I never thought anything good could ever come out of shows like American Idol. Not truly GOOD, anyway. It’s good to be wrong sometimes.

And from an old and dear friend, another day-maker. I risk breaking my site structure to show these, so they must be something, right?

National security, global prosperity, moral responsibility. All in one change. Can we do it? The answer is yes.

This will be a collection of thoughts apropos of nothing and likely unrelated to one another. Expect nothing and enjoy.

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On the highway this weekend I was cut off by a Sonata. I was giving it a close examination from behind (hey-oh) when I saw that the I and A were switched, so that the raised letters read “Hyundia.” For a moment, I wondered if it was a knockoff.

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I watched Fast and Furious this weekend on a guy day with Dr. Mike. It was as advertised, but it did strangely give me motivation to get back on track with my training. I have more stage combat action in the next few months, and I will not rely on that for my workouts, as I have in the past. I think I could make a good stunt double for Vin Diesel, but I would need to get into appropriate shape and finish my training.

What really struck me while I was watching was that I used to throw myself whole-heartedly into this stunt stuff before I ever decided to do it for a living; however, now that I’m learning how to do it professionally, I’m so focused on correct technique and safety, that I don’t take enough risk.

Am I afraid to be hurt? A little, but I really should not be. If I were to be permanently injured, which is unlikely, it would be no different than if I had cancer, or contracted a disease somehow, or whatever. The only control I can exert over my bodily condition is, well, conditioning. But I may as well take the chance and get the glory. It’s more likely I’ll break an arm or something than do any permanent damage.

But I think it is similar to the block I have when sparring someone or playing a fighting game. I am so lasered in on proper, clean technique that I don’t improvise enough or let a little sloppy roundhouse score me a point. People who know me probably would not identify me as a type A, but when it comes to martial arts and the like, I do find myself a hard-ass about technique. If I want to make it as a stuntman, I gotta let that go. Discipline and conditioning channeled into boldness and freedom of motion. That’s the key.

Strange that I learned that from a plotless action movie, but there are lessons everywhere. And possibly lesions everywhere, and possibly they are one in the same.

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I’m really enjoying Burning Crusade with my paladin. Maybe I understand gear better now, or I like Horde better, or something, but I really feel like I’m having fun playing the mid-end-game this time. Anyone know any good Horde guilds on Tanaris, by chance?

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I finally have my FAFSA and application in to UW-M. I still don’t know whether I could focus on theater, which I would prefer. Probably there is not time to work full time and pursue an academic theater career. I’ll let the advisors at UW-M tell me for sure.

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I finally got up and ran this morning, but it was too cold to gauge whether I like or dislike it. My lower back gave a few twinges of anger, but other than that, I don’t feel anything different. I’m going to do circuits tonight as well. Two-a-days for me until further notice.

This was originally published on 2-29-09 (Leap Day); I edited some of the specifics down, but I think it’s fairly poetic, if tainted with my maudlin style.
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The shower has always been a place of meditation for me. While my hippie leanings tell me I’m using too much water, I’m there standing drenched in thought, the Carl Stargher of my own life. A terror to myself, and trapped in my own world of fantasy and torture.

Dreams are of empty starships desperate for living cargo. Dreams are of disapproving looks from people who know me better. Dreams are absent in the pursuit of them. They can only be caught without trying. Is intent a vanity? Is ambition as evil as I had made it out to be in my youth? Roman sin, best left to the uncaring, dead centuries.

A whisper of me can barely be heard beneath the dripping, as I pile on unwashed clothing and trudge to my daily, in need of cash and in search of meaning. I cannot count triumphs so menial, I cannot count trials so many.

At a desk, I am expected to deliver, but I can barely feel the keys beneath my fingers. I doodle a sketch of me in two years, the virtual ink barely dry on the previous regime-changing draft, and yet it, too, is two years old.

Will I be dead before I live? Every day an analysis, every day a struggle with self, but no great art to show for this pain. No genius within, no masterpiece, only the thought that infinity is nothing more than a concept. 6 billion infinities at war for dominance, none more consequential than gravity, a senseless force.

“Hide from the world, it will come for you. You have no place in this time.”

I left the Eastern satisfaction of hearth and mind for the Western decadence of bodily pleasure, and now I realize neither is substantial, even combined in some delicately balanced recipe. Mixed metaphor for a confused mind, grasping for analogy. Choking on reality.

Expunging bile brings a smile, hidden from view. Gallows humour. “Nobody likes you. Everybody hates you. You’re going to lose. Smile, you fuck.”

Cling to media. Does that matter? Your reputation is that of a coward. Does that matter? You have a talent that might take you to the top of the craft, if you get some lucky breaks. Does that matter? Play a game, have some fun. Does that matter?

The answer is still no. Rework the angles, mock it up again. Comes out no.

“Tire tread on burst stomach.”

Absolutes even fail. Rely on … what? Chaos? Ridiculous. Rely on chaos. Oxymoron. But still as true as anything.