Multiple Perspectives

I'm way confused about a section of writing within Azazel because there is so much going on from several different characters that I see no easy way to consolidate it down to a simple thing, even if I rewrite it entirely.

Or do I even need to do that? I ask this because (though it doesn't seem odd to me) I wonder if its distracting to have so many people coming together as if in a finale. And even though its not the finale, it is a major turning point in the book.

After all, I've been repeatedly chastised by my editor for providing too many perspectives.

Now I've broached this subject before and received a little feedback. I've also heard nothing but praise from people who've read the first book, especially from the college ranks, which is who I want to market towards, though not entirely. Anyway, I wonder what I can do to simplify it even if it's possible to do so. Or even should I?

A Cold Life

An experimentation in horror:

I live a cold life. This is not to say I live in Alaska or even keep my home at a moderate sixty-five degrees for most of the year, but rather I keep myself absent of emotions. I hide things inside myself, locked away in a box without latches. It’s a dark place, full of hatred and greed, full of things I regret, and full of memories a dare not bare. It’s a place where my childhood is kept at a distance, far away from the nerve center which I act upon. Yet it is within this dark place I find the will to accomplish what I must.

For as long as I can remember I have been like this. I am the oak in the middle of a field. I am the lone spider in the corner of the room. I am the watcher of world, though I try not to participate in it any more than I have to. I am nothing but a black spot on a white sheet of paper. I exist, cannot be denied, yet I am what everyone refuses to acknowledge. I am, however, not worthy of your time to remove, so I remain the blight society accepts. Fortunately, society doesn’t know me.

For those who have met me, I am far different than what I’m perceived as. I am the chill running up your spine. I am the hairs on the back of your neck when you feel something is wrong. I am the goose-bump which rises from your skin when the unexplained happens. I am the tense fear piercing your heart when something crashes in the night. I am the one who feels no remorse, though nothing can describe me properly.

What I can describe in detail is my victim.

I can tell you of the high-pitched muffled sound of scream I hear through the gag like a harpy wailing against the wind. The sound is full of hate and pain, of agony realized. It chills to the bone, reverberating terror on a level equaling death. It’s full of despair, desperate out of fear, and full of hated anticipation. It’s the sound of a hundred dreams dying spewing forth from an enraged animal knowing its life is ending.

I can tell you about of the sickly sweet aroma of blood, how it permeates the nostrils. How it slides between my fingers smoothly only to congeal into sticky blobs hindering movement. It runs like oil, slick with life, red with loathing until it realizes it won’t be replenished. It’s as if it intuitively knows death is upon it as soon as it escapes the vein like a baby gazelle wandering from the herd only to find a lioness waiting in the tale grass.

I can tell you of the bile, the revulsion, the gasping clarity of thought as realization strikes all at once. For I am no stranger to those I meet. I was once in their charge, given a chance for life where it had once been lost, but their caring was an illusion. It’s because of them my emotions became my illusion, played like a record for their benefit though without any internal meaning. Had they delved just a little bit deeper they would’ve seen the pain I locked inside myself. They would’ve felt the death of my soul. They would’ve grieved as my compassion died within me. And they would not have become the final nail closing the box around my heart.

Now, I can tell you I see her tears of regret for all the wrongs she’s committed against me. They leak upon the plastic covered floor in waves as I tighten the tourniquet just above her knee before the first stroke of my saw slices through her flesh to rasp against bone as a Siren’s cry breaches the air.

I bet she feels me now, though I can tell you I don’t feel a thing. I am numb to it as if frostbite has taken me. The only thing left is the tingling of dying nerves bursting as my flesh freezes, but even that fades.

This is what I mean when I say I live a cold life. 

Avoiding Kryptonite (a.k.a. Team BAM)

I wrote this a while ago as a magazine article and now think its appropriate as the Pheonix Ironman approaches. Hope you enjoy it:

Avoiding Kryptonite

Is it menopause?

I ask myself this as I stare across the room at my nearly frantic, questionably insane wife. And I think to myself, as her feet hop from side to side and her hands scurry over all the objects in her pack, she’s kind of young to be going through menopause. But what else could it be?

Along the same lines, I sincerely doubt it’s a mid-life crisis thing either. If I hazard to guess, I’d have to say it’s more of a bucket list sort of mindset.

In retrospect, my wife has never been frantic. High-strung, more than a little, but always with a purpose. On top of that, she’s very goal oriented even if her goals seem to make very little sense to me. She has, however, made me a better person and, as if her work with me has been completed (or she’s simply given up trying to change my little quirks), she’s moved on to the next bigger item.

However, lists of items are not my wife’s strong point. To think she’s that organized is a little bit of a joke to me, but I have to give her some credit. During my wife’s 40 years she’s accomplished her first bucket list and started her second. To say she’s ahead of the game is an understatement. All I can imagine is that within her stray thoughts she has her list of accomplishments, her list of to-do’s, and her list of soon to be completed actions. It’s my supposition that all this lingers in the back of her mind and, at any opportunity, she can pounce on a chance for fulfilling any one of them.

Though I do not wish to offend, and maybe it’s just the kind of women my wife attracts as friends, but I find all of them can switch gears within their minds in a moment’s notice. My wife is no different. In one sentence I’ll be standing there in mid-conversation and in the next instance I will witness her booking tickets to a far off destination (without me) or sign up to take part in a play she’s always dreamed of being in. For me, it’s all part of the adventure of living with her and in a lot of ways I envy her spontaneity. That is until she tells me her next goal.

Her latest ambition: becoming an Ironman.

Of course I laugh upon hearing this, which was completely inappropriate and caused me to receive the nastiest glare all of woman-kind could deliver. In hindsight it was not the most thoughtful of responses, however, I can easily defend my reaction.

First, my wife is no athlete. She is klutzy, uncoordinated, and sports a small ‘Buddha’ belly that it a permanent fixture of her figure no matter what her weight may be. This is not to say she’s rotund in any way, but rather that even at a size 4 she retains a paunch. On top of all this, the only sport she’s been involved in is swimming back in high school, she can barely ride a bike, and her ability to run is somewhat questionable because of numerous ankle and knee injuries. And for those of you who are not familiar with a full Ironman, it consists of a 2.4 mile swim followed by a 112 mile bike ride and completed with a full 26.2 mile marathon. That’s 140.6 miles of torturous exertion.

Even I, who grew up with a swimming pool in the backyard, ran track and field, biked since I could stand on two feet, and played soccer most of my life along with almost every other sport known to man, finds the tasks daunting, even when I was in great shape. To think my wife could accomplish completing a full Ironman just seems absurd. But being the supportive husband I am, after my initial flabbergasted response, I say ‘sure, why not’.

Now I’ve almost always gone to the gym and stayed in relatively good shape, except for a brief three year stint in which I gain 45 pounds through snack cakes. However, being somewhat prideful of my appearance and seeing picture of my fat rolls while on the beach with my son, I decided enough was enough and lost the weight by returning to the gym once again. It was the best thing I’ve ever done for myself and will never regret the hard work I put in to be classified as ‘skinny’ in this somewhat ‘obese’ world we’ve become accustom too. So when my wife says she wants to get in shape and do this, I can only cheer as I’m in full support of her losing her baby weight through diet and exercise.

On the other hand, my support is limited. My job requires me to travel a lot, so I can’t be there all the time to provide the encouragement she needs. Thankfully she finds a friend who is just as crazy as she is about becoming an Ironman. Within days they are feeding into each other’s (dare I say) delusions and I am all but forgotten. Again, this is not a bad thing because her new training partner provides a similar level of mental stimulation and support they seem to thrive on which I find exacerbating.

In addition to this there are several other differences in the level of support I can provide. For example, I only require the minimum amount of tools to complete a task, whereas I’m not concerned with the fashion statement I make while doing so. This is not the case with my wife or her friend as they tirelessly search the web for the latest training wear, dieting tips, and workout regimes. Within weeks they know volumes about diets and exercises, training methods and schedules, and which companies are coming out with the newest sportswear and equipment. Where I would get overwhelmed and tone her out within seconds, she and her friend flourish on this stuff.

From a distance I find their constant obsession with products and training techniques rather fascinating, this is before I realize just how expensive her next ‘accomplishment’ is going to cost.

Being a triathlete is not cheap. What started out as a membership to a local fitness club, turned into the need for a personal trainer, a treadmill (or two), a spin bike, a carbon-fiber bike (or three), a wetsuit (or three), high end running shoes (which last about 3 months), workout clothes for every size as she loses weight and gains tone, and all the accompanying paraphernalia. The cost is staggering and does not include travel and competition entrance fees. Needless to say, I’m shocked, but I’m also caught up in her obsession as much as my job allows, so I succumb because it makes her happy and I enjoy the ‘be fit’ lifestyle.

This does cause me to analyze her need to do this particularly grueling event. After all, I am a quizzical person, so looking under the hood is second nature to me and I want to know why an Ironman. Why not something less intimidating, more realistic? I do understand the need to set goals, but the goals I set for myself are at least obtainable. Her goal to become an Ironman seems ridiculous at first, but she takes it with a seriousness I’ve rarely seen within her. So what am I missing here?

My journey towards understanding, if I can call it that, begins with looking into the insanity of what she’s training to accomplish.

Now my wife is a swimmer, so I see no problems with her completing the swim portion of the race. At least that’s what I thought when I jumped into the pool to swim a few laps with her. 200 yards later I was gasping for breath and remembering just how hard swimming any distance can be. Considering that 2.4 miles in the water is roughly 4200 yards, or 21 times longer than what I just swam, I begin to rethink just what I consider a ‘swimmer’ to be. This is when I tell myself an Ironman race is not a sprint. In fact the swim portion is just the first leg in an event a person is given 17 hours to complete.

My view of the bike portion is a bit different. Not only does my wife spend countless hours looking at every single bike specification on the market before deciding to even purchase a two wheeled contraption for herself, she also spends hundreds of hours on a spin bike at the local health club. With both these things in mind, I believe my wife can actually ride a bicycle proficiently. This is where I learn that knowledge does not always translate to practical experience. The word ‘unsteady’ comes to mind when I first see my wife try to ride around the block. Deep inside, I’m fearful for her life and any small animals that might inadvertently wander into her path. Her saving grace is she falls down well, which is to say she’s learned the tuck and roll philosophy over years of doing just that. The other thing is there are a lot of riding trails around our area allowing her to become more proficient without having to endure traffic. Both of which calm my fears a little, but still does not provide any insight into her desire to become an Ironman.

Lastly, I can only wonder in dismay at why anyone would want to run 26.2 miles. I mean I have a car and for me a 26 mile drive is longer than my commute to work, which I’d never consider doing on foot. Why a person would purposely torture themself by traveling that distance with legs alone borders on insanity in my book. In conjunction, my wife has notoriously bad joints in her legs, though very shapely legs if you ignore all the scratches and scars from numerous falls and surgeries. So for her to run a marathon is almost unimaginable, let alone a feat in pain management. And I’m sorry to say that any amount of medication taken in order to cover up the day-to-day nagging soreness is not good for anyone to take, yet she put up with it for months.

My only thought into this is why women can give birth more than once whereas every man would say no way after their first child if they were to experience the same. Women, as a whole, have to be gluttons for punishment. There can be no other explanation. This epiphany, however, only leads me to believe that craziness is the only logical explanation for why my wife would choose to participate in an Ironman.

Deep down I dislike this answer. I tell myself this is not correct, she’s not crazy despite what I’ve viewed of her athleticism. So I continue to investigate why.

My next turn of thought, at least down my wife’s line of thinking, is that this is all about the event. An Ironman event is a mecca of people and personalities from around the world committed to a common goal. This fulfills two aspects of her personality.

First, as I’ve said before, she is very goal driven. She thrives on setting daunting tasks in front of her, tasks only a few can accomplish, and finding a way to finish them. Her focus does not stray, her outlook is always positive (despite her occasional grouchy demeanor), and she makes people believe it can be done. She’s a leader and her attitude is unmistakably optimistic. There are no stops, no hindrances, nothing that can’t be overcome. For her it’s not a question of ‘if’, but rather a question of ‘when’. So with every fiber of her body she know this will be done and being around people with the same type of drive only plants her eventual success deeper into her mind.

The second aspect is what she gets out of it. With any achieved goal there is a reward. As with most men’s line of thinking, I believe the first (and possibly best) reward would be bragging rights, an ‘in-your-face’, ‘I’m better than you’ superiority complex. My wife does display this type of mentality at times, but the more I dwell on it the more I realize she only does so with me and in a joking manner. She’s not a braggart. She doesn’t show off. She’s humble, yet confident enough about ‘who’ she is she doesn’t have to tell people she’s better than them. She just knows it internally, which suits her just fine.

So if not bragging rights, then could it be the merchandise? That would be a more subtle, less intrusive, way of showing people up. Now this is more along the lines of what she’d do. She’s also honest enough not to wear the t-shirt without accomplishing the goal first. But there are just not t-shirts. There’s jewelry, clothes of all sorts, bumper stickers, and the always present, have it till you die, Ironman tattoo. Trust me, I’ve heard about them all. And though I see she is intrigued by what she can get, it is not a driving force. 

Once again I am stuck since neither reason seems strong enough as to deliver adequate motivation for her to participate in an Ironman event.

My thoughts now stray as I contemplate whether it could be about the people. My wife is very worldly. Like a magnet, she attracts interesting people. In the past she’s associated with other worldly people on an intellectual level. With this new interest, she can do the same but on a more physically demanding level. In other words, it’s a whole other genre for her to discover.

She has also traveled extensively, but almost always in a business environment, so doing so for ‘fun’ is also captivatingly new. This task provides an entirely different and distinct venue for her to participate in allowing her to explore things both within herself and external to her for the first time. This thought occurred to me before I actually went to one of these races and has changed since.

After witnessing an Ironman event, I have to admit I was inspired. Even before the race started, the crowd on hand was electric. The air was charged with excitement, the people energized, and it wasn’t due to the early hours and amount of coffee most of us needed to drink to remain awake. I also have to admit that if I could’ve done it, I would’ve signed up there and then to try it myself. In fact, throughout the entire day there were people watching and cheering, and let me remind you the event doesn’t end for seventeen hours. That’s a lot of time spent on your feet yelling encouragement to strangers and new friends alike. And from start to finish I had a smile on my face which didn’t go away for another 24 hours. Even as the last competitor crossed the finish line, I remember to the boom of cheers and the announcer saying “You are an Ironman”. In a word, it was ‘awesome’.

As great as all this was, I know cheering crowds are not enough to put yourself through months of training or that kind of physical exertion. So I went back to the drawing board to find out what truly motivates my wife. I must think of her. I must come at the reason from her angle, her perspective.

The first thing popping into my brain is that she is not ‘one of the crowd’. She is unique. She cannot be the median in anything she does. By the time I’ve searched through the other possibilities and come up with this, I find out she’s created ‘Team BAM’. Thought up by both her and her training partner, Team BAM (Bad Ass Moms) encompasses older women that kick butt. Women that strive to do more, be better, than what society expects of them. Team BAM members are those who are young at heart, who never quit, who never say die, and who never look back. And most of all, they don’t accept age as an excuse.

It is upon realizing this when I find my answer to why an Ironman, which I believe is something akin to ‘Rosa Parks Syndrome’. Rosa was defiant. She stood up for herself, who she was, what she believed in, and a nation followed. She encouraged generations after her to do the same, be the same, whether they knew it or not. She was Superman.

In this day and age, and in my wife’s mind, completing an Ironman is synonymous with becoming Superman, being super human in mind, body, and soul.

So it’s not about menopause or bucket lists or craziness. Nor is it about fame or fortune or materialistic items. It’s about a mindset. It’s about achieving the impossible. It’s about stepping out of the norm and doing something fantastic. It’s about accomplishing something memorable against the nay-Sayers. It’s about women, not just my wife, doing more every day. It’s about Team BAM!

As for me, I can only stand back and cheer because nothing in this world is going to stop them.