Stole this from Anita, my fellow English-Lit-Sci-Fi-Geek (though she's a relative newbie to the world of consummate geekdom).
Wanted the Neb' to be first, but I guess I'm a bit of a mercenary rebel at heart.
Serenity (from Firefly) | 100% | ||
Nebuchadnezzar (from The Matrix) | 100% | ||
Moya (from Farscape) | 88% | ||
Enterprise D (from Star Trek) | 81% | ||
SG-1 (from Stargate) | 81% | ||
Millennium Falcon (from Star Wars) | 75% | ||
Galactica (from Battlestar: Galactica) | 56% | ||
Bebop (from Cowboy Bebop) | 56% |
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I had a test today in jiu-jitsu, for Bujutsu, 11th kyu. (2nd stripe, Gold Belt) Hardest thing I've done in a while. The testing process took almost two hours, which was suprising in itself, and then the actual testing elements were incredibly tiring and...well, tough.
After watching Erika, however, as she was testing for her 2nd stripe, blue belt, I cannot complain. She not only had to grapple for extra time, she had to wrestle our sensei; thus, she had to lose, quickly yet gracefully, time and again, in front of the entire class. Talk about poise. She did a wonderful job.
I have learned over the years that I am an incredibly competitive person, yet, with no one am I more antagonistically competitive than with myself. Losing is not a loss to another player/fighter; rather, it's a failure on my part to rise to the standards set before me, or to accomplish/remember all of the skills I have been practicing. Though I didn't lose any of my grappling matches today, neither did I win any of them. Shelley and I, and then Eva and I, both came to a draw each time. I got frustrated with the Eva match because I couldn't pull off the sleeve choke, and then couldn't think of how to get around that "locked door."
But I think that the most important thing about that match wasn't that she didn't submit me, or even that I failed to submit her. Instead, I had a moment of intuition, of instinct, if you will, in that I suddenly recalled the technique for escaping the half-guard- and then I pulled it off. I actually did it correctly and regained the mount. That moment was just, well, cool. (I shouted out loud, actually, which is not exactly the best etiquette, but it was a thrilling feeling)
When Randy, our sensei, was handing out the stripes at the conclusion of the test, I realized that obtaining a black belt, far away and as impossible as it seems, is one of the biggest goals of my life. For the first time, I have a committment that I want to pursue for years and years, through all of the hard parts and the failures and the sweat. I want that. That's why this post title includes the parenthetical "or not": I'll never be done training - and gosh, isn't "never" a big word? - even when I get to the highest color rank.
Oh yeah, and in Karate, too.
Best watch out, sweet friends, karen-the-great has designs on actual (rather than ironic) greatness. Haha! Bring it!
It's my kitty!
I can't help it. I am an old cat-lady! (but at least my cat has good taste in entertainment)
Thanks to Jenna and Darren for this pic - the two best godparents I could wish for.
Okay, so here's the thing.
I'm completely addicted to online randomizers, search engines, and silly games.
Facebook? Oh yeah. All up on it with my friends from UGA (and Henry IV and American Black Belt Academy and JMU and MCHS and...). I do not have a single "friend" that I haven't worked, played, or talked with in person.
MySpace? Not so much, however. - MySpace is a bizarre singles bar, somehow, wherein complete strangers want to be my "friend." Riiiight. Seems a bit, um, desperate? hopeless? false? to try to connect to people that I've never met and, in the case of the very young man from Southern California who requested a friendship, probably never will meet. As anyone born after 1976 can tell you, online identities are only faintly connected to the soul behind the words. If one believes that the gorgeous chick with the awesome "profile" on MySpace is quite as "cool" as she seems, then one must, perforce, believe that Stephen King's characters are exact replicas of himself, rather than a complex juxtaposition of imagination, observation, and self-analysis (or awareness, one might argue). But to propose that both little Danny Torrance and Roland of Gilead are true replications of the author seems rather a stretch.
And, even as I typed this last week, (Feb. 14) I sensed my own hypocrisy. That's the reason I am only now posting this blog; I knew, in the deeper part of my gregarious soul, that even I had succumbed to the draw of both FaceBook and MySpace. Thus, here I sit, while supposed to be preparing for church, typing a blog and trying to avoid checking my MySpace "comments" and "messages," though only really delaying the inevitable for another few hours. I mean, I did find Michelle from college, Steve from dance class, and Erin from middle school and high school on there. That is pretty darn cool, I must admit.
My friends that are members of either (or both, as in most cases) may be appalled by this post, in that it flagrantly attacks an exercise that many consider one of the ways that they expand their social circles. Just know, dear readers, that I love chatting with and keeping up with "youse guys" with these...message boards? Group lists? Search engines?
I surrender! But at least I didn't go down without a fight!
Yesterday, after a day of feeling 82.5% (as opposed to 42.8% on Thursday), I decided to go for my first run in almost a month.
I slept until 10 (well, actually, until my phone started buzzing with a text from the mighty mighty eJnan around 10:15am) and moseyed on into the living room to watch my magnificent television. I was feeling extravagant, so I ordered a $3.99 film from OnDemand. Oh the luxury! Oh the pleasant expenditure! On the recommendation of Jen and Zack Odum, the coolest folks in Lawrenceville, I ordered Michael Bay's The Island. Not a bad sci-fi / action flick, actually. You'll note that the / is more than a composition device; the "/" is, in fact, a representation of the dual nature of the film itself, in that, The Island is almost two films in one. First, a minimalist Brave New World-type of biological horror mixed with a sprinkling of Athem-esqu dialogue and empty-shell femaleness; then, the film morphs into a frantic fireball-car-chase-helicopter-fire-building-smashing action flick. It's basically what one might term, "a grand old time": not the most brilliant or original screenplay or dialogue, but at least the SF sections are approaching thoughtful, even if the underlying terrors are a bit tired and some of the neuroscientific explanations tenous, at best. I loved that the official term for the "products." The cloned humans are "agnates," a term that signifies a genetic descent only in the patrilineal sense, i.e., a genetic history only traceable on the paternal side. Thus, all of the "products" are "Sons of Adam," or, as the Sean Bean character would no doubt prefer, "Sons of god" (note the little "g," because he has a little soul...[grin]).
I did not, however, begin this post intending to compose a critical review of Michael Bay's success, or, as the case may be, lack thereof. (Although, on a final note, I will say that Ewan McGregor was wonderful, and, of course, beautiful - cállate, Mateo! I know your response, little brother!) Oddly enough, one of the most inspirational points of the film was the amount of actual running that Ewan and Scarlett Johansson did during their escape from the bunker. I kept thinking, "Wow. They're totally going to get away because they are marathon runners or something. I can do that if I get out there and start again." And I started plotting and planning my return to my running routine (how about that alliteration!), considering 5k's to run and half-marathons for which to train. My knee is feeling like its old self again and I felt far more healthy than I did the day before, what with the falling-down sick at rehearsal and all, and I decided that TODAY WAS THE DAY.
So, with just a little over an hour before I had to start getting ready for Henry IV rehearsal, (pics, too!)I donned my running gear, drank a bit of water, and headed out the door.
During the 5 minute warm-up walk to the apartment complex entrance, I was already beginning to feel the twinges of excitement to be back out. It was 60 degrees and sunny, but the sun was beginning to descend behind the tree ridge to the west, so the light on the trees had a faint golden cast. I skipped a few times, in exuberant anticipation, and, when I reached the starting place, I grinned and laughed. Really. Out loud and everything. I knew that I had to go easy on the knee, despite the lack of pain for the past week, so I kept myself at a 10min mile pace (so slow), and decided only to run about 30-40 min, or 3.5 miles (approx). It was an unexpectedly glorious expedition.
My legs were stiff and tired from disuse, for, even though only a few weeks have passed since my last run, those days have been spent sitting at a computer or driving my car, not walking as much as I should. My breathing was easy, at first, and even though it became more difficult later, I never lost my rhythm or my breath. I think that I smiled the entire time.
As I rounded the curve past the recreation fields, near the Ramsey Center at UGA, I looked up at the darkening sky. The shadows beneath the trees were creeping towards the pathway. Their darkness was not menacing or cold; rather, it seemed to me that these shadows were markers of the rising tide of evening. Move more quickly, they indicated, before night comes and your footfalls must be more wary. Move more quickly now, and revel in the fading afternoon air and light and song. Strange thing - this was the noisiest run I have ever experienced. The rushing cars, shouts on the fields, my heart pumping, wind in the trees, and on - - - like a moving song, a dancing hum to keep me in this place of joyful movment.
I sprinted the last 1/8 of a mile, up the hill on Milledge Avenue.
A doctor or sports trainer might tell me that the exhilaration I felt, turning into the apartment complex, still running, still grinning, was nothing more than a rush of endorphins, adrenaline, and opiates. They would argue that the chemicals my body produces to manage pain and exhaustion generate this sense of elation. I don't know the total veracity of this position, since it eradicates the emotional spirit of a such an endeavor, rendering the accomplishment less worthy. I mean, part of the pleasure is in the stuggle and the surmounting of it; the triumph is in the defeat of defeat. If that makes sense.
I felt, in those last minutes, a powerful euphoria, so much that it almost, finally, took my breath. I thanked God in those minutes, for giving me legs to run and a world to see and a joy so bright it hurt my heart to bear it. I laughed, again, out loud. I cheered, I jumped, I punched the air.
Yeah! I'm running again! Now for more. Watch for me on Milledge and East Campus...you might miss me, as a I race by and leave you in my dust.
Rock on!
-k
This has nothing to do with anything, except that it's the funniest darn thing I've seen in weeks.
Thanks to The Huggable Joe for this one!
The Ultimate Showdown.
Watch for the Delorian!!!
