James, gym, Jimi

An interesting phenomena has occurred here in Talkeetna. For whatever reason, everyone here calls me James. I am not opposed to this. In fact, when most people meet me and ask me what I would like to be called I tell them that James or Jim are equally fine. Back home almost everyone calls me Jim. A few people used James, the more formal, full name, on occasion, and there's even a guy I know who calls me Seamus. The only variation of my name that I do not offer to others is Jimmy. Most people might think that I don't like going by this name, but that's not the truth. Actually, the story is that while growing up the only people who called me Jimmy were my family, and when someone that isn't family refers to me as that (not including karaoke aliases) it always makes me feel like I'm being treated or spoken to like a little kid. This is not a hard and fast rule, because some old timers use Jimmy as a part of natural speech. My name was more popular in the past than it is now, so Jimmy was a very common nickname. But when James started making its appearance in my life, roughly six to ten years ago, I almost fought it. It seemed too formal, not at all me. But the more I heard it, especially from a certain few women in my life, it took on a special air. Jim may be the guy behind the bar, but James is the name of kings. These days I really don't prefer one or the other. When I'm introduced, or when I'm asked my name, I just say whatever comes to mind. I've been wondering if leaning towards one or the other is some indication of how informal I want my relationship with each person to become. I'm not sure, and it probably doesn't matter anyway, but it's something that I've wondered lately and I doubt I'll ever really know.

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Every month I have ten dollars deducted from my bank account to keep my Gold's Gym membership open. I joined about five months before I came to Alaska, and this little maintenance fee keeps my account active so I don't have to re-join when I get back. I still manage to keep the fantasy of getting in shape alive, and I pay a steep price for it. The membership is about sixty a month regularly, and that includes my access to the boxing equipment and classes. For as much fun as I used to have in my Krav Maga class, I thought that the access to all the boxing, MMA, and kickboxing stuff they offer at Gold's would really keep me interested and going in. It didn't really help. I was working out, but there just wasn't the same camaraderie or good times at Gold's. Maybe when I head home I should try again, give it more time, but I miss the ass-kickery that went on almost nightly in Krav. Coming up here, I knew that there wasn't going to be any fancy gym around, or even simple weights or who knows what kind of place to do anything. I made a conscious choice to go very far back to basics and do strictly body weight exercises while working in kettlebells as often as my body would allow. Well, I was doing really well for about three weeks and now, nothing. There was no real reason, either, I just stopped. I lost all interest in exercise. I haven't even been hiking in weeks now (although that probably has more to do with the insane amounts of rain that have been falling). For some reason I am not able to stay motivated towards these things, even though I finally have the time and the space. It is like life called bullshit on my grand plans, and I don't even have a witty response. The sad part is, I do hate the way I look, and especially the way I feel about my health and physical fitness. Weight loss is one thing, and it would be great, but I just want to FEEL good and have some energy from day to day. The circumstance is different here, but not the result. I need to take better care of myself.

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Somewhat to that end, I have recommitted myself to the undying love of my life. If I am to be healed, it will not be from traveling, or from the mountain, or the strange and sometimes fascinating experiences of my summer away, it will be from the one thing that has always healed me. The sun that always shines on my soul: music. I left work one day last week with a heavy heart and a mind full of rage. It was a shite day to cap off a few in a row, and things were being done at my job that seemed almost specifically designed to mess with me. By the time I finally got to leave I was at my boiling point. I decided that instead of going right home to stew I would head up to the highway where the supermarket and gas station are and get some fuel, some air in my tires, and a few groceries. This trip is about 12 miles, and I thought it might be good for me. Well I was very right, because the goddess Minerva was smiling on me and as soon as I hit the road my iPod started belting Jimi Hendrix out through my speakers as loud as I could take it. My temper calmed, my mind was put at ease, it even seemed as though the sun was fighting through the clouds to make an appearance. By the time Machine Gun came on it was like an entirely different day. Music has always had the ability to alter my moods. Usually it happens on days when I'm already up, and the right song comes on and I'm taken to a whole different plane of existence. But when you're down it can be even more important to have those sounds surround you and lift you back up. And if 6 turns out to be 9, I don't mind, I don't mind...