Insomnia

I am tired but cannot sleep. I feel the need to check email every 5 minutes. I feel incomplete, like I missed something or forgot to do something. I cannot sit down and read a book or see a movie. I feel like the time is crumbling underneath my feet like quicksand and I must keep moving else fall to my demise. There is so much to do and so little time.

None of it really matters. I have everything I need. But not everything I want. The distance between those two desires is the source of happiness and misery.

And not for the first time, I wonder where I want to go even though I know where I am going. I wonder if they are the same place.

Exercising...

Maybe it's the warm weather. Maybe it's burning off stress from being busy at work. Maybe it's time.

But I've been exercising like crazy.

Five hours of basketball last weekend. Two hours of b-ball and twenty miles of biking yesterday. Nine miles of running today through Central Park. Like I'm unconsciously training for a triathlon (without the swim part). Thankfully I gorge myself right afterwards - buffets and Korean BBQ definitely hit the spot.

When I was running today, about the midway point, I started feeling euphoric. The music in my headphones, the sweat soaking my shirt, and the light shining through the trees. I felt I could run forever (but of course, didn't; my knees were killing me as I finished the CP loop).

But I remember having these strange feelings and ideas (thankfully no visions, but they felt close). I realized (or maybe it was "revealed" to me :-P) that death is a painful, frightening experience, but it is a transition. The pain strikes, and then leaves. We remain, in some form. To where or what, I don't know. I wish had facts or experiments or something to prove this intuition, but at the same time I don't think data would make any difference.

I need to go running again.

Spitzer, Crane, and Bear Stearns: Bad Things Come in Threes

A career on the rise. A sturdy building overlooking the Hudson. A company which stood for decades.

In one week, all gone.

I'm not moralizing. But it is humbling, isn't it? We can marvel at our own greatness, congratulate ourselves and each other on conquering the impossible, and then we fail. Horrifically. Spectacularly.

Ok ok, I'm moralizing.

In other news, I think I'm going to give up cynicism and sarcasm for lent. That's for a week. I think I can do it. I'm actually worried that my cynicism/sarcasm, while generally hilarious and entertaining, is making me bitter, or sound bitter. I'm beginning to forget what it feels and sounds like to be sincere and straightforward.

Saying it without words

The young man sips his coffee. His head stares out window, then the other. His eyes squint then relax, then squint again. He sips his coffee again. A woman sits across the table, one hand on her chin as she nods against her cell phone. She puts down the phone and reaches for his hand in a fingertip embrace. She stares at his polo shirt and old slacks and grimaces. He puts on a grin masking a grim foreboding. They chatter and worry, tossing words into the air like rock salt on snowy asphalt.

A gray-bearded man and gray-haired woman walk through the door, their eyes searching. The younger man and woman raise their hands. They smile like the practice piece of an apprentice dollmaker, the teeth too big and pupils even bigger. There are handshakes, hugs, and offers of coffee. The young man leaves and after three quick steps, exhales.

He returns with the wrong order, and the gray-haired woman tightens her lips while saying nothing. The young man speaks too quickly, laughs too often. The young woman clenches her teeth. She says what she came to say. Both couples stare at each other and can hear only the conversations around them. The graying couple nod their heads in resignation. They gray-bearded man reaches for his coat, the older woman grasping his shoulder but half-heartedly. He points his wrinkled finger, and as if in aim, launches his sentences in a cadenced cannon volley. Spit, like marker rounds, accompany his words as his cheeks blush like an overheated barrel.

The young man falters to the chair. He searches within for his own barrel of retort, but instead stammers and repeats. He spills his cup of coffee onto the porcelain floor in frustration. The young woman's eyes blink and fill like an overdrawn mug of cold tea.

The heater belts out warmth through a raised vent, but the air is cool and empty. The older couple flee the scene while onlookers stare in surprise. There will be no police tape, no reporters seeking eyewitnesses. Just a woman in tears and a man who is still looking for his gun.

Salsa (not the food)

So I went salsa dancing the other night and I realized there are three levels of salsa dancing. There are:

1) the couples who can twist and turn and look like they know what they're doing, and "know" that they know what they're doing. These couples are both impressive and annoying because they're so damn proud of their skills. But they also seem mechanical, as if they're not dancing for enjoyment, but just to show off. Still, part of me is pretty envious of all that wiggling and wagging. They tend to be dressed in very light clothing and comfortable shoes.

2) the couples who don't really know what they're doing, but are smiling and moving so much that they don't care. I like these people - for lack of skill they make up with good attitude and smiles. They tend to wear very stylish clothes, as if the fashion can make up for certain deficiencies. Fooled me.

3) the total beginners who are looking around for tips and also not to look like complete fools. Still, you have to admire their willingness to try something new and be a literal fish out of water. These couples are wearing sweater vests, slacks, and really baggy dresses, almost as if they're at a math convention (not that I would I know) or an academic talk.

I fit between 2) and 3), which is probably generous but you know, my ego likes to do that. The other thing about salsa is that everyone is very friendly. It's as if everyone remember what it was like to start dancing and all the missed steps and initial awkward stances, and tries to be accommodating. It's like being in the Catholic church - all are welcome, which is a nice, though it does tend to devalue things a bit. I suppose salsa would have more of an allure if there was some sacred council preventing the teaching of such moves without rigorous practice and passing of arcane tests (much like martial arts) but that would probably just end up being parodied in a Will Farrell movie. Or should be, at least.

Shaking the booty, and encouraging you to do so as well.

What do you want that you'd be willing to sacrifice for?

You start with a premise, a truth about the world you believe in. Like, ruthless ambition leads to self-destruction (MacBeth) or The greatest love defies even death (Romeo & Juliet). More modern versions would be, sacrifice and honor lead to triumph over intergalactic, violent robots (Transformers), being true to yourself leads to great burgers and making out with a really hot neighbor (Harold & Kumar), being right makes you a great doctor (House MD).

You need really developed characters, as they drive the story and keep the plot moving. Characters can be explained via physical, sociological, and psychological characteristics. The protagonist/hero must want something so badly he or she is willing to make difficult choices to attain that thing. The antagonist may want the same or similar thing, and thus presents him/herself as the obstacle to the attainment of that thing. Without great passion, there is no story.

I guess more broadly speaking, what do you really want? But something you want so much you'd be willing to give up something else you also like/enjoy, as well as work and strive to fight in order to get that "thing"? Obviously this question could have been worded more concisely but you get the idea.

Airports are noisy

As I wait for my flight to Las Vegas, I just realized how noisy these places are. Scratchy intercoms throughout the terminal blurting out that the gate number 3, flight 71 to Mars is ready to go.

I could buy something to eat but I'm not that hungry. I could drink some coffee but want to sleep on the plane. I have twenty minutes before they call my flight. Twenty minutes of waiting and thought.

Okay, now I'm hungry. I could eat.