Resilience (a.k.a. a post in the art of procrastinating from assignments) (photo courtesy of http://photosforae.tumblr.com) I have been brewing this post for a while now; it has proven difficult to complete, and I’m far from coalescing my thoughts into succinct or even comprehensible text, but it is about time I expunged those thoughts via this post, and gave the subconscious brain processing power over to Mlle. F., i.a. It isn’t very often that my resilience is tested.  In 34 years I can recall perhaps only seven times in which I’ve had to draw deep upon the well of my inner fortitude, fortresses; or lean heavily upon friends of family (which is a statement likely to be instantly and utterly refuted and ridiculed by long suffering confidantes and comrades).  Seven times, perhaps. So when faced with a triumvirate of otherwise easily sailable headwinds this year, I’ve been given reason to look within for my inner Aslan, and summon courage, dear heart (and please, accept that these minor moanings are pithy and pathetic - not worthy of the time I’ve given to them to air on this blog, let alone time wasted in trivial travails should an other human read them). Ed: no more parenthesis in parentheses, Clive. I: Six weeks away from amateur sports, drinking beer and eating ice-cream will stop your athletic progress dead in the water. II: Six weeks away from your trade and livelihood with stop your momentum and find you in irons. III: When the elastic tenuously connecting you to normal functions and minimal sleep snaps, you will be all at sea. Stopped, stalled and without any direction. I found myself unwilling to engage in track riding, because peers were now supeeriors.  Brant went from someone I’d back myself to have a go at, to someone I could only despair at as he sailed past.  I avoided Coach Pato-chan as I knew she’d be saddened at my slackening of the sheets: I found it easier and more palatable to bail from a 515m race with 125m to go, instead of inviting Messrs. lactate, pain and blindness to the gig.  My trade was in a similar predicament and I was trying to fathom the depth of all of this whilst being so tired I couldn’t formulate a functional plan to foil the festering forces flailing me to fail: i.e, I was fucked. Here, atop this post is a photo of two lovely cameras, why?  Because in litt. 8/11/2015, someone wrote me with the phrase: “Though I’ll understand if your life is filled with other less challenging things that are more easily enjoyed.” Ouch.  And it was as I was plumbing an unknown depth, with no idea where to point my voyage that her phrase came thundering through the fog of tiredness and crashed upon me.  “…other less challenging things that are more easily enjoyed.”  Rarely have I been so incensed.  I was furious. I hadn’t submitted a film for processing since ead. and I negotiated my exit from photo-club.  I had simply walked away and put my cameras on the shelf: and here I was despairing at slow and unwilling to try, wondering what I could sell my adored track bike for.  About to walk away from a cherished activity.  I ventured my doldrum with Mme. L., who was as echt as ever: “Well, in my past life in HR, I’d say you had …little, resilience.” It is a sobering realisation. So as you find me: legs stretched afore on the couch, ugly-shorts, a tee-shirt, an old friendly wooly-jumper, staring blankly over the top of the Macbook to the plucky adolescent apple tree in the garden, Spotify playlist on, earphones in, a warm bowl of whole-oat porridge and full-fat cream heavy in my belly - id est.: you find me sore, tired, with a volume of academic reading to compete, but resolved. I am sore because I thrashed myself on my bikes this week. I am tired because ten hours of sleep vs. the four I’d become accustomed to has me a little groggy. I railed against less challenging and more easily enjoyed: and I got busy - tactically busy.  I bowed at the altar of Mmes. Chutzpah, Gumption and Mettle and drank deep from their proffered grail: Those wonderful goddesses filled me with their powers sent me out resolved to fix some things, and fuck other shit up. I mewed sickly at Brant “how’d you get so fast”.  And he gently and forcefully as a true gentleman reminded me it’s just strategic time in and away from the saddle, there is no magic pill.  Brant, I have your number, game on.  Thank you…

Resilience (a.k.a. a post in the art of procrastinating from assignments)

(photo courtesy of http://photosforae.tumblr.com)

I have been brewing this post for a while now; it has proven difficult to complete, and I’m far from coalescing my thoughts into succinct or even comprehensible text, but it is about time I expunged those thoughts via this post, and gave the subconscious brain processing power over to Mlle. F., i.a.

It isn’t very often that my resilience is tested.  In 34 years I can recall perhaps only seven times in which I’ve had to draw deep upon the well of my inner fortitude, fortresses; or lean heavily upon friends of family (which is a statement likely to be instantly and utterly refuted and ridiculed by long suffering confidantes and comrades).  Seven times, perhaps.

So when faced with a triumvirate of otherwise easily sailable headwinds this year, I’ve been given reason to look within for my inner Aslan, and summon courage, dear heart (and please, accept that these minor moanings are pithy and pathetic - not worthy of the time I’ve given to them to air on this blog, let alone time wasted in trivial travails should an other human read them). Ed: no more parenthesis in parentheses, Clive.

I: Six weeks away from amateur sports, drinking beer and eating ice-cream will stop your athletic progress dead in the water.
II: Six weeks away from your trade and livelihood with stop your momentum and find you in irons.
III: When the elastic tenuously connecting you to normal functions and minimal sleep snaps, you will be all at sea.

Stopped, stalled and without any direction.

I found myself unwilling to engage in track riding, because peers were now supeeriors.  Brant went from someone I’d back myself to have a go at, to someone I could only despair at as he sailed past.  I avoided Coach Pato-chan as I knew she’d be saddened at my slackening of the sheets: I found it easier and more palatable to bail from a 515m race with 125m to go, instead of inviting Messrs. lactate, pain and blindness to the gig.  My trade was in a similar predicament and I was trying to fathom the depth of all of this whilst being so tired I couldn’t formulate a functional plan to foil the festering forces flailing me to fail: i.e, I was fucked.

Here, atop this post is a photo of two lovely cameras, why?  Because in litt. 8/11/2015, someone wrote me with the phrase: “Though I’ll understand if your life is filled with other less challenging things that are more easily enjoyed.” Ouch.  And it was as I was plumbing an unknown depth, with no idea where to point my voyage that her phrase came thundering through the fog of tiredness and crashed upon me.  “…other less challenging things that are more easily enjoyed.”  Rarely have I been so incensed.  I was furious.

I hadn’t submitted a film for processing since ead. and I negotiated my exit from photo-club.  I had simply walked away and put my cameras on the shelf: and here I was despairing at slow and unwilling to try, wondering what I could sell my adored track bike for.  About to walk away from a cherished activity.  I ventured my doldrum with Mme. L., who was as echt as ever: “Well, in my past life in HR, I’d say you had …little, resilience.”

It is a sobering realisation.

So as you find me: legs stretched afore on the couch, ugly-shorts, a tee-shirt, an old friendly wooly-jumper, staring blankly over the top of the Macbook to the plucky adolescent apple tree in the garden, Spotify playlist on, earphones in, a warm bowl of whole-oat porridge and full-fat cream heavy in my belly - id est.: you find me sore, tired, with a volume of academic reading to compete, but resolved.

I am sore because I thrashed myself on my bikes this week.
I am tired because ten hours of sleep vs. the four I’d become accustomed to has me a little groggy.

I railed against less challenging and more easily enjoyed: and I got busy - tactically busy.  I bowed at the altar of Mmes. Chutzpah, Gumption and Mettle and drank deep from their proffered grail: Those wonderful goddesses filled me with their powers sent me out resolved to fix some things, and fuck other shit up.

I mewed sickly at Brant “how’d you get so fast”.  And he gently and forcefully as a true gentleman reminded me it’s just strategic time in and away from the saddle, there is no magic pill.  Brant, I have your number, game on.  Thank you…

Clive SomervilleComment