off to...

Taj Mahal: March 2001

I was doing some camera research (white balance, iso, etc.) this morning when I remembered my one photography connection. When I was in India in 2001, I met this guy, Philip Greenspun at the Taj Mahal. He was from MIT ad he was lugging around this HUGE camera and we got to talking. Turns out he started Photo.net, and he was in India doing some lecturing. We spent a long time sitting on the steps overlooking the reflecting pool waiting for the crowds to thin and the sun to set. We stayed until we couldn't, until the guards with machine guns happily escorted us out. Then Phil took me and Beth Ann and a bunch of other tourists out to dinner. My pictures never turned out so nice, and I always liked knowing that I was here, with Philip, sitting on the steps at the Taj Mahal, checking another item off my list of "Places to Sit for a Day."

Up

Can't sleep. This never happens. And by "never" I mean in the last seven years I've never had this hard of a time falling back asleep: 40+ pages of American History book. Bowl of cereal. Water.

I've written letters in my head and silently recited lines of Hamlet.

I can sleep anywhere at virtually anytime. Today it was a post-PB&J snooze upright in Wilson Library over books on racial theory.

But tonight I got nothing.

A Call to Pedals

Battle Chat

K: *spitball*
G: missed
K: *coffee bean flick*
G: [duck] missed. *Large piece of beef*
K: [dodge] missed. But went splat against the wall. *garlic fling*
G: [caught] *orange lob*
K: [juices] *carrot arrow shot from toy Dukes of Hazard kit*
G: [backfired] ha ha! *flaming onion toss*
K: [reels in confusion, wondering how one can set an onion on fire. douses with balsamic vinegar, thus making marinated onions and metaphysically ricocheting them]
G: *two! paper airplanes*
K: *rubber band! rubber band! hula!*
K: *mai tai! mai tai! myyyyy tiiiiiie in the mooooorning!*
G: [hunkers down, relinquishes turn to don metallic pan helmet}
K: [dons tinfoil helmet. tightens tenuous grip on reality.]
K: [braces]
G: [scans kitchen]
G: *granola scattershot*
K: [sustains injury. applies bandaid. removes sink and creates bunker.]
K: *apple juice tsunami!*
G: [initiates swim-and-flight response system; dries off; dons goggles] *gathers words from newspaper and casts spell of distraction*
K: Lovely, lovely words! *literary swoon* Crafty jerk.
K: [inhales demerara sugar and recovers] *Presses orange button, initiates bookcase defense system a la computer wires scene in Superman 3. You are quickly encased by shelving and lovely, lovely books.*
G: [pounding]
G: [pounding]
G: [reading]
G: [reconstitutes self as chlorinated water; ruins books; seeps out] *chlorine splash causes dry skin and itching*
K: [initiates cocoa butter dousing] *flings chamois.*
G: [quickly washes and dries car] *arc spray of dishwasher soap*
K: [activates spray head, takes quick yet modest shower] *cookie trebuchet*
G: [munch munch munch] *bath of boiling honey*
K: [initiates tea transformation spell, becomes robust cup of Earl Gray] *honey seepage glues you to the floor.*
G: [honey source reversal] *bees and pollen attack*
K: [begins Clorox Cleanup protocol, vanquishing both honey and bees] [waves wand at distracting Husband who comes bearing closet solutions]
K: calls a draw and bows
G: slumps in exhaustion

File Under "Health"

It's the first week back to school...

Me: Good to see you! How are you doing!?
Her: I'm good. How are you?
Me: You know, it's nice to be back.
Her: Where are your shoes?
Me: I took them off so my socks can dry by the time I bike home.
Her: Hmm....You look a little under the weather.
Me: Really? I feel pretty healthy. What makes you say that?
Her: Your eyes look bruised.

Quetico Moment #3: Untouchable

Careful, it's contagious

Swimming as Process, Writing as Process: Part II

The question driving this inquiry is this: How can I transfer the motivation and commitment I have for swimming onto my writing practice? Since I already have the advantage of demonstrating commitment and progress in one area of my life, it is (simply?) a matter of looking at what has worked to make swimming a success and then apply those techniques to writing. Then, bam, I'll have a successful writing practice! So what has worked to make me a committed and successful swimmer?

First, I do it every day. Even on the coldest, wettest, earliest mornings I'll be there, suiting up and hopping in. Second, I hold myself publicly accountable. I swim with a partner, which means I don't want to let him down and I don't want to let him beat me or get faster than me. I also post and track my workouts publicly against many other swimmers around the world. I try to stay ahead of rivals in Florida, Seattle, California, and Brazil. Next, I set goals. I swim in meets. I swim in open water races. I have a goal for yards per day, per week, and per year. I have goal times. I have expectations. I know how fast I am and I know how fast I want to be. Fourth, I design creative workouts. I create daily workouts that mix things up. It's rarely the same twice. Finally, I love the process. It's not the races or the meets that motivate, it's the daily sense of accomplishment; it's the awareness of my body as I move; it's my mind as it thinks in my hands, my feet, and my hips for every single stroke. Races merely reinforce the need to practice and they help identify and focus those practices; it's the process that I love.

At bottom, though, is a basic and fundamental belief that each and every stroke I take not only makes me faster for meets and open water races, but every stroke also makes me a stronger, smarter, and smoother swimmer overall. There is never a wasted moment in the pool. Warm ups, cool downs, the easy interval between tough sets, the drills, sprints, and long distance, each of these pushes me in different ways, challenging me to be better swimmer.

How does this apply to writing? It's almost exactly the same. Every word I write might not make it into the dissertation or the conference paper or the publication, but ever word I write, every sentence, makes me a smarter, better writer. It clarifies my thinking and sharpens my ideas. Warmups, like free writing and brainstorming, prepare me to write effectively. Writing sprints push me to work through an idea. Outlining necessarily pulls me back to see the big picture. None of these activities is wasted; they're all part of the process of writing.

So generating a successful writing practice out of my experience swimming yields these five features:

• Daily practice. This is the most important step. Set aside a time and place to actually sit and write. Do it. Daily.
• Logs and public accountability. Have a writing partner, a writing group, a mentor, an advisor, anyone who will ask you, "Have you written today?" Log your hours and words written. If you outline or brainstorm, log the time; if you write words and keep them, log the number. Make this public if you can. Post it on your blog. Send regular emails to your writing group. Tell your mom or sister or best friend. Log them, see the progress, and know that each word is building something.
• Goal setting. Set daily, weekly, and yearly goals. Use conference deadlines to prod you on. Set hard deadlines (those set by your univerisity) and soft deadlines (those set by your advisor or writing group). Make these goals public.
• Creative workouts. Writing doesn't have to mean sitting down at your desk or in front of your computer and starting with the first word and ending with the last. Start off in an easy chair with some coffee and brainstorm or free write. Warm up! Then sit down, set your goals for the "main set" and finally, have a cool down where you reflect on what you did, set goals for the next session, or write something fun, like a letter to your aunt or a blog post about your shoelaces.
• Love the process. You're in this profession because you love to write. So write! But learn to love the process. Make it a ritual. Love the moment when you dive in. Enjoy the click of the keys or the scribbles on the paper. Watch your mind as it fumbles and finds words, as sentences come together, as ideas form paragraphs, and as your language is loose and tight in turns. Revise and clarify. Outline and love the clarity that follows. And never forget: writing happens in an environment, so claim your space. Get a comfortable chair, set the mood with the right lighting, find the paper and pens and pencils that make you happy.

First and Last Meet of 2008?

Not sure when I'll race again. There's a meet in Feb., but I was planning on resting my shoulder for a bit. We'll see if that actually happens. A month and a half between meets; this is improvement:

Meet Times: 2007-8

Stroke	12.2.2007	1.20.2008
100 Free	53.85	52.24
200 Free	1:58.02	1:56.59
500 Free	5:39.02	5:27.42
200 IM	2:15.29	2:11.77

Swimming as Process, Writing as Process: Part I

It's Friday, the high for the day is 5 degrees (-20 with the windchill), and I just returned from a nine mile bike ride to the pool to swim 3,500 yards. On a day like today, this is what my friend Matt calls a "Not-absolutely-necessary" trip. But as scholars we criticize; it's our life's work, and while we are usually trained on external things, our inner lives receive a lot of critical attention as well. But for an hour and a half every day swimming dulls the self-critical voice. Swimming shoves that voice underwater where it's indecipherable, just bubbles and gurgles. This, I've found, is important. And while I'll swim in a master's meet this weekend, races are not the reason I swim: it's the process. It's sitting silently on the side of the pool pondering which moment is the perfect moment to dive in. It's the first 25 underwater, suddenly silent and muffled. It's the main set, on the clock and focused, no time to talk. It's the breathing, the fast flip turns, and the warmdown, when the swim cap comes off and the water cools my head and I stretch out my stroke.

For the past two and a half years I've scheduled in swimming. It's a daily activity, and I'm committed to it. Since 2006, I've swam 1,128,750 yards, and that's taking four months off to rehabilitate my shoulders. Somedays it's the only thing I feel I really have to do. For a while now I've been telling myself and others that the pool is the only place where I see consistent progress.

But as a PhD student, there is something else I should be doing every day: writing. And it's a part of my life where consistent progress should also be discernible. That is, if I was writing. This week the discrepancy between my swimming practice and my writing practice became starkly obvious. I am not writing. For my own sake, let me say that again: I am not writing. But I am swimming, coldest weekend of the winter and I'm there in the pool, pushing myself and my shoulder harder than ever.

What's wrong with this picture? Where are my priorities? And most importantly, how can I shift the motivation I have for swimming into writing? After all, they're both skills requiring practice, they're both things I value, and they're both things I expect to do and get better at for the rest of my life? So, why aren't I writing?

Watch Me

The Story of Stuff

Limited Edition

I recall a cupboard, mom-stocked with colored boxes of refined grains. It stunned and amazed my friends: all the options. It never contained this variety from Cap'n Crunch (it is, after all, a limited edition variety), but Cap'n Crunch's Peanut Butter Crunch was definitely a staple. After baking my own granola for the past two and a half years (see below), this sort of cereal does not dare show it's face in my apartment. That is until I put "Fun Cereal" on my Christmas list.

But what is this constructed, red- and green-infused, crunch thing? There's nothing to it. Thank you, but after this box I'll be sticking to the granola. Sorry Cap'n Crunch, it's time we go our separate ways.

Question: If you look closely, doesn't his "mustache" look like a set of tusks and his free-floating "eyebrows" like horns? Are you some kind of wooly mammoth anti-christ, Cap'n? Have I ever truly known you?

Quetico Moment #2: Sailing the Canoe

Chris (who you can see piloting from behind) and I have long discussed throwing up the Kelty tarp and sailing the canoe into the sunset. But it's always been one of those things said half in jest and half in earnest. This year it happened.

It was windy on our last full day of paddling, a day where we covered 11 portages swiftly and nimbly. We'd battled the the wind for two tough days to get to Cache Bay, and as we entered the bay and our direction turned, the wind's affect on us changed. We rested for a moment. It was Chris, of course, who mentioned sailing. This was always his idea--he was the earnest one, me who took it in jest. But it was our last day, so why the hell not. I removed the tarp and handed him one corner and I held onto another. I tied off a third corner to my paddle and up it went. The wind grabbed it and we were off. Chris's smile tells the entire story of our first success.

Unfortunately, with this method we couldn't hold a straight line too easily, and Chris struggled to steer heroically one-handed. But as we rounded our last peninsula, entered Saganaga, and aimed the canoe for Hook Island (our traditional last stand in the Quetico), the wind was right at our backs. I took control of the tarp; Chris steered. I shoved most of it down into the front of the canoe and held it there with my feet. Then I opened my arms wide and the wind filled the tarp. We had a spinnaker! I couldn't see anything and my arms and shoulders quickly burned in exhaustion. This was harder than paddling. But we were moving. And I mean moving: the nose of the canoe dipped dangerously close to going under. I'd rest my arms every few minutes and each time the tarp came down the distance between us and the beach at Hook Island had closed significantly. We covered the two mile distance in no time, and the wind pushed us right into the sandy shore. Stepping out and after shaking off the pain in my shoulders, we admired the distance covered. We had just completed a two mile sail on Saganaga in a canoe. Utah, now safely on shore, turned and padded into the water. We dove in to join him. It was time to swim.

And yes, those two bags behind me contained everything we needed for a two week trip through the wilds of Canada. Plus fishing poles and a net, of course.

Quetico Moment #1: Swimming the Man Chain

This summer, late in our eleven day trip, when Chris and I chose to traverse the Man Chain (the lakes This Man, That Man, Other Man, and No Man), I decided I was going to swim one. Why not? I'd portaged my speedo many rods, it was 9 a.m., and it was warm without a whisper of wind. Halfway through, we passed a campsite, and my traversion was officially witnessed by a group of men and their dog. Re-energized, I dove under the canoe and out into deeper, colder water. Utah, Chris's yellow lab, kept good tabs on me. Fifteen minutes later, as my limbs started to get sluggishly numb from the frigid lake, I pulled myself out onto a large rock. Sun-drenched and smiling, muscles taut and shivering, I waited for Chris and Utah to retrieve me.

The Great Sea of Granola

Sherpa!

OPECs

Getting Around

I sold my '95 white Ford Escort Wagon last spring. Parked on the side of the road, it was leaching money: it would get towed, ticketed, and needed regular maintenance. I drove it rarely, and Jessica's car was available. But mainly I'd been spinning my fixed gear Schwinn Tempo around town since the summer of 2005 when a student speech finally encouraged me embrace the bike, and the car just wasn't needed. When Jessica and I broke up in August, I lost the convenience of a car. Currently biking through my third winter, completely committed to the commute, has been more fun than I ever thought it could be.

What are you missing?

You're missing the creation of your own wind chill; rides at 2 a.m. alone with the flurries; bouncing to Daft Punk down the University's transit way; weaving through snow-encumbered cars bumper-to-bumpered; turning corners and tapping car hoods; "Bolle" embedded in your forehead; dropped chains on the Kellogg hill at 20 mph; wind-created ice cream headaches; glances and gazes of surprise, admiration, and hatred through car windows; fishtailing through snow and alleys; sensitivity to weather patterns and wind direction; pumping too hot down Como but refusing to slow down or remove a layer cause you're almost home; and wet feet, white cold hands, and one very dirty blue bike.

Which all adds up to a lot more happiness than you might think.

This year I've resolved to expand and vary my routes to and from Minneapolis, just to keep it interesting and to keep me on busier roads. Biking lonesome down the transit way is only fun when I get to race a train. I need some life around me. The bike is a necessity, and a flat tire, dropped chain, wobbly wheel, cracked crank, and stolen light are worries and frustrations. But I'm in tune with the machine and the weather. I don't coast, and I get where I need to go.

And I'm not alone:
Toe-berg?

See you on the road.

This is how it ends

Off a rock, somewhere near treeline, a pair of feet dangle in the sharp, crisp clear water of a lake. They see stars and storms, the sun and sheer rock walls. They'll stay there, lingering always a moment too long, forever risking safe passage home. In the winter they'll dance in snow, in the spring amongst wildflowers, lady pink and bee yellow. Inevitably, when from behind the mountain thunder shatters the cloudless sky, they'll shake themselves awake and attempt a quick dash down. But when the storm passes and the sun shines through the lake's wind-blown ripples to trace shadows on the pebbles below, they'll always find themselves there, dangling.