Wednesday, January 28, 2015

My Transition into the Money-Grubbing Profession

My relationship with money has always been casual. If I needed some, my parents gave it to me. If I wanted for something, they bought it for me. Or else I'd buy it for myself with money they put into my account. Sure, I made a little bit of pocket money here and there as a babysitter or tutor, but money was a steady, dependable stream. 

Naturally, I had some pretty lofty notions regarding the stuff. I thought of it as a luxury- necessary. I didn't believe I needed money. I thought it great fun to be an impoverished writer, or a suffering artist. Anything in the name of art. Is that not what lent even more poignancy to the great masters?

But these days I've grown a little older. It feels strange to ask my parents for funds and I've come to associate money with worth. Trying to live on what little I made was...restricting. I can eat away an entire day's earnings in a single meal. 

Perhaps this realization comes with the fact that as I've grown, the things I want most are things money can't buy me. I've decided that what I want is to see the Isle of Skye. The Hagia Sophia. Machu Pichu. Reykjavik. Buenos Aires. Verona. 

What is that bottle of laser red nail polish to me? It's not my color anyways.

What need have I for new Chuck Taylors? My old ones are still perfectly functional.

What would I do with a new desk? I'd do all my homework on the ground regardless.

But what would I do with a really good book? I'd read it until all the pages are dog eared and the spine crumbles. I'd carry spill coffee on it and drop it into puddles. I'd leave it in other people's houses and turn around on the freeway to retrieve it. 

To me, the best things in life are not things. They're stories. If you travel, they're stories you've created. If you read, they're stories from other people who have traveled. If you listen to music, partake anyway in the arts, you absorb the stories of others. I think happiness for me will be found in making, sharing, and listening to stories. 

Unfortunately, all those things cost money. Lots of it.

Traipsing through Sicilian vineyards? Priceless. The plane ticket to Italy? Not priceless.

My point I guess it that money is important. Not because people need nice things, or big houses, or sleek cars. Not because wearing the latest Chanel collection will make you feel fulfilled. Not because Siri will sort your life out for you.

Because money is best spent on experiences, memories. Concerts, train tickets, taxi rides, museum galleries.

Now that I know how my money is best spent, I see that I am so dreadfully poor. My parents have money- that is unquestionable. But after gas and food, I have all of...like, five dollars. Five dollars I'm sure as hell not spending at the mall. 


Monday, January 26, 2015

How Far Can an Eagle Fly?

This is my dramatization of Ragnar Lodbrok's sons avenging his death. Just because I'm a nerd.


The ninth century witnessed the most brutal attack on Britain by the Vikings.  The Great Heathen Host numbered ten or fifteen thousand, stronger than even the army of William the Conqueror (The Strangest Viking).  It was led by Ragnar Lodbrok, heir apparent to the Swedish throne.  It was soon clear that Ragnar wanted the entirety of Britain clenched in his iron fist, and nothing less.  His men smashed villages and laid waste to the proud castles that once extended airy turrets to the skies.  They sneered at the men that would not dare face them in the open, those fine lords that cowered behind stone walls and drawn brides.  There was no honor in that.

A giant among men, Ragnar Lodbrok’s name was known and feared throughout Europe.  He fathered many sons that grew to be men of great renown, men that would later avenge his death.   Ragnar led many raids on the Frankish coast, forcing many hefty tributes from King Charles the Bald in the ninth century AD (Völsunga saga).   His army was unstoppable.  But Ragnar was shipwrecked in Northumbria, leading to his capture at the hands of Aella, Duke of Northumbria.  It is said that so great was Aella’s excitement at having captured the legendary Ragnar Lodbrok that he squealed like a caught pig (The Viking Sagas).  He had Ragnar thrown into a pit of snakes, but before jumping to his death, Ragnar asked for a sword.  He asked for entrance to Valhalla, something all honorable warriors granted their foes.  Aella was not an honorable warrior. As Ragnar lay, bleeding poisoned blood, his empty hands closed around the sword that was not there.  Ragnar, mightiest of men, was barred from Valhalla forever.  

Ragnar’s sons understood that war meant death, and it was not their father’s defeat that so angered them.  It was the refusal of the last Viking dignity that doomed Aella, Duke of Northumbria, to their mercy.  It is known that Ragnar’s sons were not merciful men.

Ivar, Ragnar’s eldest son, was honor-bound to avenge his father.  But his initial response was unexpected of a great Viking warrior, who was now heir apparent.  While his brothers roared for Aella’s head, Ivar was silent. 

The Sagas say that Halfdan, who was playing chess with a thrall, crushed his bishop in his hand until blood ran from his fingers.  Still Ivar was silent, and his eyes were wintry.  As the new leader of the Great Heathen Host, Ivar continued Ragnar’s campaign of terror across Britain.  But to his brothers’ seething disappointment, no mention was made of Aella.  Until the Duke was captured, that is.  

Ivar was calculating.  His brothers thundered away for Aella’s death, but Ivar wanted more; he wanted every shred of dignity wrested from the Coward’s head.  He wanted every fiber of Aella’s being to cry for the mercy Vikings did not have.  The room that held the Coward was cold, lit by a single candle.  Ivar’s footsteps rang with deadly finality as he approached his father’s murderer.  Some accounts say that he was alone, some that he was accompanied by his four brothers.  But most tell of the rusty iron hooks hanging from the ceiling (The Viking Sagas).  

Ivar cut away Aella’s bindings, deaf to his pleading.  Aella soiled himself.  Sigurd graciously offered to remove his manhood, so as to spare him further inconvenience.  Bjorn sneered that Aella had none to remove.  Ivar was silent.  His blade sliced through Aella’s fine shirt, his cloth-of-gold jerkin.  With a “monstrous gleam in his eye” (The Viking Sagas), he seized the Coward and hung him by the skin of his shoulders on the hooks.  This act was known to Ivar’s brothers, and they waited with savage anticipation for what was named the Blood Eagle.  

Aella dangled upon those hooks, as Ragnar had dangled above the snake pit.  Crimson rivulets ran down his pockmarked skin, and still Ivar was silent.  He was known to the Britons as “Crudelissimus” (The Strangest Viking)-Most Cruel.  Aella learned, then, what it meant to be in the hands of the Most Cruel.   

Ivar drew his dagger, and delicately drew a thin line down Aella’s spine.  This was customary, although unnecessary.  It was nothing but a guideline, for after having done so, Ivar sliced open the Coward’s back.  Aella’s screams must have been terrible to hear, but Bjorn Ironside, Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye, Halfdan Ragnarsson, and Ubba rejoiced (Völsunga saga).  Ivar was silent.  He plunged his bare hands into Aella, and tore the wound open.  Aella’s spine was revealed to him, and Ivar crushed it, separating his rib cage so that they hung like the wings of an eagle.  He spread them wide, forcing the Coward’s shoulders into his soft chest and the wings opened-an eagle ready for flight.  

With a jerk of his powerful arms, Ivar ripped from Aella’s body his lungs.  Aella arched backwards with a hellish scream.   One of his brothers passed him a basket of salt said to be dried from Odin’s tears(Völsunga saga).  He seized a handful and threw it into Aella’s dying flesh.  As each brother cast their salt into the Coward’s wound, they chanted their father’s name so that Aella would die reminded of his ultimate mistake.  

Aella was a Christian.  Remembering that Ragnar had been denied entry to Valhalla, Aella was refused a Christian burial so that he would be denied entrance to Heaven.  When the breath had gone at last from the Coward’s mutilated body, Ragnar’s five sons tossed the carcass into the incoming tide.    Ragnar Lodbrok was avenged and Odin was sated on Aella’s blood.  




Sunday, January 25, 2015

Running: A Masochistic Exercise

The first scream of the alarm jolts your body awake. In that moment after the first sound and before the second, it's like you can feel yourself being forced into consciousness. Your face scrunches in distaste. Your toes curl in protest. Your eyeballs roll in their sockets, in the dark, before your lids are reluctantly pulled up.

In the dark of the room, that alarm might as well be welcoming you to Hell.

So you stumble across the room to where your phone is charging, and reach a finger out to hit "snooze". Except you don't. You swipe to turn the alarm off, because your well- rested self had, some weeks previous, named the alarm "Wake up, Fat ass".

That's rude. No one wants to be called a fat ass. But it reminds you that you have a half marathon to train for, and that today's the day your run will be stretched to ten miles. A prospect so gratifying the night before waxes horrific in the wee hours of the morn.

To avoid being a fat ass, you change, splash glacial water into your face, eat a damn banana or two, head out. Then you come back because you forgot ear buds or pants or something.

It's still dark out and the air is chill against your skin. Stretching brings as much pleasure as pain, and your joints lose their stiffness as you warm them up.

Then there is nothing else to do. You run. You fly.

When you've spent your first wind, you begin to see visions of your own death. Your lungs are asking you politely to take it easy- walk a little, Cynthia. Just a minute.

Ignore them, the saboteurs! Keep going, keep pushing. The sky begins to lighten, and you forget to listen for your own labored breaths. Your heart begins to sing, and suddenly you are like wind. Light, airy, boundless- like something wild.

The muscles in your thighs hurt, but your breathing is easy and your heartbeat free. Uphill. Downhill. Bridge. Oops, someone didn't pick up after their dog. Uphill again, made difficult by a sucky song. Downhill. A cyclist swerves around you.

The sky is aflame. Molten, bursting. You lose yourself in it, in the way it touches the ground and the trees and  the canyons. What a day to be alive.


And you've reached the end of your trail, so you stop and hear you breath for the first time. You're surprised to hear how hard you're breathing.

STRE-E-E-E-ETCH.

Running back takes hardly any time at all. Perhaps your lungs are a bit more persistent, perhaps your ass hurts something fierce. But you run with the sun and fly with the birds.

You get home and do squats until your legs give out. Which means you do five squats and go on twitter for twenty minutes.

You're done. You're mortal again. Same loser you were before.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Trying and Failing to Meditate


The blinds are drawn over open windows. Little light can penetrate, but cold air slides smoothly through.

I am ringed with candles I'm forbidden to light. At my side, a box of matches. On my other, a jar half filled with water. 

I've decided to try my hand at meditating, seeing as I took so well to yoga. My room is a poor enough space, but thoughts don't need a palace. All you need is strength and peace. Simple enough, although simple things are the most difficult to grasp. 

And it is hard. 

It's hard to keep your spine straight and allow for the smooth transfer of energies up and down the length of your body. It's hard to keep your eyes shut and not slouch. It's hardest of all to empty your mind.

Ridding my brain of words is a game I've played since I was very young. The babble I eliminated with hardly any trouble, but I couldn't push away the awareness that I was sitting in my room. Unbidden, the image of my room- the unmade bed, the seashells, the lamp- would come and swim behind closed eyelids. I didn't think about it, and I didn't allow myself to examine the details, but it was there. 

I tried so hard to empty my mind but I saw white. White is not empty. Or else I saw a room with no windows and a lot of empty space. But that's not emptiness either. Nothingness isn't something I'm equipped to handle right now. I guess the point of meditation is to strive towards complete tranquility, complete serenity of mind, body, and soul.

I've learned a lot, still. It's easy to will yourself to stop actively thinking, but near impossible to expand that same will to stop the deluge of thoughts. The first is carried by words: "I'm cold". "I wonder what's for breakfast". Humming the words of a song. Trying to attach meaning to nothingness.

The latter is hearing the voices of children outside. It's feeling the cool sheets against your skin and wanting to climb back into bed. 

I have realized that they two are separate. 

I guess that's a start.