Quantum of Solace (2008)

     In the wise words of a good friend, "zen." Just one word, but it holds so much meaning. The desire to reach peace resides in all of us; a seemingly unattainable state of consciousness. However, when we get a slice of tranquility, it is forever held in our hearts and souls. Unfortunately, the American culture denounces peace. Our national religion derives from a radical form of protestantism, we rest when its necessary and we promote constant competition. I know for a fact, that while the adventurous lifestyle can be exhilarating, the quintessential idea of true happiness, is peace.
     However, its no secret that everyone has their own place of peace, their Quantum of Solace (2008). Luckily, my ideal environment is only a few miles from my house. Being situated near the Walkill Rail Trail, I have access to a beautiful trail that not only makes biking faster, but certainly aesthetic. In a only a few short minutes, I can escape the busyness of my home and reach a place of solace. The cliche of being a high schooler is often misconstrued, as the stress is typically put on the social situations. Although this is very true, the pressure of college admissions, 5 hour SAT's and the stress of daily homework and studying is what really drives me nuts. Enter: the bridge. 
     Coincidentally, the bridge that runs across the rail trail wasn't supposed to be so close to my home. Original designs placed it miles in the opposite direction, which has to be a sign. The bridge itself is a run down piece of rust. It's not even the cool, rustic look either. More of a lid that people seem to dump loads of trash under. All this aside, if you happen to stumble upon the perfect day, with just the right light and warmth, the pile of bolts and steel turns into the Golden Gate. Nothing matches the sunlight seeping through the gaps in the vines that stretch across the canopy of the bridge. The sound of the muddy water's subtle riptide that playfully splashes against the supports. Only about 25 ft off the cress of the water, looking through the triangular locks seems miles down. Countless times I've gotten so dizzy from the reflecting sparkles scattered across the water. Amazingly, when seen in the right light, the bridge becomes a place where I feel perfectly content. All you need to do is adjust your perspective. 
     Nostalgia is a understatement. The first time my neighbor dragged me along to the bridge, I was terrified. Not only was new to bikes without training wheels, I had never biked further then the end of my road. The worst part was the fact that I was physically superior to my compatriot. I was the big guy who had little skill, it was very embarrassing. That being said, my shame propelled me forward. So we biked, "as far as my little legs could carry me" (TikiTikiTembo). Once we crossed over to the bridge, the fear was actually gone. It was that perfect light, beautiful skies, that 75 with a breeze type of weather.
     The clouds provided us with the shadow we needed to sneak onto the lower terrace. Not only was this against rail trail conduct, but it was dangerous. So like spies, we grappled down the guard rails, holding on for dear life. Sure I was scared, but the view was to much to pass up, I needed to do this; it was my rite of passage. Like that last step down a ladder, I felt my foot searching for land, terrain to relieve me from my anxious dangling. Once my foot stamped down on that vandalized concrete, I knew I was safe.
It was as if I left my first mark, one of many to follow as I matured over time. 
     As the years past, I return less and less to this bridge. Yes its sad, but it also taught me the cold realization of life. As we grow older, we lose our fire and so it is so important to cherish our time that we have and enjoy the natural beauties of life. Visiting my old friend the bridge, is no longer an adventure, but it still holds that natural resonating beauty that I will never forget. 

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5 Min. Masterpiece

     In the midst of the bustling cities scattered across the world, the talent of street artists are often unnoticed or neglected. I realize that street performers usually exaggerate simple skills to create a seemingly wondrous performance. Whether it be magic, drumming, artists or some dance routine, these crafty entrepreneurs are always doing simple things in unique ways. However, being someone who is always on the look out for a new perspective, an experience in Miami a few years back opened my eyes to the world of spray paint art. 

     I don't remember how I stumbled upon this masterpiece, probably because I was visually hypnotized by one of the coolest styles of art that I had ever experienced. One thing I do remember though, is standing still for a good half an hour, mesmerized by the efficiency of one man's craft. With only a few household materials: a clean canvas, newspaper, some coffee can lids, cans of spray paint, a man made a masterpiece.

     The most captivating concept of this art, is it's a race against time. The artists need to visualize their idea and work on one part of it while keeping in mind the other part is drying. Their constantly switching canisters and working with the wet paint. I was so astounded by the cumulative creation, because the beauty of it was watching it all come together. There was no use trying to guess the final product, because so much is happening at once. This idea made the art even more special, because it carried the element of surprise. In a mere 5 minutes, the artist would raise his finished piece, receiving many"oohs and ahhs!" and simply move on to the next one like the previous piece was trash. It was then I realized this was a job and he needed to keep working.

     I wanted to buy the piece, but someone with the same keen eye was quicker to the punch. However, the experience alone was what I really cherished. The simple magnificence that this guy produced really spoke to me, leaving me with a deeper appreciation for the simple things in life. 

LINK: Background History

   

     

Watching from the Sideline

     The nagging presence of an imminent injury has plagued my life for the past 3 years. Reading this you may think, "hey, an injury isn't a failure, it's an accident!"Well considering my injuries have come at the worst times possible, I believe that they fit in the category of a failure. It's funny how when your younger the worst part about an injury seems to be the pain, because by the age of 13-14 pain comes second to the mental issue at hand. For me, it was letting my teammates down. Sure my accidents physically stung for a few minutes, but the real pain was emotional. I think this concept correlates with the responsibility you slowly attain as you grow up. It also proves that mental grief is 100 times worse than any physical pain you could imagine. 

     This brings me to the failure, the injury that keeps nagging me to this day. As a sophomore quarterback for an overachieving team, it was tough to gain respect from the upperclassmen. However, over the course of the season, I felt as if though there was some sort of connection to my teammates. With that in mind, breaking my left hand in the last game for many seniors exceptional hurt. I immediately knew that I failed my teammates, my coaches and the fans. Sitting on the sideline with an icepack in hand, I felt awful. 

     The most recent "failure" come from a few months ago during this past football season. Our team had come off to a great start, 3 wins in a row. Then came judgement day, a game against our arch rival, the hated Marlboro Dukes. On a chilly Friday night, all was on the line (they even flew in a parachuter with the game ball!) Anyways, the bitterness between us and Marlboro alone set the stage for a very physical game. 

     The game couldn't have started off better. We scored on our first drive, marching down the field at will. And of course, just when things were looking up, Marlboro retaliated with a score of their own. Unfortunately, that scoring play was also the play were I was hit in the shoulder and it popped out of place. That one especially hurt. I couldn't lift a football or even make a throwing motion, I was done for the game. The rest of the game was a deja vu: me sitting on the sideline with nothing but an icepack in hand, waiting for the final horn to sound. Once again, the injury bug latched on at the worst time possible. This past year was the first year New Paltz hadn't secured a playoff berth in 6 years. Although my shoulder hurt, it was the days at the practices watching from the sideline that proved I had truly failed.                           Football

The Earliest of the Early

     I guess it was about kindergarten when I realized I would be a bit "socially handicapped" for the rest of my life. While I didn't have a clinical disorder or take medication for my behavior, I relied on an unorthodox way of interacting with others that proves some sort of social awkwardness. While most of you are pure NPCSD students, I transferred in the middle of 1st grade giving me the cliche experience of being "the new kid."

     But before the awe of a new school and new people, I belonged to the traditional family known as St. Josephs School of Kingston. Catholic schools aren't any different from public schools; the only contrast being the seemingly endless appraisal for Jesus. So life as a kindergartener at St. Joes was comprised of either going to church, or using crayons to fill in outlines of churches. That being said, one can only imagine how an energetic 6 year old developed a social dilemma. 

      In reality, is most likely due to the fact that I never

created a close relationship with my peers in Mrs. Bakers class, but it is much simpler to explain in a single recollection of my awkward adventures in kindergarten. I don't recall how I got the scissors in my hand, but I like to imagine that I was mesmerized by the glistening luster of the metallic blades. When I think about it this way, what happens next is due to enchantment, not (in actuality) poor judgement. I used to see the other boys tease the girls through nicknames and chasing them without the intention of capture. Though I can admit to participation in the name-calling, I never understood it. So the reason I snipped off a sizable portion of  her hair wasn't malicious or out of revenge, but a pure misunderstanding of social graces. As I watched Mrs. Baker frantically rummage through Megan's hair searching for the missing locks (which I had carefully disposed of minutes ago) I felt sad for Megan, but more confused for myself. 

     The antics would carry on throughout my years at Duzine. Whether it was the inadvertent poisoning of a fellow classmate or the competitive reading games with my peers (that secretly only I knew about), my social skills would be in question for many years to come. While I am much more accustomed to interaction now, my nostalgia for the locks of hair I gripped in my hair remains one of my most interesting early experiences.