From Stealing to Flying and Back to the River: "They find freedom being part of the elements"

Something lovely stolen from American Idyll. -- it's hard to just steal one thing.  So a tip of the hat and an index alongside the nose to the proprietor for introducing us to Jesse Hall.  I assume he is the poem's author but am not sure.



One minute poem of the Grand Canyon from Jesse Hall on Vimeo.

From the beginning to the end, 

everything changed. 

They dismounted the surge of prominence, 

and earned a rock-steady heart. 

Thats where their rhythm is found. 

They know the role of a trickle in the creation of a masterpiece. 

They row into the abyss of being, 

adrift in endless time, 

hearing ancient echoes. 

They find freedom being part of the elements, 

traveling to where all worlds merge. 

Life's knowledge drifts down onto them, 

and blows right into their skin.

Now, a wonderful, airy tangent:

Jesse Hall was the "winner of the first season event of the ProBASE World Cup Tour 2011."

BASE jumping is the activity of parachuting from a fixed object as opposed to skydiving, which is parachuting from an aircraft. Fixed objects can be buildings, antennas, smoke stacks, bridges, power towers, cliffs, cable cars, dams or any other object high enough to jump from.The acronym B.A.S.E was coined by Carl Boenish and stands for Building, Antenna, Span, Earth which are the 4 most popular objects BASE jumpers practice their sport from 

Of course, it's the wingsuits that are the stuff of my flying dreams! In the beginnings of my loss of mobility, I watched dancers and gymnasts, then parkour and free running. Now, it's wingsuit BASE jumping, waking with scraped and bloody knuckles from skimming mountain walls.





Parkour and Free Running still give me relief from gravitational stasis, the release necessary to then be able to turn, smile, and be a gracious gimp.  But the BASE jumpers have taken over top dream billing,

Back to the River for tonight's ending -- I hope to end tonight in official "wee" hours, instead of the 7:30 AM bedtime of the past few days.  This is a poem written by Kevin, of Kevin's Meandering Mind, published there on April 20, 2014, in a post titled "Wonder Poem: Grand Canyon Vertigo."

Me, and Damien Walters; Damien Walters and I!

parkour:  The art of moving through your environment as swiftly and effectively as possible using only the human body.

You should have seen me. You would have cheered.


It was the perfect storm of good things:  I slept an incredible four hours straight, enjoyed a balanced, rich cup of coffee in the predawn, then relaxed and laughed with the flitting, fighting chickadees.  


And, if I do say so myself, I was quite nattily dressed.


Yes, there were the normal oddities.  La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore was, inexplicably, curled up on the lower shelf of the kitchen block table, covered with an antique Point de Venise lace tablecloth.  Granted, she was sacked out in a kitchen that I don't normally use, as the replica of the Karaboudjan's galley is not my idea of the ideal place to prepare or consume food.  Still, for an early morning view of the cluster of spruce trees and the bud- and canker- worms so beloved by my beloved chickadees, nothing beats the view out of the galley's over-sized portholes.


Right. Well, anyway, things began well.  That's all I am saying.
I was feeling good; I was feeling lean and mean.


I had an early morning cardiology appointment and let's face it, early mornings are not exactly what we are known for around here.  Fred and I even retrained the circadian rhythms of all the livestock and domestic animals so that their days don't actually start until mid-afternoon.


Despite my penchant for equating left with west and north with straight ahead, we had an uneventful trip into Lone Alp. 

My MDVIP Go-To-Guy referred me to a new cardiologist this year.  It's not that the old one was in any way not a great doctor, he was.  Is.  No, it is more, for me, that I just cannot tolerate dealing with anyone or anything associated with the CrapAss Hospital that has so contributed to the demise of my earthly usefulness.  Not that I've given that much thought or anything!  


I remember, in fact, my Former Cardiologist with great affection, for he once told me that I would not die so long as he was taking care of me.  I loved that brash idiocy.


Unfortunately, ever since he actually had the chance to snatch me from the jaws of death, he has been caught up in the evil machinery of CrapAss Hospital.  Because of the great Shoulder Adventures of the last three years, I've only gone in to get an echo done, and only once, and did not deal with the doctor at all -- except to have one of his partners bless me out over the phone.  (When he was done blessing me out for having skipped a few echos, he told me not to worry about my aortic dilation blowing up, "because you will never see it coming...")


Oops!  Oh, well!


So we cruised into the Free Gimp Parking, gave Ruby the Honda CR-V a pat on the butt, and found the office with nary a wrong turn and not a bit of confusion.  [We don't do well in new office buildings.  Sometimes we duck into the first cozy looking waiting room and pretend we're in the right place.  It's usually the urologist's or the plastic surgeon's joint, though, and they catch on pretty quickly and toss us out.]


The New Cardiologist's place is incredibly well-organized.  I didn't realize how much I appreciated that until I was there, in the midst of streamlined forms and efficient people.  Everyone was so good at what they did, and they communicated!  Not just with me and Fred, but with each other.


Excuse my excitement.  Little things just send me!


Now... here is the part where it's all about me, and Damien Walters, Damien Walters and I!  That's this post's title, in case you've been distracted. 


I've long been a fan of parkour, then free running, free styling -- the martial arts, too.  As my body has crapped out and essentially imploded on itself, I've traveled beyond this body via the Internet and television, finally carving out for myself niches of the imagination.  


On one of my baseline days, I'll cue up the greatest of tennis matches, admire the most powerful and musical ballet dancers, and I let my body go.  It's enjoyment.  It's distraction.  For a few years, I could even pretend it was muscle memory!


On intolerable days, I might visit PopThatZit and replay Pete Popped a Pustulant Pimple ten times in a row... or I might not!  But I will *always* end up watching Damien Walters, usually his showreels, one right after the other.  I fly, jump, fall, push, pull, defy gravity and embrace gravity, all at the same time.  I feel no pain and my tendons never retract, my muscles never seize.  I'm lithe, light as air, fast as lightening.  Pliant, compliant, but steel, I am jiu-jitsu.


When I was escorted back to the echo room, this morning, the first thing that jumped out at me was the behemoth of an exam table.  It looked as tall as a freaking elephant.


The nurse asked me if I could change into the gown on my own.  "Sure!" I said.  She asked if I could walk to the exam table.  "You betcha!" I crowed, adding, "I brought my magic cane, even. But then you are out of luck, because there's no way I can get *on* it." 


"Not even with this stepladder?  How about if I hold you up?  How about if you hang onto me?"


Because of the instability, swelling, and pain in my ankles, knees, and hips, I cannot step up or down.  The last time I tried to use one of those stepladders was in a radiology department and the tech did not entirely believe my protests that I couldn't trust my legs.  I ended up on the floor that day, and pretty mad about it, too.  I have fallen quite enough in this lifetime, thankyouverymuch.


She picked up the phone to call for the nearest Big Guy, so that my own petard could be hoisted...


But something of the spirit of Damien Walters showed up in me, today, unexpectedly.  I told her that, no, we would not be needing assistance, and that, yes, I could do this if she wouldn't mind parking my wheelchair somewhere out of the way once I vaulted out of it, pirouetted in midair, onto the beastie table.


She looked a tad bit skeptical.  She was staring at my legs and wincing.


It might have been choreographed by Balanchine.  Danced by Edward Villella.  You'd easily imagine that I was inhabited by Martina, Chris, Monica, Hana, and Steffi, tour à tour.  


But it was in every way inspired by Damien Walters.


I planted one leg here, the other there, becoming my own source of symmetry.  I plumbed the potential energy of every surface.  Briefly, I was here, then there, now attracted, now repelled.  Once, twice, I was standing --sideways -- on a cabinet.  Thereafter, I was free of surfaces altogether.


I usually crane my neck and nervously watch the progress of the echo -- it's kind of neat to see your heart as it beats, to listen to the woosh-woosh.  The nurse, after verifying that I had survived my feats of athleticism with bones and internal organs intact, was all business.  She reminded me that talking, coughing, and such interfered with the test, so I stopped talking, never coughed, held my breath when instructed, but mostly just ran Damien Walters' videos in my head.


In a first, I managed to crack up both myself and the test operator, and did, I guess, disrupt things.  They record the sounds produced by various parts of the heart, concentrating, I think, on the valves.  I heard a series that were familiar from past tests... and then, out of the blue, came what can only be described as Island Music.  "They're having a party in there!" came out before I could stop myself from talking.  Seriously, we are talking ukuleles, tambours, maracas, and seven kinds of guitars.  


Go, mine heart, go!


There were a few abnormal results from the echo, but none of them were new, none of them were worse, and one of them was actually better.  I'm really happy with this new place.


The nurse was on the warpath as we left, threatening to quit if she wasn't given an adjustable table for her echocardiogram patients, going on and on about some "debilitated" people of her acquaintance.  Whoever they are, I hope they get better soon.


And I hope the cardiologists keep that massively tall, unwieldy table, maybe tucked away in some storage room for when I come back next year.  


I haven't had so much fun in I-don't-know-when.

The Office Parkour

Beyond Parkour

Damien Walters

Repost of Raw Silk Dreams: An Epistemology of Movement

I don't actually remember November 2008, but I confess to liking the things I posted back then. I wonder what the difference was -- why was I more interesting and a better writer at that particular time?

Anyway, the Reposts continue!

I spent about 430 seconds pondering. Ponder, ponder, ponder. That's pretty impressive for me these days, as my attention span seems to have been ably kimbo-sliced.

I am weaning myself off of the only antidepressant that has ever been magic to my dour mood. Cymbalta. Prescribed as an adjunct pain medication, it really worked wonders for me. The Lesser Pains were indeed helped, but wayyyyy more impressive was that weird, weird sound that accosted my ears about 5 days after the first dose.

Laughter.

I actually did say, "What is that sound?" Fred almost wept with relief and La Bonne et Belle Bianca promptly began plotting little plots to steal the medication and replace it with saltpeter.*

[*About saltpeter, the good Wikipedia tells us:

Potassium nitrate is a chemical compound with the chemical formula KNO3. A naturally occurring mineral source of nitrogen, KNO3 constitutes a critical oxidizing component of black powder/gunpowder. In the past it was also used for several kinds of burning fuses, including slow matches. Potassium nitrate readily precipitates from mixtures of salts, and decomposing urine was the main commercial source of the nitrate ion, through various means, from the Late Middle Ages and Early Modern era through the 19th century.

Its common names include saltpetre (saltpeter in American English), from Medieval Latin sal petræ: "stone salt" or possibly "Salt of Petra", nitrate of potash, and nitre (American niter). For specific information about the naturally occurring mineral, see niter. The name Peru saltpetre or Chile saltpetre (American "Peru saltpeter" or "Chile saltpeter") is applied to sodium nitrate, a similar nitrogen compound that is also used in explosives and fertilizers. The major problem of using the cheaper sodium nitrate in gunpowder is its tendency to go damp.]

Of course, Bianca had some odd notion of the fabled death-to-potency capacity of saltpeter, sort of an extrapolation of "going damp." [Ewww, that doesn't quite work, does it. Ewww.] But then, this is just another example of why we so love La Bonne et Belle Dame Sans Merci -- also why we like to keep her within our sights at all times. Have I ever extolled the virtues of the Nanny Cam, carefully inserted into "the cans of half-eaten Libby's Vienna Sausage stuffed in the serpentine bottom drawer of a 16th century French armoire -- beautifully restored as a well-stocked wet bar"? No? Well, put that on the lists of fascinating future blog posts! (I confess that the link to "Anacoluthe" is probably my most-linked production; I love that post; I find that it quite competently explains the nuances of the pandemic economic disaster -- from which we have yet to be truly delivered. {Thank you, BushWad.})

Are you still with me?

So, as I too-rapidly wean myself off this very effective medication that I can no longer afford, I am battling the return of The Minor Aches and The Lesser Pains. No biggie, pain is a constant. True, I am not usually brought to the proverbial edge, sobbing that "I can't do it..." or crying out in full pathos "Why does everything have to be so hard?"

The pain battle will be ongoing. The battle against depression, though? I can't do it... Why does everything have to be so hard?

Ha! This Conflict of the Neurotransmitters, Uptoken and Retooked, looks to be a very hard and enduring contest.

Against both physical and psychic pain, my best weapon doesn't come from pills, tablets, or fizzing seltzers. It comes from the knife's edge of hyperfocus and a heightened relaxation response, both the result of many years of biofeedback, now expertly practiced sans wires, books, helpmates, or monitors.

And, lo! It turns out that rereading some of my blogposts is one touchstone that launches me into hours of monotonous orbits, as I microprocess the meaning of words, as I enjoy linguistic histories, and lather up from head-to-fucked-up-toe in my many absurdities.

I don't know if my posts ever help you, My Beloved Readers, to leave it all behind, to enjoy an anachronistic Calgon moment, but that's the rationale behind my recent penchant for reposting.

This one? Easy enough to decipher. The videos easy enough to people, to enter, to mentally fly, jump, twist, and lightly land. It's a dream of having legs that work, having a body that remembers.

I dream in parkour and free running.
"Silk, or soie in French, is the strongest natural fiber."*
I wake at the catch of gulping sound that is my laughter.



Late at night, when I cannot sleep, and am mentally weak,
I watch parkour videos and cry.
The music that I play -- preferring my picks to theirs -- is very, very loud,
so in my fashion I twitch and rock. I plant my feet, and roll. (In my fashion.)



It surely doesn't belong to me,the blue grey knots,
but I don't think they mind me watching, tetanus-toed.
If they do, there are some shadows to hide in,
over there.



It's as smooth as silk isn't, and as dependent on
texture for its beauty. Raw silk.

Traces, traceurs, traceuses.

*"A steel filament of the same diameter as silk will break before a filament of silk."

Parkour and Free Running

My brother offers me armchair travel -- one of the few insightful people who recognize the need to get *out* of both this body and this place. He shows me the large and the minute of canyons and flowers perfect in a rocky crack.

The internet is, of course, an incredible gift. I can go, virtually (if, alas, no longer virtuous)anywhere, anytime.

I thought my need for compensatory movement would eventually die out and disappear, and simply rededicated my efforts at mental tennis mimicry... but it becomes less and less satisfying.
Fortunately, I discovered the world of parkour and free running. Sweet relief. A conduit for challenge, joys, and tears. If you've not yet had the pleasure, go check out some of the marvelous videos over at YouTube: