In Golf and Basketball

Okay, so as anyone who knows me knows, I've been actively obsessed with the Carolina Tarheels for quite some time now. What with it being the beginning of April and another glorious b-ball season coming to an end, this means that I've been busy staring at the television for a little over a month. Last night's game against Villanova was no exception. While I can appreciate that CBS has paid millions of dollars for the singular telecasting rights to the NCAA tournament, I have to admit, these late-night tip offs have been trying for me. It's hard to keep your eyes peeled when you've only had a few hours sleep the night before, already been through the emotional trauma of the first game (UConn vs. MSU-which effectively put the nail in the coffin that WAS my bracket), and have two sleeping dogs in front of you, one if whom is lightly snoring. Still, I was able to overcome all of this and keep up with the break neck speed of UNC's game, particularly that of Ty Lawson, but the thing that kept killing me was the damn Masters commercials. 

Before I start getting hate mail, it should be noted that I am a native of Georgia and am as proud to host the biggest tournament in golf in my home state as anyone. However, when one cuts from a bloody Tyler Hansbrough to soft piano music ushering in the news that there will be LIVE coverage from Amen corner all next week starting Thursday (which means it isn't really ALL week then, is it?) it throws me. I mean, basketball can be a graceful sport in a kind of a way, what with these large gazelle-like guys making seemingly effortless shots (Wayne Ellington) and showing incredible control over a volatile bouncing ball, just as golf can be kind of a clumsy sport what with players struggling to keep their clubs (and their tempers) under control while they battle mother nature.  But as far as the pace of each sport goes, you couldn't pick any two more different. I mean, have you seen the guys of the NCAA fight for a rebound? It's like a pack of snarling dogs in there! People get punched, kicked, elbowed, occasionally kneed in their nether regions, and much worse-all in pursuit of having control of the ball and dominance on the court. Imagine Ernie Els blocking one of Tiger's puts from the hole. It'd be an outrage! (Kinda funny though.) That is not how golf is conducted. Golfers have long iron clubs to crush the ball, not to mention complete silence to assure focus as they tee off. They have someone to carry their clubs for them and walk with them side by side thourought the entire competition offering encouragement and advice for each shot that is taken. Not the same suspense, people, not the same at all.  

I'm not saying that one sport exceeds the other in level of athleticism or skill, I'm just pointing out the subtle differences in the way that each game is carried out. I mean, if you were courtside at a boxing match, would you want to see commercials for synchronized swimming? Probably not. Both require great athletes, just not really the same demographic.  While I am sure that there will be many people who will watch both the NCAA tourney and the Masters, I just wish CBS could give their "we own ALL major sporting events" flaunting a break. No soft piano music tomorrow night as you broadcast yet another game with a tip off after 9pm.  If I'm gonna give up sleeping, then I want to see my bloody Hansbrough in all his gory-um, glory.

Ghosts in the shadows...

So after putting it off for as long as humanly possible (which means I was on the verge of getting kicked out in my mother's terms) I am actually cleaning my room today.  To be fair, I should note that I probably could have procrastinated longer, except that my aunt and uncle are coming to visit today and will be residing in my cluttered space, so really, as always, necessity is the mother of intervention.  (Yes, I realize that is not the quote in its original wording, but I prefer this version, especially as it has been far more applicable to my life.)  Anyways, after shuffling some things around, throwing lots of things away, and realizing with horror just how much laundry I have in front of me, I stumbled across the OTHER reason I hate to clean in the bottom drawer of my bedside dresser.  There, I found old pictures, some from my ill-fated first year of college, some dating all the way back to middle school, and an old card from my latest ex-boyfriend. (Latest because he was the last real relationship I had, not because the break was recent.)  These are no doubt things that I threw in a laundry basket while moving from here to there, and then never really unpacked and so re-threw them into hiding in an empty drawer when I got wherever I was going.  (Which is what I was in the process of doing again, no doubt, when I stumbled across these unwelcome reminders from what I consider to be my largely failed past.)  I wonder now if I had ever taken the time in all of my furious moves from problem A to problem B to actually unpack what I had taken with me,  somehow I could have seen what went wrong, acknowledged my role in that (a VERY important oversight), and then been able to put it away cleanly, if perhaps that would have helped me from repeating so many frustrations again and again and...well, you know.  Now don't get me wrong, I have never been too much into home decor, far too cluttered to ever attempt any kind of feng shui, but it really bothers me now to realize that I was tricking myself each time I relocated, thinking I could just stash things wherever and they would never come back to haunt me. As if somehow a wooden drawer would shut in my mind and I would never have to look at what happened.  I truly believe that having these things hiding around me is unhealthy.  I have come father than I ever have before towards clawing my well out of the well I dived into (note I don't say fell, I went willingly knowing what would happen) and this time I really have no desire to slip back, to rehash, to open a drawer and be side-lined by a familiar script I forgot to make peace with in my haste to be back to "normal" overnight.  It dawns on me that before I go anywhere else, I am going to have to open all my junk drawers, look at those memories head-on, feel what I need to feel and then quietly move on.  My aunt told me once that there is nothing wrong with taking that baggage that holds you back and finding a nice spot on the side of the road to set it down and then just walk away.  At the time, I thought that was a brilliant notion, and so I strived against the voices in my head to put the past somewhere out on route 66 for some random cyclist to see it later and wonder what the hell it was.  Unfortunately, when you have hidden all your baggage in drawers and closets and attics and any other space you can find that sheds no trace of light upon it, it's not so easy to just bag it all up and leave it somewhere.  The battle now will be to discover exactly where all of mine is and then to carefully, slowly, and consciously say good bye.  Like two of my most recent life projects (school and weight-loss) I know this won't go as quickly for me as I want it too, but I will be able to get there if I keep at it and try to focus on it deliberately day by day, and hopefully at the end my release will be as peaceful and complete as I yearn for, so that the next move will be real.

Cello Song

I kept thinking today of ways that rivers apply to my life. It's a natural thing for a writer to do, look at nature's perfect progression of life as a symbol for how we all struggle. I'm pretty sure that's why we all have the "naturalism" section in our lit. courses, in fact.  But the truth is, my life is not like a river. A river flows with a current, a purpose, so to speak, and no matter how shallow or how deep it may get, it never stops.  A river may drop hundreds of feet on it's journey, and never wonder why it fell.  We as people though, (at least most of us) find ourselves falling and wondering what the hell happened.  We analyze, go to therapy, take anti-depressants, and still we drop.

I begin to wonder if we worry too much.  What if there was a better flow to the right and we went left instead?  What's the worst that could happen? In a river, our muscles get stronger, we have to work more, but in life, it's a MISTAKE.  Forget four letter words, I fear those seven letters more than anyone could swear.  It's nice for us all to say we learned in our past paths, but truly, there is always a stigma that goes with it.  Is it really ok to mess up? Or has forgiveness become so trendy that it doesn't matter as long as long as you're sorry?  I am listening to Nick Drake right now...someone whose music haunts me years after he took his leave...I wonder if the forgiveness of those around him could have drowned his sorrows like a river can.  I am glad my own can be calmed by calm waters...even if I am still left correcting.

On our way home...

I am still amazed (and relieved!) to find that no matter what has happened to me (or what idiotic repercussions I manage to bring on myself) music can always calm me down. It was the first thing to allow me relief after I broke up with my boyfriend of almost three years, almost three years ago. (I have a distinct memory of sitting in my friend's bath tub listening to Frou Frou's "Let Go" on repeat. Thanks to the friend, the bathtub, and Zach Braff and the Garden State soundtrack for lifting me out of THAT life crisis.) Then there's the time I was innocently listening to Coldplay shortly after my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and found myself practically SHOUTING the words to "Everything's Not Lost" in my car on the way home from Athens. I could elaborate more on the issue, but I think you see my point here.

The funny thing is, it's not always the song or the lyrics that I'm listening to that seem to free me, but the fact that I am doing something that is so inherently me, and always has been me, that gives the most relief. If I drink too much and act like an ass and suffer through what I am sure, every time, is definitely the world's worst hangover, an Aimee Mann cover of a Beatles classic a few days later will bring me full circle out of my self-loathing. Most people can remember how they felt in church while they were getting "saved" (actually I do too, I was terrified) but more vivid for me was the first time I went to a Dave Matthews concert and heard all the songs I loved so much live. I remember sitting there and thinking at the time, "this must be what people mean when they say they had a religious experience." And so I suppose it seems fitting that when I stumble (which is more often than I would like to admit or have anyone know, though I have a feeling they do already) I end up turning to music to reset my tracks. (Pun intended.) When you find yourself lost and unsure of what to do next, I think it's best to do what comes naturally to take you back to yourself. For me, that is and will probably always be listening to good music. It makes me think, and imagine different versions of me where I am better and stronger than I sometimes even dare to dream I could be. (It also more than likely explains why most of my epiphanies come while I'm driving my car, since I won't leave the driveway without my iPod on.) So it is that in response to my latest discretion, I am updating my iTunes catalog on this lovely new computer of mine. I would only wish for all my friends and loved ones that they find their compass that brings them back to themselves whenever they feel lost like I do. If, by chance, they are a music lover, then I would invite them over to my house, to "lend me your ear and I'll sing you a song, and I'll try not sing out of key."

Peace out and Rock On,

LC