexible. I estimated it would be about an hour walk from my flat to hers, which poses no real issue as we are into spring now. She gave me directions to her place, and I consulted a map and folks at work.

I had to head past town centre, and make a quick turn or 2 to get past Kastel, a small castle on the river that served as a Turkish dungeon. (good food) I navigated that without issue and soon arrived at the bridge I was supposed to cross. Note that. Supposed to. The directions were very easy. Cross the Green Bridge, turn left at the first light, 8 floor yellow building. Sounds easy, right? Well, it seemed to me that I encountered the bridge much more quickly than I should have in my mental map. I had plenty of time I thought, so I followed, as best I could by zigzagging street to street, the river. I thought there should be another bridge that is close, and that’d be my mark. I tromped through some neighborhoods, actually being kept more to the main road. I lost sight of the river, but could approximate it by the gap between buildings in the distance when I passed gaps in nearer buildings.

I was getting concerned that there was not any bridge coming up and considered turning back to explore near the bridge I had passed. I saw that a street ahead of me had a light, and thought possibly I had got confused on the directions and the light came first. I happily went to the light and turned left, and to my joyous surprise, I saw a green bridge! What I did not know at the time was that when people say the Green Bridge, they don’t mean the bridge that’s green!

It was a nicely colored green bridge. It was narrow for only one car, but had a protected footpath for us walkers. Standing on the bridge, look down the river gave a spectacular view. There were few buildings in sight, and the river went straight out with its green and disappeared in a turn. The landscape was almost all freshly leaved trees, fading into hues of green as the valley gave way to hills and mountain, in the gently sway from the rivers carving. I vowed to take a photo on my return this way.

On the other side of the river, I took to wandering around the neighborhoods. I was helped that I seemed to be at the edge of town, and they only went one direction, and not too deeply in from the river. I was very happy I had learned to red Cyrillic just a few days prior. I had been putting it off, but I learned just in time. There are very few street signs here. I find that very troubling, coming from a well-signed, giant grid. As I came across streets, I had to take each one to see if it was the one I needed. Instead of having corner signs, the house number and street are printed on metal plates, affixed to buildings you see. Each street meant another walk down until I found a building that still had its number plate. In this part of town, all the signs are in Cyrillic. Can you feel my good fortune and timing ebbing over you?

After being down every street in the area, I came to the hard resolve I needed help. I had thankfully left way too early for class, and felt I could still make it. I sighed deeply and screwed up my courage. The irony is, for what I needed, I hadn’t learned any words or phrases that would help. I will say I am proud I never once considered just crying. ;-D I went over what I knew in my head: How old are you? Where do you work? to clean, flower, I am! There was a start! I am. I am what? Dang. I had my address on paper, so I figured I could get help from gesticulation. Surely if I looked worried, and pointed to the address, people would get it. I would. I even was ready with a pen, so a new map could be drawn. Nothing like visual aides! Now, to be polite. What was that word? Something like prostitute. I always wanted to say prostitute, but Renee likened it to prostrate. Oprostitute. Definitely O!

Oprostite. ::point point, brow furrow:: The kind fellow stacking beer looked at the paper, then me, then pointed to a woman inside the store. Hvala! I head in, and go through the same routine. She asks if I understand the language. This I know! Ne razumijem. (I don’t understand.) She smiles, and starts gesticulating, using a word I assume was “left.” She looked at me, reflected for a moment, and I got left and right in English. With gestures, she said, “Go down that street for a while. You will have to turn left, and then right right away.” Elated, I thanked her and headed off.

I strode off, but soon came to doubt myself. I thought she meant I had a ways to go, but after a missed left for a minor street, and before I turned right, I spied an 8 story yellowish building! I had no idea I was so close. I back tracked like mad, and discovered that while it was indeed the wrong building, 2 young boys stood at the ready. Bolstered by my earlier success, “Oprostite.” ::point point:: The taller boy, maybe, maybe 10, looked at me, and then at the paper. Careful consideration crossed his face as he softly read the street name out loud. After a long moment, he scratched his chin, and looked up at me. “Ne.” “Ne?” “Ne.” The other boy had taken interest, and motioned for the paper as I was thanking the first boy. I got a similar performance out of him. I left, knowing the general direction I needed to head, and amused by the way the boys became adults so suddenly.

Tromping around back and forth, with my bearing somewhat skewed again, I realized I had to call off my class. It was a few minutes to 1, and I was lost. Or rather, I wasn’t lost. I knew how to get back where I came from. I simply had no idea where I was going. My instructor answered, and we had a brief conversation what was painful on my side. Yes, I had thought the directions were good. Yes, I had looked at a map. I know we have to re-schedule. Yes, yes. Tomorrow. Yes, I will be checking a map again!

My mood was fairly spoiled now, through mixed feelings. I had missed yet another scheduled class, but I had successfully gotten help on my own. I set off in what I thought, yet again, was the correct direction. To help you visualize this. There was a main road of sorts, though not really main here. There were subdivisions of sorts off this road. I was following the river back the way I came originally, but on the opposite side. I knew the place was near the river, and had to be in the direction I was going, simply because the other had no buildings!

I finally crossed a street, where looking to my left revealed the first bridge I had seen. What I now know is the Green Bridge. It took only a try or 2 before I got the right direction down, and was turning at the proper traffic light. Minutes later, I was standing on the walk, looking at the yellowish 8 floor apartment building with the 25 I needed spray painted beside one of 3 evenly spaced doors. (27 and 29 being the other 2.) I could head back to the flat and try and relax and get cheerful again before Dana called.

A little side note here. I do have a mobile here now! I am borrowing an old phone, and have a pre-paid service. It is pretty cheap. I can probably finish out my time here with it for $25 US or less. Incoming calls are free or charges!

Things brightened up again on the way back. The street with the correct bridge had all sorts of interesting things going on. There was a second hand shop, places with pita, an open market, street vendors, bakeries, etc. I stopped in for some sirnica (cheese pita) and was delighted that they sold by the piece, not by the kilo.

In all, I was out walking for 3, 3.5 hours. It was upsetting to miss class, but some great stuff came out of it. I found out what was meant by the Green Bridge. I managed to give some boys a chance to be treated as adults, I found a place here with pita, and saw a bunch of other shops and parts of Banja Luka I would have never experienced. Most importantly for me, it caused a shift in my thinking. I feel a barrier has been dropped because I think I truly engaged the town for the first time on my own.

Finding your own way can be a beautiful thing.

After settling in, I started asking around a bit. With the help of the office, I found a place in town that offers classes. I would forget about going to see them, or just be feeling listless, or actually not have the time. When I finally got in, I was a little crushed that the price was more than was quoted on the phone, and it would not be a class.

The idea of private lessons makes me nervous. It makes me pretty anxious because of past experiences trying to learn languages, and because I tend to be a pretty tense guy. I found out that an employee in OSCE had the same tutor who was recommended to me, so I hankered down and made the call. She initially called me, but I wound up in Sarajevo an extra day, so missed it. In the mean time, I worked through all the anxiety stuff.

Once I made the call, it wound up being a fair amount of calling. The mobile phones here don’t come with voice mail, so it took a couple weeks for us to finally get each other. Earlier in the week, I met Sandriela and worked out what sort of lessons I would get.

We were supposed to meet from 11a to 1p today. I even wrote it down. She saw me write it down. So, as you can imagine, it is well beyond me why I was so confident we were meeting 1p-3p, that I didn’t check my notes. I feel like an ass and am horribly embarrassed.

We try again Friday! 11a-1p.

::sigh::