The Legends League

06.18.08

On the day I most greatly anticipated myself being hung over, I find myself on the streetcar coming home from work, tired and very much ready to punch something that’ll surely bleed. Along with my want to drink again comes the fear of what spiraling slide I’ll find myself lodged into next should I take on the risk of trying to become a social and socially responsible drinker. I look at what my body looks and feels like now and I’m worried about returning to a place where I was welcome, but I definitely was not comfortable living in.

The last time I was this weight I was working out 2 times a day and involving myself with enough physical activity to tire a jack rabbit. This time around all I had to do was blog everyday and take a couple of photos. So they say easy money goes fast. Well I need to listen and store some of what I’ve learned during The Beer Weight Experiment in the bank before I find my wallet on E and my self confidence close by.

I admit that when this all started I was afraid of going through the same symptoms of withdrawal that I did when I went sober in 04. Thankfully, since I wasn’t drinking nearly as often, the ripping my hair out and scratching myself to scars was replaced with being a little moody and complaining about relatively trivial things. You would think that not drinking for one month would be easy enough. It wasn’t. And now I’m learning that dreading the first time back in a bar is just as equally nerve wracking a trial to play the accused at.

THE SUPPORT

The support from many of The Legends League’s readers has been tremendous over this past month. From south africa to italy, chicago, brooklyn, toronto, the bay area, the netherlands, australia and montreal, the regular visits to the page and the frequent emails to me personally have been incredibly helpful. I am humbled by your support and amazed at the humanness of your messages. Fans blow air, but support holds you up when you need it most. My sincerest, and most heartfelt thanks to you all.

LOS

Many of you who don’t know me personally have no clue who I refer to when I speak about my homey Los (Solrac), who by his own will and on his own account, completed the BWE with me silently. This dude has been a big brother to me for 12 years now, and impressed me over and over again during our month of “SolBryity”. Without his stories of turning down random opportunities to get drunk with strangers at local bars or party with Kanye in VIPs, I don’t know how sane I wouldve been able to stay knowing I was alone in this. My hats off to that dude. And yall know I don’t ever take my hat off for shit.

PROS vs. CONS

During the BWE, I found myself waist deep in battling the pros and cons of laying off the bottle and airing out on the web. And while I was prepared to deal with struggles, I wasn’t prepared to deal with some of the struggles I faced.

On one hand, having an audience makes you far more commited to sticking with your goals. In my case I had viewers, but in another persons scenario they may have a partner or a friend who’s down to quit drinking with them. (Being aware of who you may let down is sometimes a very big blessing). On the other hand, having an audience creates a crowd that has access to all of your vulnerabilities. I was as giving and truthful with my writing as I’ve ever been during the BWE. I never spoke in tangled metaphors, and didn’t use poetic verses to convey my messages. I gave my all in writing as clearly and openly as possible, all for the sake of sharing, and in hopes that some of what I had been able to say during this month of clear-mindedness may connect to one or some of you. Evidently much of it has. Being open and honest with a trusted friend or partner is important when it comes to conquering your vices and admitting to your struggles, and I can say that if I hadn’t provided myself with an outlet for my emotions during the BWE, I would have really emotionally broken down.

When I weighed in on the first day I thought I would drop 10 lbs by the end of it. After all, I lost 40 in about a month the last time I went sober. But this go round I was already in reasonable shape. (Don’t hate. “Oval” counts as a shape, motherfucker). I had a lot of people predicting how much I would lose. People guessed more weight would come off of my neck and face than on the scale, some said I’d lose 15 lbs, while others weren’t quite sure as to why I was even doing this. While I knew I would lose some weight, I wasn’t prepared for the public spectacle I was about to make myself. It was embarassingly difficult to continue to post photos and weights, and many mornings I would wake up dreading the scale. .

Although it was a lot to deal with, I knew that if I stuck by my commitment there would be definite, almost inactive change. The hardest part of sledding down a hill is climbing the slope at the start. Knowing this, I tried my best to stay away from my routine activities. I stopped going to the Beaconsfield randomly for dinner, or for a pint after work. I hung out at the back of the stage at Shuffle rather than roaming the crowd, and I stayed in on Fridays to catch up on work or play a video game or two. Socially, this became pretty boring, but after the first week or two I noticed I was far more productive, my energy levels were higher, I got more sleep, and I was saving a hell of a lot of money. All of this while, yes, losing weight effortlessly. The decline in social activity really meant nothing. So I missed a few parties that I’d been to 20 times before. So I didn’t hang out at the listening party. I can listen to a CD without a party, that’s for sure. And who really cares about turning down an offer for a drink every now and then? I started to remember that the friends that I had weren’t drinking buddies, they were buddies I have that I go for drinks with. Everyone else, is just around for company. (I learned this once before when I stopped smoking weed). Consider that. If you were to quit smoking, would the dude you share a morning smoke with in your office even come by to say hi anymore? Yeah, think about it.

UPS and DOWNS

The low points during the BWE were mostly related to stress management. I found that when I got stressed out by bad business associate moves or financial issues and bills, I immediately wanted a drink. I had to rethink this response. A plant that hasn’t grown needs water and sunlight, not its branches pulled. I had been too used to dealing with my problems in the wrong manner and it was very, very difficult to go through regular, human stresses and not respond like an alcoholic.

The high points were almost all related to Los. He messaged me one night telling me that a random girl on the streetcar had asked him to go for drinks at her friends bar with some of their friends, on some, “Shiiit, we can do this every weekend” type shit. He declined for the sake of staying away from the bottle. Another afternoon I went to go check him at work and he told me he had passes for the Kanye “Glow in the Dark” show and some V.I.P. thing with at Circa, here in Toronto. He sold his ticket for $20, saying, “Hey, its the price of a haircut”. His commitment was again, a huge help and source of hilarity when I needed it most.

The most obvious upside of this whole experiment was my physical change. So here come the results.

THE HARD RESULTS

My starting weight was: 170.6 lbs. While this is not odd for my height and frame, I was not in the shape that I wanted to be in.

My mental goal was: 165 lbs. This is my ideal “fighting weight” in my opinion. I felt that if I could drop to this weight, I could rebuild myself back up through exercise.

The most noticable physical change was: definitely in my face, my skin and in my stomach. My clothes fit me a lot better and I feel more comfortable with my overall appearance. I didn’t realize how out of shape I was getting until I started losing size around my belly.

The greatest difference in pounds was: 9.3 lbs in 1 week. I weighed myself one evening and the scale hit 176. A week later I weighed in at 166.7. I know that your body weight fluctuates throughout the day, but seeing it with my own eyes was pretty amazing.

My final weight was: 166.2 lbs. Although I missed my target weight, losing poundage in dead beer weight makes a big difference. A pound of fat takes up more mass than a pound of muscle, so the numbers are quite deceiving, but the physical changes are evident. If I had to put myself through this all again, I definitely would, and I actually would highly recommend it. As consumers I think we become numbed to our spending habits. We are used to exchanging tender for goods. But as consumers of substances we tend to forget that what we are providing our bodies with is essentially a poison. The addiction to these poisons is very soothing and difficult to escape, but our bodies deteriorate inside out from the consumption of them. And we cannot see the effects so we ignore the facts. The Beer Weight Experiment allowed me to see what my addiction to consumption was not only doing to my wallet, but also what the reverse effects were doing to my body. Considering the results, I can say that in a month I was able to shed 4.4 lbs of presumed “Beer Weight”. What would the results have been if I was more prone to drinking liquor? What would my overall health be like if I just decided to quit drinking altogether?

What I got out of the BWE was more than just the confidence in my own will to not drink. I gained a sense of self that allowed me to reflect on many of my life experiences that otherwise were drowned through the bottom of a bottle or mazed within metaphors in poems. I have learned more closely the power of the support of peers, and also how alive many of us still are. Through eliminating one of my biggest vices I was given the opportunity to realize the greatest road block and deterrent to success we all have - the faith in ourselves to succeed at what we are otherwise expected to not even attempt.

Thank you for your support ya’LL. We’ll see what comes next…

The Beer Weight Experiment:
Final Weight: 166.2 lbs.
Emotionally: Exhausted.
Appearance: As good as it’s been all month.
Level Of Temptation To Cheat: 0 out of 10. From here on out, it’s not “cheating”.
Cheat Beers: 0

Today marked the official end to The Beer Weight Experiment - Thirty One days of sobriety for the sake of finding out how much of my physical makeup was comprised of my biggest vice, beer. It’s finally over… or possibly over too soon.

There wasn’t an elaborate Last Day fiasco, nor will there be one tomorrow. All will stay the same… at least for now.

Truthfully, I’m a little upset. The reasons are numerous. But overall, I can’t complain about having hit a pound away from my target weight without having to lift a finger or eat grass everyday.

I’m very grateful for everyone’s support. The BWE Official Wrap Up will be up tomorrow.

Much love ya’LL.
be.

DAY THIRTYONE RESULTS:
Day Thirtyone Weight: 166.2 lbs.
Emotionally: Uncertain.
Appearance: I’m at the lowest weight I’ve been for the entire BWE, and I don’t think I look half bad.
Level Of Temptation To Cheat: 0 out of 10.
Cheat Beers: 0

By the time I was 17 my daughter was about to be born and I would question whether or not she was mine. By 22 I would smash a glass over my girlfriends face after being punched twice over issues of insecurity, ideas of jealousy, and the thought again, of being left alone. 3 hours later I was in an ambulance with my left wrist gaping open and a request not to be taken to the hospital my daughter was born in. They had no choice, so we went.

I was stitched a few hours later by a doctor who calmly said, “Hmm. A little higher, a little harder”.

When a child is placed in an environment long enough, he’s bound to begin to adapt to it. Either that or he’ll rebel entirely at the first site of rejection. The idea here is to act like you hate the girl you have a crush on in case she doesn’t like you, that way you can play it off as if you didn’t care in the first place. Sometimes the scenario calls for “your crush” to be replaced with grades, or getting a job, or speaking without using slang, or not selling drugs anymore, or anything that, should you try and fail, your ego would be damaged far more than your reputation.

The problem with my environment was that it was comprised of too many unstable and uncommitted elements to adapt enough to any of them. My father and I rarely spoke. He beat me more than he spoke to me. He gave me math problems instead of speaking with me in the car. This is what stands out the most in our relationship. I think sometimes that it may have been far easier for him to have left us and for me to learn how to hate someone who didn’t take care of their responsibilities than to be taught that you must love your family unconditionally and come home to someone who did the kinds of things he did to me. At 12 years old, 5 years of this treatment was enough to go through. At 27 years old, 2 decades of trying to unlearn it became quite discouraging.

My second elementary school never removed me from classes for bad behaviour. They put me in a cubicle away from the other kids and I was allowed to draw pictures of Def Squad logos and Sticky Fingaz from Onyx. They cared more about me being inside than me being in school and learning. I smiled often. I joked quite frequently. But I was more amused than I was happy, and I don’t remember much, if any of the curriculum.

There was a 2 week period after the incident with my girlfriend, where they put me on an in school suspension. I was placed in a storage room next to the principal’s office and was given no recess, allowed no interaction with any other children, and was only allowed out of the room to go to the bathroom and take medication. Nearing the end of the 2 weeks I was given permission by my principal, who incidentally was the father of a girl my (biological) sister would befriend in high school, to shoot around in the gym for 20 minutes a couple of times. In contrast to the dimlit room with a caged window, playing ball alone was quite the release.

For much of my life, I was never given definitive rejection. There was never a time when I felt entirely sent away. I was less a toss out than a set aside, and at the time it felt somewhat comfortable. What I have learned over the years though, is that this comfort with uncertainty has allowed a level of paranoia towards my loved ones to increase. Why trust the words when they are followed by tainted actions? But then why despise the actions when you’re picked up and sent home with your abuser? The lines between action and acting became very blurred, and I struggled to gain perspective. They must love me. They must love me.

“Men shouldn’t be jealous, that’s a female trait”.

My relationships with girls have always been chock full of uncertainty. There’s something about being raised by doctors and shrinks, councilors and psychologists, that makes you okay with sharing information, but never quite sure what trust means. I’ve always been questioned about my willingness to speak about my life situations and always revert back to saying, “well, the shit happened, its not like I’m lying”. This, for me isn’t the hard part of relationships. Being open is something I’ve learned to do fairly easily. My issue is not feeling as though I’m being lied to, will potentially be lied to, or left momentarily for dead. It seems men always feel the need to maintain an iron shell and a painless face even when their sacks are stomped by six inch stilettos. I, in contrast, have been raised to shred an iron armor in exchange for being further torn to shreds, and then shedding a drop or two. My perception of love is not tainted. My reception from the familiar perception of “loved ones” is.

In 2004, I was arrested for the last time on a few assault charges. Before getting sentenced, my mother was asked to give a character testimony for me. When asked if my violent nature was provoked by any childhood abuse, she responded by saying, “No. He was never abused”. Until this day she denies it, and until this day I regret having thrown out the disclosure papers that had her interview record.

What was I to think of my mother, the one who is to love you unconditionally? And what was I to think of my father, who was to show me what being a man is all about?

This father’s day my daughter told me that she was afraid to get in trouble, and that’s why she doesn’t do the things that some of her classmates do. I told her that I don’t want her to ever fear getting in trouble, that she should know the difference between right and wrong and choose her good judgment as the reason to not do anything troublesome. After Children’s Aid got involved in my house, I lost the idea of fear of punishment, and in losing it, realized I had never learned to respect my father. I only respected his anger, and it only diminished my concept of acting like a loved one, versus being active in loving.

…part 3 to follow.

DAY THIRTY RESULTS:
Day Thirty Weight: 166.6 lbs.
Emotionally: This Father’s Day was the best I’ve ever had. Thanks baby.
Appearance: Feeling good about it actually. But I can’t wait until I can exercise.
Level Of Temptation To Cheat: 0 out of 10.
Cheat Beers: 0

Today was the celebration of the birthdays of two of The Remix Projects finest participants, my dudes, William Nguyen and Adiel Papa.

I wasn’t able to make it due to responsibilities at home that seem quite trivial. Things like doing the laundry and cleaning my room, organizing my piles of tax receipts and throwing out all of my compiled garbage and recycling can only happen on Saturdays. It’s my only free day in a 60+ hour week, and when you haven’t done these things for 3 weeks and are going to be out of town for the following 2 weeks, 1 day of not doing household chores can become 2 months of no underwear. Smell me?

I’ve got nothing but love for you two fellas, and you already know how I feel about my absence today. I would have been stressed out if I showed up, and hence the message: “I’d rather be a great thought than a mediocre presence”.

Love at you fellas.
be.

DAY TWENTYNINE RESULTS:
Day Twentynine Weight: 167.7 lbs.
Emotionally: stressed out.. my apartment makes me maniacal.
Appearance: This morning I bought of pair of pants that I planned to wear to the party tonight. The size was 33 x 30. (I’m not a tall dude). I got home and they were too BIG?!!! What the EF!? So I’ll be going back sometime to get a size 32!!!! And my homey Kevin said my skin has gotten better since the BWE. Thanks Kev.
Level Of Temptation To Cheat: 0 out of 10.
Cheat Beers: 0

When I got removed from my elementary school in 93 for behavioural issues and being a threat to other students, there was a period of time when it didn’t feel like I was under any structure at all. My parents sent me off to my aunties house and I upped and left after one night, walking for 5 hours to my girls house in an M65 jacket with a bandana around my face in the dead of october and sleeping on the pavement in her backyard while she dropped food out of her window for me.

I was 12 years old.

They tried to send me to my other aunties house soon after and I remember playing 8bit nintendo in the basement when I got a call from my mother saying I was going to be sent to a center where doctors could observe me for 3 days. I agreed to it, and on the first day after being seen off by my parents, I was grabbed by the wrists, walked up a set of stairs and told to strip naked and shower in front of 2 grown men. “Just keep the curtain open, you’ll do fine”. I was given velcro shoes and someone elses clothes for the first night, underwear and all, and those 3 days turned into 2 weeks of not seeing the sun, not being allowed to touch another person, stand at the table while cutlery was out, or be on the jack without a staff member listening in on our call. This was general procedure from what it seemed, and in some ways it made sense to me. (This is where I would meet Aaron Mathis, an 8 year old who has forever changed my life, and for that I am grateful). I was released on Christmas Eve, 1993.

When the new year came, they weren’t sure where to put me. I knew kids in many of the elementary schools in the etobicoke area, which to them wasn’t a good thing. But I also had many enemies. They sent me to a school split between upper middle class kipling and eglington ’sons of doctors’ and the kids from east mall flats government housing and the 5 and 7 Capri buildings who would come in by school bus. The dynamic was a funny one that I see a greater divide in now that I’m older. The news has recently headlined the closing gap of this divide with the word “Outrage”. I wouldn’t be so quick to blame the wolf.

During my first bit at this new school I was still dating my girlfriend from about a year prior. She was around for me when my dad choked me out unconscious, and heard everything about him and his choice of leather belts, wooden sticks, and creative ways to put me through grueling means to disciplinary change. Arms out like a crucifix with books in my hands. That’s what these shoulders are made from, girl, trust me. Her father, god rest his soul, would also later beat her til she bled from her ears much like 14 division would do to me 12 years later, and we would sit through mass at the local church, 12 and 13 years old, trying to figure out what to do. She, much like many of my girlfriends, would stay with me through the worst of times. I in turn would choke her against a brick wall for asking why Childrens Aid and the police had been picking my family apart. Her father was never told. They feared what he might do to me.

There was a period during me being kicked out of school where there was a school dance that I obviously couldn’t attend. I remember being stuck in my room, the same room I spent 4 months in on house arrest in 04. I remember going crazy thinking my 13 year old girlfriend was cheating on me. When she got home she called me and said the dance was fun and that she had danced with one of my best friends at the time. I freaked out and broke the phone I was on against the wall in my room. I tore the cord out of the jack and whipped it like a nunchuck against everything I could see. I totally lost control. And I ended up inside the closet in my room in tears. Those closet doors saw the first of my writings. 10 years later they were removed.

My next relationship was far less emotionally attached since the girl seemed far less willing to let me explore the limits of her physical innocence. She was very much an under the shirt, over the bra type of girl, and at 12 years old, I can say I found that very frustrating but quite respectable and normal for our age. Outside of hiding me in her basement after beating a kid up at keele station and once again at kipling station and running from the transit cops, she was fortunate enough to have never witnessed my controlling, paranoid and jealous behaviour. I once raced her little brother down Centennial Hill and fell halfway down, rolling and barreling like a bowling pin. He loved it, and because of that I didn’t mind it so much either.

“You told me that you loved me, and you’d never go away, bullshit…”

By the time I hit high school, I still hadn’t really experienced relationships how they are said to be in nuclear families, The Simpsons and Leave It To Beaver. When you get beat with sticks and then told that sometimes a branch needs to be tied in order to straighten out the whole tree, you start to feel like a broken twig. The communication is off. You are told you are loved and this is why they are sending you away, and then sent to more places of abuse and mistreatment. You’re placed in a room where flashlights are shone on you by overnight staff and you wake up to try to peak through the blinds to catch a glimpse of snowfall as it hits the street, stories below. And you are alone. You are with 15 other kids who are all also very much alone. And you musnt touch hands, let alone hold them. And then you are 14 and don’t know shit about feeling young and blissful. You are 15 and don’t ever believe those who tell you they love you because they are bound to either send you on your way, or leave you. Trust is something that is not earned. It barely even exists. And it, like honesty and sacred ways of humanness, becomes a far cry more than a reality.

…part 2 to follow.

DAY TWENTYEIGHT RESULTS:
Day Twentyeight Weight: 167.2 lbs.
Emotionally: read the post.
Appearance: My waist seems far more slim than it was when this all started.
Level Of Temptation To Cheat: 2 out of 10.
Cheat Beers: 0

Yesterday I was M.I.A. from The Beer Weight Experiment, and you might be asking yourself, “Wha happen?”. Well, like many other nights, I was up very late writing a post and by the time I was finished I realized my camera had been on the whole time. When I woke up yesterday morning to take my BWE flicks, I was able to take the 2 shots of my face, but as I went to take the shot of my gut, the battery died!! Hence the photo of my protruding belly and the thumbs down which I just took about 5 minutes ago. Sorry guys, I had no alternative.

On a good note, I got an email from a dude named Ben saying:

“…you may be interested to know how I found your blog (just this morning)…”

Attached was a link to CNN.com’s “Living” section that I would follow and see a link to my blog on the bottom of the page! Needless to say I was very happy and shocked that someone linked me over there. I’m not sure who was paying attention, but obviously there are a few of ya’ll checking in. For this I am grateful. Please believe it.

The email closed with Ben adding:

“I read your latest post and then went back and read everything from day one! I fully support what you are doing, and send my encouragement to keep at it…”

Thank you sir. Foreally. The support that I’ve been feeling from ya’ll is amazing, and I will never neglect it. You all have my humblest, humblest thanks.

The next entry will prove to be quite the read. So be patient.
Much love.

be.

DAY TWENTYSEVEN RESULTS:
Day Twentysix Weight: 166.8 lbs.
Emotionally: Upbeat in the day, down tempo in the night.. you’ll find out soon.
Appearance: I’ve been feeling a lot better lately about my appearance. It might have something to do with the weather, it may have a lot to do with this great hat I bought a few months ago! lol.
Level Of Temptation To Cheat: 0 out of 10.
Cheat Beers: 0

It’s 3:29 AM here in Toronto. I’m listening to Norah Jones, “Feels Like Home” and I feel more awake than I have in a few weeks. The atmosphere in my kitchen is a lot like the atmosphere in my room at my old apartment. I’m sure nobody can hear me right now, and I’m quite certain that there are only a handful of you that are listening once I hit the publish button on this latest insert. Pardon me while I switch the kitchen light off and flick my desk lamp to give in to the ambiance. (…Ah. That’s better. Moving right along).

..

I spoke with someone at the office the other day about how difficult it is to break up with someone whom you have lived with and shared love with. He said something that really brought me back to when I broke up with my daughter’s mom. He said, “It didn’t really hit me that this was going to be the hardest thing I would have to do until we started divvying up the music. Like, who takes the Billy Holiday? You know? Who takes the music we played when we first took our son home from the hospital?”.

As the silent mornings, 5 hours at the marketing agency, silent afternoon streetcar ride, 6-7 hours at the youth program, silent night streetcar ride, 2 hours of work at home routine starts to ware and ware on me, I’m noticing myself struggling to listen to music. I’m noticing myself more likely to keep everything quiet in my home. I keep the television off. I don’t ever use my iTunes. I don’t like hearing people in the lot behind my apartment. I don’t want to hear anyone in the hallway. I’m likely looking through my peephole if I do hear someone out there. I jump at every sound I hear. I miss being able to control when I am bothered and by what I am interrupted by, and I miss not feeling like everything I hear is bound to be a question of what I can do for someone else. And because I miss these things, I have put myself in a predominantly silent shelter. It’s piercing.

Over the last week I have tried to change this routine. I wake up in the morning and let Breakfast Television play while I run around like a chicken with it’s head still on. It plays until I look at my stove clock and realize I’ve spent so much time getting ready that my head is on the floor and I’m frantically trying to find which pair of shoes has my orthotics in them. I bring my iPod with me to work again, usually listening to Silversun Pickups, Death Cab, Jack Johnson, MF Doom, or anyone whose lyrics give me reason to be happy that people have voices. Sometimes I revert back to Buhloone Mindstate, or Donuts, or the self titled Slum Village album, that, while not a lot of people’s favorite SV album, shows how severe Elzhi can make things for a bullshit rapper near you. I’ve tried to bring myself slowly back into the world of sounds that are pleasant and appealing rather than sounds that are pestering or seeking approval for my latest design.

What’s interesting about our relationship to music is no different than being an anglophone in the gut of Paris, Italy, or a small village in Peru. We are involving ourselves with a mental dialog that doesn’t include opposition or conflicting opinion. We are surrounded by flocks of people whom we cannot communicate with comfortably. We are foreign and frustrated by how close we are to one another, but how far away we are from understanding each other. But then there is this landscape, this environment, this ambiance that captivates us and speaks to our need for reflection. The ocean doesn’t say anything directly at us, but it speaks to so many of our thoughts. And in response to this relation of sounds and emotions we nod our head, we close our eyes, we cry, we dance, we hold one another, and in moments of sheer bliss, we keep our shades on in the club and pour Grey Goose down the throats of groupies. Yes. I said it. The throats of groupies. I’m sure Norah Jones can relate.

The thing with having spoken to so many psychologists and psychiatrists growing up is that I am used to these non opinionated dialogs. I am used to speaking freely about what is on my mind and not worrying about the response. There’s just an understanding that what is coming out of my mouth is the honest truth. And I will not be shot down for it. This is why it’s recommended that many people speak with shrinks. It’s nice to know that you can air things out to someone who is supposed to be speaking beside you and not against you. And here is the inverse of our relationship with our music. The difference is that the music we enjoy under particular circumstances is the music that reflects an artists ability to speak to an emotion or scenario that an individual has experienced. Our attachment to our dialog between listener and song is that we don’t have to speak our minds, it is being so well spoken to already that we understand that while we may walk in a country that does not accept us wholly, while we roam the streets of a community that cares not for our opinion, while we struggle to make it through our 9-5’s, 10-10’s, 1-3’s, or dead time in East Detention, we are clearly not alone in our struggles to be accepted for who we are in a fashion that is without bias. Music provides us with this acceptance.

..

It’s now 5:04AM. I took some time while writing this to clean my house a bit and light a few candles for my wife, who was just coming home from work. Norah Jones has played through, as has Yesterday’s New Quintet’s, “Stevie”. And I’m back to silence. There’s something about my thoughts on foreign land being a metaphor for our regular lives and landscapes acting as our soundtracks that now, under silence’s watch, has got me ready to go back to bed - When it comes time for me to find my way home, I still haven’t found anyone who understands me enough to point me in the right direction.

DAY TWENTYSIX RESULTS:
Day Twentysix Weight: 168.7 lbs.
Emotionally: I’ve forgotten the sound of my voice when it’s just there for conversation.
Appearance: This morning I looked crazy skinny. It actually shocked me.
Level Of Temptation To Cheat: 8 out of 10.
Cheat Beers: 0