Capoeira!

Some responses to me sharing that I practice Capoeria:
"Awesome!"
"Impressive."
"...what? You do...what?"
"Aren't you too tall?"

I have fallen in love with a girl named Capoeria. And by girl, I mean a Brazilian Martial Art that incorporates dance, deadliness, and awesomeness into the most holistically satisfying experience imaginable. Actually, let's test that statement: Envision something satisfying. Like, really really satisfying. Now add a rocking chair and contentedly rubbing your belly to that image. It's like that! (If being in a rocking chair and rubbing your belly was your original answer, just add teddy bears and the smell of momma's cookies in the oven to that.)

Pronounced cap-o-a-da(ish), it is great for building strength, learning how to defend yourself, and simultaneously looking awesome. I mean, there are plenty of deadly martial arts out there, but how many teach you to walk on your hands and do a back flip as a part of their natural curriculum? And how many of them use such things in practical ways? It requires minimal exposure for the supremacy of a spinning-handspring-kick-of-death to be felt, and the affirming "oooh's" and "ahhh's" are nearly knee-jerk in their authenticity. Indeed, such ascendancy resonates bone-deep, apparently encoded on some strand of the human DNA. Like a mighty Leviathan rising from the vasty deeps, its presence simply must be felt.

Not that i'm saying I can do any of those things yet! Let us just say that I can "hold my own" and that I "do just fine." Nevertheless, my deposit of a few months has, much as that persuasive Portuguese bank teller assured me, yielded maximum quantities of enjoyment. The interest rate is storybook perfect, and the long-term enjoyment exponential in growth.

I am a self-avowed, if you would allow the term, obsessor. One who obsesses, fixates, and circles 'round, moth like in my devotion. I accept this fact with a mixture of pride and resignation, and recognize that I am a man condemned to wander the cavernous tunnels of always needing to find something new. This having been said, I have also found a few key activities that combine to form a hard, immutable core around which the peripheral and more fleeting obsessions gravitate in elliptical paths. Capoeira is most definitely one of these, and I couldn't be more pleased! It is here to stay, and I must ride this confirming truth to its ultimate termination. If along the way I happen to learn to back flip...well, it never hurts to know how to back flip. I am told by reputable back flipping sources that it is a great party trick.

Le Profound

Well, I haven't posted a poem written by my own hand in a while. I was searching through my compiled words documents of scribbled lines, of half completed poems and completed poems that are in no way completed, and I found this little gem. I am trying to reconnect with my poetry, as school made composing hard for me. Mad props to anyone who can actually figure out what it means!

Storm Summoning

I summoned the lightning,
And was summoned in turn by the solemn,
Psalms.
Angel-songs solemnly sung,
Solemnly held,
Solemnly long.
Beholden to the rising rhythm,
Of rising voices riding on slender slim-
Ghost steeds of past victories,
Gliding softly,
Gliding within.

I summoned then the thunder,
And was summoned in turn by the erratic,
Gongs.
Devil-songs erratically sung,
Erratically held,
Erratically strong.
Captive to the chaotic clamor,
Of cloying notes closing within,
Obsidian-black fences of past failures,
Holding me captive,
Holding on whim.

And left now to my own devices,
I combine (both) to summon the storm,
And seek balance in the triumphant wailing
Triumphantly held,
Triumphantly strong.

Robert Falconer

I never knew my grandfather. He had to have been a good man, because my dad is a good man. I am told that he was marvelous with his hands, that he liked to laugh, and that he was kind.

I was still very young when grandad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. I have vauge memories of he and grandma Joan's old house in connecticut. Sleep overs. Late night games of Heart. And Grandfather's room, a foreboding place that I was forced to enter and pay homage to a man I barely knew.

I was scared of him back then. I didn't know what Alzheimer's was, not really anyways, and; as only children can do, I appreciated the stigma without the cause. Later in life, I remember hearing my grandmother tell stories of how he would ask her for breakfast three times after having already eaten. Towards the end he reportedly threatened her with a butter knife, unable to remember his own wife.

The commercial is what made me think of him. Some medicine that possibly could maybe reduce the symptoms. It was the way the commercial played out that had me thinking of grandpa. Watching the elderly actor portray a man struggling to keep his identity, seeing his equally elderly wife loving tend to him, it was all too easy to transpose grandfather and grandmother into the scene. Within a minute, I found myself crying - a startling event, as I am not prone to tears, and have always been frustrated at my lack of ability to cry when feelings might otherwise warrent it. In that moment this actor was my grandfather, and the commercial a call to remember his terrible struggle during the final years.

Robert Falconer. My namesake. There is a power to names, a spiritual connectivity that cannot be denied. In my living room back home there sits a picture of the three Robert Falconers - my grandfather, my father, and me. How strange that it took a drug commercial to remind me of this connection, and to turn my attention back to the man after whom I was named.

I'm not quite a Prancing Pony

Although it is only a matter of time. Soon, very soon, the tyrannical siege of finals will have been lifted, and I will be free to roam (play) the verdant fields (video games) of my ancestors. No longer will my time be limited; nay, it will be spent in close communion (reading) with the very source of my powers (books). I will soar to the very heavens (soccer fields) and frolic there with the round fairies who inhabit those fair stretches (soccer balls).

I do not, of course, mean that I am not quite a tavern from a high-fantasy trilogy, but am indeed referring to the equestrian breed known to exhibit such uninhibited joy in their step. I may seriously attempt to prance, although I will leave it to those present to determine it's relative likeness to that of a pony's.

Translation to all of this: Finals end soon, and I will be the happiest boy you ever did see.

I'm not quite a Zombie

I only know this due to extensive investigation into the matter. I do not crave brains, I am not inclined to rip my clothing in order to look more ill-kept, and I am not (as far as I know) rotting. The issue only bears relevance in the remarkably numerous other ways that I AM currently like a zombie. I tend to stagger, my sentences often end in zombie inspired moans, and I am becoming less and less distraught at the idea of drooling. I mean, do you know how much relative energy is required to keep saliva in?!

What I mean is that I have gotten very little sleep and imbibed entirely too much caffeine. I've now embraced my sleep delirium state with something resembling resignation, and something else resembling pathetic mewling. Seriously, you should see me. One of four papers opened in front of me, I claw the air blindly in a futile gesture of impotent rage, and make sounds no human has heard since ET came out.

I've gone through the full round of appropriate cliches. What doesn't kill me makes me stronger. It builds character. No pain no gain. I've settled on a mixture of two: No killing no gain. For some reason when I say this out loud people look at me strange. I'm just trying to inspire myself, people.

It will be curious to see if I actually remember posting this or not.

Who are we?

A cliche question if ever there was one. Unfortunately, it's one of those cliches that loses none of its potency just because it is a cliche. Any person even mildly inclined towards reflection inevitably has to bow their head to this paterfamilias of internal questions. Thusly, I find myself at its familiar threshold, as, even with my storied propensity towards reflection, the question remains quite relevant.

I have decided that who we are is largely who we are perceived to be. Yes, there is an internal you, somewhere deep down, which has been hardened over time into a consistency tenacious enough to endure the outside pressures it is subject to. But surely this is only a core, a small, but weighty portion. The large majority of who we are depends on the context of each moment. Who are we talking to? How do we feel at the time? How is that person responding?

Along these lines, I have thought out three universal truths for how we are perceived and how we perceive others. In written form, they can be described as the following:

We are what we do

We reflect what we say

We project what we think

Shape wise, these would form a pyramid, with the item with the largest frequency, what we think, forming the base, and the smallest section, what we do, forming the tip. This reflects the frequency of our reality: i.e. we think things way more than we do things. Much like in Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, however, the size of the sections are disproportional to their significance. In terms of importance, we can think of it as a pyramid that is partially buried. It is the top most section, our actions, which are most readily discerned by those on the surface, followed by the second section, what we say, and ending with what we think.

This is, I believe, how we ultimately form opinions of others, and why that other great cliche, "actions speak louder than words," seems to ring so true. Given time to get to know someone, it is possible to slowly excavate their pyramid, to reveal more and more of why they say what they say, or to understand more clearly what they think given a situation. The one thing that is visible at all times, however, is what we do.

Stress!

It is shaping up to be one of those months. I have been floating with relative comfort above the tidal waves of everyday life these past few months, and have tackled things with such a large quantity of efficiency that I almost feel like I should take a picture standing next to it, smiling a big smile and giving the thumbs up like one would to a recently captured fishing prize. It would be for posterity, obviously.

This feeling, it is to be immediately understand, is highly relative. I am not and never will be the organized type who cuts through red tape at whim. My recent foray into the realms of "doing" are only successful when compared to my extensive past history of "not doing."

All of this having been said, I will now get to the stark, white bone of the issue: There's a crap load to do this next month! School is kicking into high gear, and by May 1st I need to have a comprehensive and impressive application turned into Northwestern University for their Medill School of Journalism. Also, I'll be gone a lot this month, so I'm looking down the familiar barrel of the "I-know-what-I-have-to-do-but-seriously-when-will-i-have-time-to-do-it?!" gun.

And so enters a rather unfamiliar enemy whom I've rarely had to deal with: Stress. I''ve been under plenty of stress, but I can't easily recall being stressed. So now when someone says "I'm stressed," I can nod sagely while stroking my beard, for I will know to what they refer. The sun has not stopped in it's natural course, and the stars are still very much set in their twirlings and whirlings, but this next month is shaping up to be one of the hardest I've had to deal with in a while.

I guess that's it. Oh, one other thing: Wish me luck! Or pray for success. Or pray for luck while wishing me prayers!