Yenny from the City of Angels

The city of my dreams and the woman of my dreams

On my fascination with Los Angeles, a small gesture of gratitude for Yenny, and ruminations on fate and destiny

I.

From the introduction to Spike Lee’s Summer of Sam, Jimmy Breslin:

“Hello Ladies & Gentlemen, boys and girls, my name is Jimmy Breslin. I’m a writer. I write about New York, the city of my birth, where I’ve lived and worked all my life, the city that I love and hate both equally. …There are 8 million stories in the naked city and this is one of them.”

Four of my favorite film directors –Woody Allen, Spike Lee, Darren Aronofsky, and Martin Scorcese– all incorporate heavy homage to their beloved New York City in their films. And I love that. They take the city they have a strong, personal connection to and express that admiration through the setting for their films.

I am picturing Isaac and Mary talking in front of the Queensboro bridge in Manhattan, Mookie delivering a pizza in Bed-Stuy in Do the Right Thing, Harry approaching Marion on a Coney Island pier in Requiem for a Dream, Travis driving his cab around Manhattan in Taxi Driver.

I used to daydream that if I were to become a big time movie director, I would praise Los Angeles and honor it the way these directors honor NYC. With each passing moment, however, the certainty that I’ll never become a film director slowly seeps in, and I realize I must take recourse in other actions, through other ways. This is the best way that I can honor my favorite city, Los Angeles: through my meager ability to write and type.

II.

When I was about 9 years old or so, my brother, my mom and I went grocery shopping one particular night. On the ride back home, we got hit by a car while crossing the corner of Cedar and Foothill. To this day, it isn’t clear who ran the red light, whether my brother did or whether the other driver did. I’ll give my brother the benefit of the doubt.

My brother and I were lucky and got out unharmed. Unfortunately, my mom received back and shoulder injuries. As a result of some sort of private settlement that I didn’t understand as a 7 year old and still don’t understand to this day, my family got free treatment at a chiropractor in El Monte, some 45 miles away from my house in Rialto, CA.

My brother and my mom would pick me up at school, and we would all make the trip to El Monte. To get there, we would take the 10 West, then, to avoid the weekday traffic, the 57 North, and finally the 210 west. The first time we made the trip, along the 57 North, I looked westward and saw, against the sunset, the silhouette of the downtown Los Angeles skyline But I didn’t know what it was. 

An approximation of what I saw as a child on on Google Streetview. Click on it to see it zoom in.

I thought I saw mountains shaped like perfect, little rectangular blocks. I asked my brother what it was that I saw, and he told me that they were buildings, that they were the skyscrapers of L.A. I thought he was playing with me.  “Yeah… right,” I thought to myself. I’d been told enough of these lies and experienced enough pranks to swallow that without any skepticism. After finding out gullible was actually in the dictionary, I vowed to never again fall for shit like that. I was like Scarlett in Gone with the Wind.

Once I expressed my skepticism out loud, my brother told me he would prove it to me one day. And he did. He drove me through the heart of downtown L.A. on the 101 and the 110 and I saw the skyscrapers up close and personal and was able to confirm them as actual buildings. I looked up at them with the sort of awe and reverence that only a child can muster. I really couldn’t believe buildings that tall, that colossal could exist. It was magical. I declared it then and there: Los Angeles, I’m yours.

The details surrounding these events are somewhat fuzzy to me now. The impressions, however, are strongly imprinted on me. To this day, I love that Los Angeles Skyline. I take almost every opportunity I get to stare at it for at least a few seconds. To be honest with you, I could stare at it for hours.

III.

When I was about 10 or 11, I started my very own private photo album, which only I could add photos to. I stole the contact sheets that my brother printed for a black and white photography class he took, and I cut out my favorite thumbnail photos and arranged them to fit into my little amateur photo album. Next to portraits of my family are photos of those L.A. skyscrapers that my brother took. Images of the city ranked up there among pictures of my family as part of my favorite photos. Can’t you just see my childhood fascination with Los Angeles in these images?

The Top 4 Thumbnails are photos of Los Angeles. The rest are photos of my family.

IV.

As fate would have it, I ended up attending UCLA when I was 18.

The first time I ate in the Hedrick dining hall, I sat alone by the windows facing eastward and ate while looking at the skyscrapers basking in the orange/pinkish glow of the setting sun. I stayed there for about an hour just by myself, pensively watching the cityscape transition from daylight to twilight, watching it with admiration…

….as well as with anxiety.

My first quarter at UCLA, I was a little afraid of taking the train back home to Rialto. And by a little I mean very. I figured out the bus and subway route to Union Station, and I would take the Metrolink back home.  I was much too scared to stray from the path, to deviate from my calculated route even slightly. Hell, just staying on the path had me a little petrified.

That fear, or really anxiety, was, I believe, a trait naturally derived from being raised in my family. My family never really traveled much. The aforementioned trips to El Monte, a trip to Disneyland, and a few dozen trips up to the San Bernardino Mountains were the exceptions. Other than these, my family pretty much stayed within a 20 to 30 mile radius of my house. And, as a result, I never really developed a desire to travel and explore. As a matter of fact, when I was a teenager, imagining my future, I unquestionably assumed I would be living and working around this area that I was raised in, living near or even with my family.

So as I had dinner in Hedrick, I looked out at Los Angeles, which loomed larger than life, and admired the view, but I also felt a knot in my stomach. The decision to attend UCLA was pretty difficult for me for that reason. I was so scared of leaving home that I almost chose to attend UCR instead. Seriously, UCR instead of UCLA –the fact that this was considered might give you a hint as to how scary leaving home felt to me.

But after being at UCLA for a while, I slowly started to feel a little more comfortable with exploring. I went with a few friends to Chinatown. I went with a large group to Hollywood. But I still had a lot of anxiety about traveling. And I didn’t do much of it.

Then Yenny came into my life. And everything changed.

V.

I consider myself a relatively cultured person. I read lots of different kinds of literature, watch lots of classic & foreign films with my film buff brother, listen to a wide variety of music. I took art history classes and read through pretty much all of Gardner’s Art Throughout The Ages. I research different religions and philosophy. I watch a lot of TV shows and play a few video games. I immerse myself in all sorts of culture.

But Yenny introduced me to an aspect of culture that I never cultivated.

I don’t know what the proper label for this kind of culture would be. Geographical?

Yenny and I were mere acquaintances our first year of college. I started to hang out with her more often, and very often, during second year. My first trip with Yenny was a trip to Santa Monica. Nick came with us. He had broken up with his high school girlfriend, was feeling quite crestfallen, and the three of us decided, what the hell, let’s go to the beach spontaneously. For more than a year, I had lived within 5 or 6 miles of the beach, without even once considering going there. I finally went when Yenny suggested it (in fact, my whole life, I lived a good 60 miles away from the beach and I went twice or thrice period).

Here are 3 photos I took of Yenny on that first trip to Santa Monica. 

Witnessing the grandeur of the Pacific, seemingly infinite upon the horizon, I realized I had been missing valuable life experiences. And Yenny helped me recognize that.

That first little adventure to Santa Monica is incredibly important to me, and Santa Monica is now one of my favorite places on earth. I even asked my friend, Shasha to make a painting of it for me because that picturesque pier is one of my favorite images. It’s etched on my mind, engraved into my memories.

VI.

On May 18^th, 2007 Yenny and I started our romantic relationship, and afterwards, she took me all over Los Angeles.

Yenny from the City of Angels became my tour guide.

Yenny and I went to all of these places and had the time of our lives:

1. Griffith Park & Griffith Observatory
2. Los Angeles Union Station
3. Grand Central Market
4. Callejones, a.k.a. Fashion District
5. The Los Angeles Central Library
6. The J. Paul Getty Museum
7. The Getty Villa
8. LACMA
9. Exposition Park, Museum of Natural History, Rose Garden, & California Science Center
10. La Plazita Olvera
11. China Town
12. Korea Town
13. Little Tokyo
14. The Korean Friendship Bell in San Pedro
15. Dodger Stadium
16. Hollywood BLVD, Grauman’s Chinese Theater, & The Walk of Fame
17. The Hollowood Bowl
18. The Hollywood Sign
19. Redondo Beach
20. Long Beach Marina- to visit Brittany on The Carnival Cruise line
21. Santa Monica
22. Venice Beach
23. Dockweiler Beach
24. The Sunset Strip
25. SONY Pictures Studios in Culver City
26. DISNEYLAND!
27. 24 Hour Fitness in Downtown L.A. 

At Griffith Observatory

At the Getty Villa

At the California Science Center

At Santa Monica

At Venice Beach

We’ve eaten at

28. Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles
29. Philippe’s
30. Mel’s Drive In
31. Katsuya

These are places that we still have yet to visit:

1. Walt Disney Concert Hall
2. Staples Center
3. Angels Flight
4. Pershing Square
5. LA Coliseum
6. MOCA
7. The La Brea Tar Pits
8. Watts Towers
9. Pink’s Hot Dogs
10. El Matador Beach

VII.

It’s amusing to me when people use this phrase to express overwhelming emotions: “Words cannot express the [insert inexpressible emotion –joy/pain/amazement/etc…] I am feeling...” and then follow by trying to describe what they feel. Why would you announce that something cannot be done and then try to do that something right after? I would love it if someone started a speech that way and then just stopped talking after that.

Really, though, you cannot blame them for using that as an introductory statement. Sometimes it is completely apropos…

Words cannot express how I feel about Los Angeles. Los Angeles is a remarkable city full of history, culture, beauty…

Hypocrisy anyone? My meager ability to write is utterly inadequate for the purpose of expressing my fascination with and admiration for the City of Angels. All I can say is Los Angeles is fucking great!

This city is a lot of fun. Then again, it helps a lot to have good company, especially from someone like Yenny, who introduces me to her favorite places with a sense of adventure and a charming spirit.

VIII.

And now the dénouement of sorts, the crux in terms of a personal & philosophical point:

There’s a scene in The Matrix where Morpheus asks, “Do you believe in fate, Neo?”

Neo says, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of my life.”

Morpheus says to him, “I know exactly what you mean.”

I agree with you both, Morpheus and Neo. I don’t like that idea either.  

I can’t recall a time when my intellect was more disgusted than when I first learned about Calvinism in school. The idea that God foreordains salvation for some and not for others seemed incredibly unfair to me and even my young mind was able to recognize the conflict with the concept of freewill. You would be surprised to find that your mind can vomit within itself.

After Romeo slays Tybalt in Romeo & Juliet, he exclaims “O, I am fortune’s fool!” What a terrible thing to be. I refuse to think that I or anyone could be fortune’s fool. I am not a plaything of (the) God(s). I refuse to think that anything is predestined. I do not believe in fate or destiny that way.

However, there may be something subversive working to erode my resistance to these ideas…

As I was being raised in Rialto, cloistered, hardly traveling outside the parameters of a certain domain, Yenny was busy being raised in Torrance, traveling all over Los Angeles and other parts of the world. As a child, I developed an inexplicable attraction to the city of Los Angeles, and as a young adult I moved to Los Angeles and there I met and fell in love with a girl who adored the city equally, probably even more so than me. Yenny, born in Boyle Heights, my blue jean baby, my L.A. Lady, my lucky little lady in the city of light, she loves Los Angeles with a fervent passion.

And… of all the schools, in all the towns, in all the world, she just had to go to mine.

The greater Los Angeles area has about 17 or 18 million people, and Yenny and I managed to meet up. Cliché time: is it kismet? Was this part of some deity’s will? O ye gods of statistical analysis, what is the probability that a child with a fascination for the city of Los Angeles, with an inchoate, suppressed desire to travel will meet and fall for someone with a fascination for that same city, with a fully realized desire to travel nourished by her family’s upbringing?

As a child I always wanted to sightsee in and around Los Angeles, but my family just liked to pass by. What a coincidence that I meet a girl who wants to take someone sight seeing around Los Angeles? Is it possible some oracle prophesied this? Was this meant to be?

This may seem a bit of a stretch based merely on the aforementioned, but there is so much more that we have in common or are compatible with.

And I have to speculate that God himself

Did make us into corresponding shapes like

Puzzle pieces from the clay. ¹

Hmmm….

Maybe there’s something to this destiny thing after all.

Who knows?

IX.

Apart from the enrichment that came from augmenting my store of culture, the trips all over Los Angeles have swelled the mystic chords of my memory; have gotten me in touch with the better angels of my nature. 

He only is rich who owns the day. ²

Traveling with Yenny has taught me that I should spurn material possessions, perishable and transient as they tend to be, in exchange for the experience of the moment, which, though ostensibly transient, actually lives on in the memory and is everlastingly imprinted on the soul.

Yenny is my companion, and the city I lived in, she’s my companion too. Yenny and I plan to travel in the future to other great cities like New York, Chicago, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Mexico City, Paris, London, etc… But we will always love the city that introduced us to each other and that helped our love flourish.

There are some 4 or 5 million stories in the City of Angels and this was one of them.

Yenny & Me marching for the rights of immigrants in Downtown, May 1st, 2010

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[1] The Postal Service –Such Great Heights

[2] –Ralph Waldo Emerson

Griffith Observatory At Night

Griffith Observatory at night, from Chris Camargo's photoblog: Welcome to Los Angeles

An attempt¹ at a sonnet²

Come join me, let us stand and gaze from here

the distant twinkle of the city lights.

The sky is never ample pure and clear

to see the brilliance of the stars these nights.

'Tis hard to see them through this urban smog

and city lights so strong they cloud the skies;

they do create a thickness and a fog

that limit reach and depth of gazing eyes.

Though oft' I've heard our lights cannot compare

With splendor true of heavenly bodies,

I cannot wish to stars that are not there

hence will I now entreat and pray to these.

So let the stars in all their glory be

for mine are here, pray they suffice for me.

---

[1] My poem fails to fit the meter for a Shakespearean sonnet on one or two or three (or more?) of the lines. 

[2] Note: This poem was only slightly inspired by B.O.B.’s Airplanes. The primary influence is the view from Griffith Observatory and the smog in L.A.

Can I Name Your Children, Please?

A piece about an idiosyncrasy of mine

I don’t know why, but I am obsessed with naming things… and by things I mean people and pets. Haha. Probably because naming someone is one way to really express your creativity in a very permanent way. When I meet these people with names like John Smith, Mary Johnson, Michael Williams, I always think to myself, “Wow, your parents suck.”  I feel bad for these people. Everybody Google searches their name, right? Imagine googling your name when you are John Smith… Good luck wading through all of those results (A thousand apologies if I offend you because your name is John Smith, but don’t complain to me. Go to your parents).  

If you ask me if I believe in fate or destiny, more often than not, I will give you a flat, quick no. But not when it comes to names. If you name your kid something stupid… your kid is going to come out stupid. This tautology, as I see it, ought to be named after me unless it’s named after someone else already. Mauro’s first law. Better yet:  Mauro’s Razor¹. Fuck you, Occam (or Ockham) (Damn, Hanlon never gets any love). Mauro’s Razor isn’t a guarantee, mind you, but a tendency. =D

On that note, I will never name a child of mine Pancho. I hear that researchers in the Latin Americas have discovered that naming a boy Pancho increases his chances of having cirrhosis of the liver at age 35 by about 90%.² That is to say, Pancho, I believe, is a common name for a drunkard, and I’m not excited about having alcoholic babies.

The corollary to Mauro’s razor: If you name your child something epic, the child will come out epic… hopefully. The other is- if you name your child something common, your child will come out alright. Uncommon name? Umm, I read an article that says men with uncommon or unpopular names are more likely to end up as criminals³. Yikes.

The problem with all of this, of course, is the subjective nature of it all. What sounds epic to some sounds stupid to others and vice versa. The first example that comes to my mind right now is Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin naming their daughter Apple. Apple Martin. That’s one letter away from an alcoholic drink there. Hmm, who knows? Maybe Apple and some random Pancho will hook up one day and have rambunctious anal.

Back in 9^th grade, a friend of mine, Luis Diaz, took the letters of my first and last name to create a new name for me, a secret name. So he took Mauro and contorted it thus: take the last syllable and put it first, take the first syllable and put it last, and then flip the u to make an n; you get “Roman.” Then he took my last name Fernandez and created Derez. I don’t really know how he got that. So my secret name was Roman Derez. It sounded epic to my ears as soon as I heard it.

That same year I read Dante’s Inferno. Notice anything about that? Dante’s. Not Alighieri’s Inferno. Dante’s. Who wrote The Great Gatsby? F. Scott Fitzgerald.  What’s that guy’s first name? I don’t even know. I had to look it up. Francis. That’s it. Samuel Clemens? Who the fuck is that? MARK TWAIN, ah, I know him. Pseudonym. In short, authors do cool shit with their names. 

As the year progressed, I became filled with delusions of grandeur. If I became a famous novelist, poet and/or philosopher I would change my name to Mauro Roman Derez Fernandez. But I would chop off the Mauro Fernandez when I published my works, just to be cool like the aforementioned authors. I pictured students getting excited about reading and talking amongst themselves. One hands a book to another and says, “Oh, man, if you like Shakespeare, you’ll like this… Have you read the works of Roman Derez?! They’re monumental! This novel managed to win the Pulitzer Prize and the movie that was based on it won best adapted screenplay at the academy awards!” Yes, I am a bit of a nerd for picturing that. I admit it.

As it turns out, the day my overreaching ambition eventually confronted my actual ability/talent to write, my delusions of grandeur died (or did they?). I decided: perhaps my progeny will do better. So I figured that I could name my first-born son Roman Derez Fernandez and hope he becomes a great writer. I can be one of those disgusting parents that lives vicariously through his or her kids. Why not? Maybe I can star in my own reality show. I doubt it can compete with Toddlers and Tiaras though. Oh wow, I lost my senses for a bit there. I started to think that my last name was Heene. Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

Thenceforth I started to imagine what names I would give my children, and thus my obsession began.

THE CHALLENGE: come up with a name that sounds pleasant, is somewhat common, but not too common, and that preferably sounds more epic than stupid. And make sure that your kids can google their name without having to wade through a shit ton of results. For me, I add the extra challenge: a name that is easy to pronounce in English and Spanish. Oh yes, let us not forget the last criterion –name them something that won’t land them in jail. That’s pretty important.

For girls, I think names that end with “ia” are particularly euphonious. Victoria, Sophia, Anastasia, Julia. Maria? Way too common… sorry. How many Maria Fernandez’s are there in the world? Probably too many to count. (Grammar question: How do you pluralize my last name? Fernandezes? Or Fernandez’s?)  

Every now and then I find these names, and I make sure to bookmark them in my mind because they sound so lovely to me. E.g. Aurora. Miriam –I heard this one in The Prince of Egypt. Some names sound so wonderful, but I feel like they won’t sit right as first names. I bet they can work as middle names, though. For instance, Tzipora (Zipporah) –I saw this name in Schindler’s List and in The Prince of Egypt and loved it –I really need to stop watching that movie before I end up having Jethro and Moses as sons, huh? Sephora –the Greek version of Tzipora sounds great to me. Hopefully that cosmetics company hasn’t ruined this name.  

So far this is my favorite combination: Anastasia Sephora. You can call her Anna for short. Sophia Theresa Fernandez-Urquilla would be nice too. She’ll have fun initialing on forms. Get it?⁴

I wish I could have 20 children so I could name them all. It’s fun for me to think of possible names for them. But 20 children? Sounds like another possibility for me to star in quality reality TV programming. Oh, wait, that’s already being done⁵. Maybe I can have 20 children total from multiple women? Haha. I joke with Yenny telling her that I will have an affair with a white woman in the future and name the son I have with her Emerson. I think that name sounds really strong and respectable: Emerson Fernandez. However, since I’m not planning on having affairs, and Yenny and I only want a few kids, can I name your children? Please?

 

A few months ago, I was trying to convince my pregnant sister to name her son Alonzo. She chose the name Julian. I tried to push Julian Alonzo on her. She didn’t go with it. So now her son is just plain old Julian Davis. Wouldn’t it have been better as Julian Alonzo Davis? Maybe I can pull off Julian Alonzo Fernandez in the future. Or maybe just Alonzo Fernandez. 

As I learned from my sister, people generally won’t let you name their children, so I’m sure your answer to my title question is a quick, but loud “NO.” Shit, I don’t even know if I’ll have any say in the naming of my own children. I have to consult with Yenny first …or do I? I’ll just name my own kids and satiate the residual naming urges on my pets. I hope to one day have a toy dog named either Aristotle or Aristophanes. I have no idea why. It just sounds funny to me. Damn, I just realized I don’t want that many pets. I don’t want to be crazy pet-guy with 20 pets, a smelly house, and piss stains all over the carpet.

*Sigh* I guess I’ll just have to learn to live with this frustration. Nomenclatural frustration, I’ll call it. I will name this frustration that.

The End

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A quick afterthought:

Guillermo used to be on my list of preferred boys names but I keep seeing these damn ads on YouTube for Verizon’s 4GLT-whatever-the-fuck product, where this guy says “It turns Guillermo into super Guillermo!” Yeah, they killed that name for me… bastards.

And another:

Yenny may like that I want to demonstrate our mutual love of Japanese culture by giving one of our daughters Sakura (Cherry Blossom) as a middle name.

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[1] I am aware that “razor” is not applicable to this type of pseudo-philosophical concept.

[2] Not True. I made this up completely.

[3] http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1874955,00.html

[4] S.T.F.U.

[5] Actually it’s 19 Kids & Counting. Two TLC reality TV references in one essay… Yeah, I need to get a life. Maybe I can squeeze in a reference to Jon & Kate Plus 8 …

Freedom & California One

  The Decemberists - Castaways & Cutouts

A short piece about looking forward to the future

Lately, I have been listening to a song by the Decemberists –“California One” for it instills in me hope for the future. Picture this! Me driving¹ down California’s pacific coast highway, Yenny, a passenger at my side, listening to beautiful, calming, carefree indie rock, with frequent stops at lovely restaurants to taste the various dishes and wines. Yes, a view of the promised land! An entire day-long trip –from the breathtaking views at dawn, the enchanting scenery illuminated by the day, the pensive, mesmerizing seascapes at sunset, all to be concluded by the endlessness and majesty of the night sky. Ah yes, a return home by the light of the moon and stars, au clair de lune.

Listen to that song, from the introductory interplay of guitar and bowed bass to the closing notes of the piano, for it beckons freedom! It is a beacon of all good things to come. Onward, dear friends!

Take a long drive with me
on California one, on California one. 

Take a long drive with me
on California one, on California one.
And the road a-winding goes
from golden gate to roaring cliff-side,
and the light is softly low
as our hearts become sweetly untied
beneath the sun of California one.

Take a long drown with me 
of California wine, of California wine. 

Take a long drown with me
of California wine, of California wine.
And the wine it tastes so sweet
as we lay our eyes to wander,
and the sky, it stretches deep.
Will we rest our heads to slumber?
Beneath the vines of California wine,
Beneath the sun of California one.

Annabelle lies,
sleeps with quiet eyes,
on this sea-drift sun
What can you do?
And if I said,
Oh it’s in your head
on this sea-drift sun
What can you do?

---

[1] In the hopes of dissuading everyone from thinking that I might be a chauvinist pig with no respect for the faculties of women, in this particular case, their aptitude to operate a motor vehicle, I would like to say that the aforementioned scene with me, a man, driving is not meant to aim toward some sort of idea of appropriate gender roles. I only want to drive then because Yenny does all the driving now. When we are stripped of liberties, and said liberties are later bestowed upon us, we cannot help but aspire to exercise those liberties.

O Muse, Sing Through Me!

The Gymnasium Muse

A short piece about my inspiration to begin and maintain an exercise regiment

When at first I undertook the arduous tasks of weight loss and frequenting the gym on a regular basis, I did there encounter at the gymnasium a woman whom I will refer to as my Gymnasium Muse. Ah, let me tell you of this woman!

No! Do not mistake my enthusiasm for her as base and vile lust, my friends, for that, I can assure you, was not the case. As most would know, or at least guess, ‘tis very ordinary indeed for a woman to bring a bulge to my pants, but, no, this woman did something quite extraordinary, something quite beyond the realm of eroticism. As a matter of fact, this woman’s appearance did not tickle my pickle in that way.¹

Often, when endeavoring seemingly insurmountable feats, especially of a lengthy nature, people will quote the typical Lao Tzu: “The journey of a thousand miles begins with just one step.” And it inspires you to take that first step, does it not? What these people fail to mention, however, is that upon the one-hundred-thousandth step your feet probably feel blistering pain. And this realization left me truly distressed. I was 277 lbs, and I wanted to be 170, and I had not lost even 1 pound yet. But against all of my rational misgivings, I went to the gym anyway because, after all, if you want to journey one thousand miles, you must, ipso facto, take those steps – horseback carriages, cars, planes, and modern transportation of all kinds notwithstanding. 

At first, I went to the gym crestfallen, with a sense of brooding certainty that that particular strenuous day would probably be my last. After all, I had taken this first step many times, Lao Tzu. But I would usually quit after walking a few miles.  Not this time. Ah, this time I beheld this woman, the wondrous Gymnasium Muse, who then lifted something which no mere set of breasts, ass and legs could. 

Ah, this woman! It was as if she were ever present there in the confines of the Wooden Gym. Each and every time I went, there she was, deluged in sweat as if she just emerged from a lagoon of her own perspiration, beneath her, almost literally a puddle, or trickle, or what have you of it. Oh, yes, surely you are turning away, repulsed by this, but I! I was quite taken by this.

If you closed your eyes, and listened intently, carefully, you could hear her laborious breath. If you paid close attention, you could see it in her eyes, that fierce determination to continue, to persevere against the pain. The stationary bicycle, the gluteus; the ellipticals, held by calf and thigh; the exercise ball, the abdominals! This woman did it all! I would watch her, as I exercised, move to the beat of her insatiate drum, follow the patterns of her rhythmic movement. It was true beauty to behold.

And if a thought dared to slip into my mind in the form of a complaint against my exertions, I was immediately slapped in the face with the reminder of the Einstein quote, "Do not worry about your difficulties in Mathematics. I can assure you mine are still greater." Yes, this woman did so much more than me, and she did it all without seeming to complain, and this alone lifted my spirits and restored my determination to take the next step, and the next step after that, and so on and so on ad nauseum.

I am, as of February 17, 2010, 235 pounds. 40 pounds lighter than when I began. Alas, the Gymnasium Muse stays at my alma mater, and I must proceed without her graceful presence. Oh, I do quite miss her. But, I have noticed as of late that the gymnasium muse is like a phantom or spirit that will be made manifest within the bodies of others, more specifically, others at the gym. The gymnasium muse is a role to be played, to be filled in. I watch these new “gymnasium muses” take on the role, and they keep me going.  

Nevertheless, this woman, the original gymnasium muse stands as the bar, raised above and  beyond the reach of those whom I see currently. She is the paragon indeed. She wins the Oscar for her role, whilst all the rest are mere B-list actors.

Thank you, O great Gymnasium Muse, you have done things to me that you will never know, and though I may never see you again, in my mind I will genuflect before thee, and sing thee praise! And I dedicate to you, as a sacrifice, each and every single pound of fat that I burn off! Each and every act of diet and moderation is an act of penance to you. Contrition! Each and every twinkie eaten, a sin against you the almighty Gymnasium Muse. And when I do inevitably falter, as all mere mortals are wont to, will I remember you, and perform pushups, crunches, lunges of the most genuine and sincere atonement. 

O Muse, Sing through me!

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[1] Thank you, Mimie, for this little phrase. I’m going to use it.