superjoemunday-blog

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The Cow

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In the Clearing, Through the Door, No Trespassing

Dearest Colleen,

    I write to you now, as I have time and again, so that I might take comfort in knowing you are not lacking in provision or affection. If I were to send you all my wages, I would not tire or grow hungry because my love for you would be nourishment enough to sustain me. Again I must insist you remain in Harrisburg for your own comfort until there is safe passage through Appalachia for your own peace of mind. Not a day goes by that I do not mourn the passing of your brother and eagerly await for your arrival so you can deliver his soul to our heavenly Father.

   As of November there are only three families in Cumberland. If only your brother were still here you might find company. Every morning I make certain Nathaniel's grave is well kept, I grieve his soul dearly. The thought of you alone in this cabin sends a ripple of fear through my flesh. While I know you to be a fearless and capable woman, you shouldn't be made to spend so many hours in these woods alone. We have taken great precaution to remove any predators from the area but there is an uncertainty which gives me pause.

   The flora, the fawna, the terrain, and water are well enough and nearly unremarkable. But the shadows move at queer angles and feel detached from their forebearer. Like a vision in your periphery that is clear and true, except the vision evaporates as you direct your gaze. In the way a candle splashes its light in unknowable patterns of a darkened room, the shadows of these woods deny their source and dance away with the fervor of a flame.If there is some danger in what this darkness reveals then it is only by God's infinite grace that I have evaded it's perversion.

   This forest is untouched yet branches bend with intention. In the clearing near the homestead there are tree trunks, woven into braids, separated at the root in the form of an arched passage. The structure could be centuries old and the clearing is still unclaimed out of respect for what came before. Whatever lived here long ago left no marking or claim but I can't help but feel like I am an intruder in these woods. Again I insist you delay your journey until these woods are tamed.

    Since I have felt this presence I find it unbearable to leave the cabin. All the items of this home can be accounted for, its space is knowable, its edges are limited. I no longer fish the streams over the ridge, not for lack of provision but a once peaceful day at the stream now wears my senses dull. The quiet looms and my muscles tense and the unknown figures flee existence when you know that it is watching.

  For these lonely eight weeks apart I have included $64.00 and it will be another lonely eight weeks before my correspondence will reach you again.

With Love,

  George Conelley

  Cumberland, MD

  Dec. 8, 1802

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a ghost with unfinished business but they can only open or close doors

Only now that she lacked a corporeal body did she know how to protect herself. It was clear that she should have left him the first time he drew blood. Now, without that blood to pump through a heart to deliver a vital fluid which allowed her to sense the physical world, all that was didn't matter. With no blood to keep her eyes alive, what image would there be for her brain to interpret? Of course her brain was dead too as she continued to experience the exact moment of her death for an unknowable period of time.

All she had was lost in this moment, it was the limit of her time. This would be the extent of what her body could feel. She would never know the taste of food she had never eaten nor feel the mass of food pressing against her fundus sending a signal to her brain to stop enjoying a delicious meal or the gratifying release of that pressure. The sound of her death was a wrenching burst of metal with a wincing high pitched snap, muffled by the meat surrounding the bone. Luckily her sense of hearing had reached its limit before the sound could reach her ears. She would never be able to decide if she was grateful that the radio playing their favorite song had been crushed on impact. She hated how much she missed the rush of being kissed by him. Love was over. Emotion had passed. She cried forever. 

After forever she allowed herself to explore beyond this moment. His life had ended a moment before her own as a result of his never wearing a seat-belt. She wondered how he felt, worried over his pain, and wanted nothing more but to kill him which was unfortunate because he was already dead. "Should I say something?" would be a question which would echo through time but never be spoken aloud. No eulogy will reach this beautiful, romantic, spiteful, hard working, dedicated monster. She had eternity to lust after and despise all the choices he made and consider all the other choices of his life which led him to this moment. Even if she wanted to prevent his mother from abandoning him at the age of 7 there was no way for her to alter the flow of consequence. He had only mentioned his abandonment on one occasion, slurring every word during his retelling of events. Whether this was her memory or his, there was no difference. Without a brain to store a memory she very well could be sitting next to Henry in his childhood bedroom, legs crossed sitting on the undressed mattress in the corner of the room, suffering with him.

She spent an eternity with this suffering. This child would destroy her body, her body was already destroyed. She needed to know what this boy suffered to feel for herself if this pain was worth her life. It took several lifetimes for her to understand the gravity of hatred which led to her death. She felt every vile thought and grain of depravity; She was the vile and depraved. Every selfish thought filled her and every unintended word of discouragement expanded beyond her border and she became pain. If there was an origin of this violence she wanted to know. Each lifetime added to her frustration of being unable to alter the course of circumstance. Terror washed over her vast pain and nearly provoked her to believe it was all she ever was and could be. Just nearly. Unspoken love had been hiding yet if pain was a lake this hidden love was an endless ocean. All the hurt was overwhelmed because her time would have been impossible otherwise. She owed everything to this kindness and it would have formed her even if she refused its momentum. She was full. She was full and had nothing of which to spill upon. She was full and the love could not be stopped. 

At the edges of her mesh was something she hadn't yet experienced. It felt impossible that her understanding of the universe was somehow limited. Despite all she consumed, this object was somehow unknowable. All that made her was the key. Her radiant heat, her everything eroded this new passage. Whatever existed before her was worth what would proceed her. She was everything and she was enough. Everything she had become dispersed into everything that would be. The door opened and the next door was waiting beyond her.

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The Dreams Started when I was Nine

"Just a threesome tonight? Where's your mates?" Gay Dave said with a wink at the three regulars who darkened the door.

Without skipping a beat, Boff upped the ante, "Fancy a foursome Gay Dave?"

In time and with the most flamboyant of flourishes, Gay Dave replied, "Oh Boff, you know I don't cop off with lads." With a smirk and a trill chuckle, Gay Dave blew a kiss to Neil. It had been two weeks since he last saw the band and it did strike him odd to not see them all together. Like knowing a man with ten arms, he would be immediately spotted in a lineup but the next time you see him he's only got nine arms. The man would still be a recognizable oddity but you'd want to know what happened to that tenth arm. "It's been over four weeks since you've paid me a visit. You're not seeing another bartender are you? I hate the thought of another man pouring you drinks. What'll you have Lou?"

"We've been in the recording studio. Pint of cider drink, all around." Lou replied flatly which sounded like she was excited but also on the brink of falling asleep. The truth of the matter is that she had some reservations about the new album. For her, to make music is to send a message and the message was a middle finger to the fascists in the House of Commons. The opening track had to shout that message through a bullhorn into the ass-end of another, bigger, bullhorn. 

Boff winced, "I'm still cross that we've gone and changed labels. We've sold our souls to corporate media Gay Dave." Reaching for his cider, "We're bloody capitalists now Gay Dave. I'm surprised the Ffordey would even serve the likes of us." It's true that the Fforde Greene was host to all sorts of anachro-punk, but the Fforde Grene didn't pour pints for free.

Although Lou hadn't the foggiest idea how the album would begin, she was sure of where the band could go if given the resources, "Stop taking the piss out of the new album before it's even recorded. We're making the music we want to make only now some wanker in New York can hear our songs as well." Just the thought made her shiver. If a tosser in Northern Ireland couldn't get the message a dimwitted American wouldn't stand a chance. If violence is the voice of the unheard, the sound has to be so massive to blow up a stereo.

Hardly able to keep himself from chuckling, Neil quipped "It's always been my dream to make music for some nine year old in America to hear my music in a Lucozaid commercial." Lucoszaid is not sold in America.

Boff took the bait, "They don't sell Lucozaid in America." The radiant aura of his smugness only pulled the grin on Neil's face closer to his ears.

Neil smacked the bar unable to contain himself, "Something only a capitalist would know!"

To break the ice with her calculated reasoning Lou felt the need to interject, "We have access to a recording studio with bathrooms this time, I think it's an upgrade."

High off the laugh he had given himself, Neil had no choice but give in to the cider and continue, "Although some of us aren't used to playing on a finely tuned studio instrument." His grin has made contact with his ear lobes.

Gossip was Gay Dave's favorite subject and he had to test the waters, "What are you going on about?"

Before Neil could jump in, Lou kicked his shin light enough to be friendly in any other shoe than the Doc Martins she was wearing, "Dunstan didn't know that guitars need to be constantly tuned." The confusion this caused in the studio wasted an hour of recording time which Lou wasn't keen on, but at least everyone in the band now knows that instruments go out of tune, especially when handled with the grace of a dog attempting to scratch the top of it's head.

Glad to have the shame pointed in a different direction Boff was compelled, "Who needs to be in tune?"

Lou grumbled flatly, "A band."

Neil raised his glass and burst out in a familiar song, intentionally off key, "A turbulent time, to strike if you mine..." Boff and Lou both groan in second hand embarrassment. "...Industrial action, is just a reaction..."

"Stop your nonsense Neil. He's not even here to defend himself." Lou was still miffed at Dunstan but this out of tune protest song was taking years off her life and she could feel it, year by year, note by note.

As if summoned by the song of protest, Dunstan clapped  both the boys on the back, "Poverty stricken, communities are ruined, families go hungry, well this is modern Britain!" Four or five other patrons within earshot all shouting "Modern Britain" in time with the tune. Even a poorly sung ballad can be forgiven with enough alcohol.

Despite his jab, Neil was rather glad to see Dunstan, "You bell end, where were you all afternoon?"

Dunstan had a penchant for taking a punch in stride so with his hands on his hips, and an embarrassing thrust, "This rather large bell end went to the cinema!"

Gay Dave had watched Dunstan stumble into the Fforde Greene while the rest were having their laugh. He preemptively started pouring a glass, "Oh I just love the theater." somehow cramming an extra syllable into the word theater, "What did you see? Was it worth watching? Please do tell." With a wink and blowing a kiss Gay Dave slid Dunstan a cider drink. 

Dunstan stood even taller and thrust himself further than the human body was built to thrust, "I snuck into a matinee of Brassed Off. It's a banger." Breaking character losing his rigidity, Dunstan confessed, "I might actually pay to see it again."

"I've spotted Ewan McGregor on the bill posts for that!" Gay Dave couldn't pass up the opportunity to fawn over Ewan McGregor, "The things I would do to that man..." Gay Dave now rolling his eyes in feigned pleasure.

The band all took a beat to nod in agreement that Ewan McGregor was proper fit. After taking drink, Dunstan continued, "Right, well there's this part, yeah, where this band plays that one orchestra tune, 'Ba-da-bump ba-da-bump ba-da-bumpbumpbump!'" Dunstan starts trotting about the other three around the bar. His legs were bowed as if perched on a saddle of a miniature pony wider than it is tall. Louder still and at the pace of a cantor, "'Ba-da-bump ba-da-bump ba-da-bumpbumpbump! ba-da-bump ba-da-bump ba-da-bumpbumpbump!'" With a tip of his invisible ten gallon hat to Lou with a chatoic yell, "Bd-da-baa[holding the high note for much to long]aa! ba-da-bumpbumpbump!"

Neil, "The William Tell Overture?"

Out of breath and regretting the three cigarettes he smoked on the way to the Fforde Greene, "Sure, whatever. So they smash it right. This crowd of stiffs go completely bonkers. Then this Geezer steps up to receive this trophy and he tells the rotten fucks to shove it up their arse. The man’s wearing a purple doublet telling the entire room to sod off. The legend!"

Gay Dave held up a mixing spoon like one would hold a trumpet except instead of pursed lips his mouth fell agape, "Does Ewan McGregor show his flugelhorn?"

Dunstan replied triumphantly, "He blows a hell of a lot more than that!"

Gay Dave melted to the bar with a sigh, "Only in my dreams."

Boff was desperately reaching to change the subject and fell back on taking the piss out of Neil, "Speaking of dreams Neil was just going on about his dreams of nine year-olds." A wave of regret made Boff's lower lips sink to the corners of his chin as Dunstan whipped around in excitement.

Never missing an opportunity to embarrass himself, Dunstan blurted, "I've had lots of dreams of kids." He knew exactly what he had just said and shot a glance over to Lou to savor her disappointment.

Lou’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and she dropped her forehead to the table, muttering into the sleek damp wood of the bar, "I'm surrounded by pedophiles." 

The change in Dunstan's tone was enough to consider that he might be sincere, "You've got it all mix mashed. I'm the child in the dream." 

Boff held his arms over Neil and Dunstan to bless their terrible matrimony, "Well aren't you two a match made in heaven."

Dunstan’s volume dropped which meant he was serious or he had just farted and wanted his mates to lean in, "No really, I'm not one to give much a thought to dreams, it's rubbish, yeah? Freud can take a piss. But this dream, this dream I've been having since I was a lad. It's the exact same dream every time. It starts with more of a feelin' than a full on dream, like I know a story is ‘bout to unfold. I'm three years old, maybe four, I'm nervous, I'm lost, surrounded by strange adults and let me tell you, as a four year old that alone can be intimidating bein' surrounded by people larger than you. It's just a forest of kneecaps. I don't quite know where I am but I'm being knocked about by these knobby knees. And out of nowhere, smash! Flat on my arse. Worse yet, I'm stuck. I try to move my legs and hands but I have that weakness you only experience in dreams. It's terrifying! I hate feelin’ trapped. Luckily it doesn't last long because I get picked up off the ground by this nutter. And just as it looks like he's about to say somethin' I wake up."

The band all took a moment to digest the tale Dunstan had blessed them with and it was Gay Dave who broke the tension, "That's rubbish."

Dunstan was shocked, "I have this dream every month. Swear to baby Jesus." He crossed his heart and held up his hand as if to swear to a god he didn't believe existed.

Gay Dave snapped back, "Oh I believe you have the dream, it's a rubbish dream."

Boff shook his head and groaned, "Terrible."

Neil squinted his eyes in the way one would admire the lack of wit, "Dreadful. Coulda been three sentences."

Lou gave a quick nod to Gay Dave and said, "After that story, Gay Dave, round of vodka drink.” Without even looking she oozed her contempt for Dunstan, “I regret defending you earlier." 

And with that Boff, Neil, and Gay Dave burst into laughter as shots were passed all around. Confused but still in good spirits, smiling and laughing as if he understood the joke, Dunstan had to ask, "What do’ya mean?"

Before Dunstan had time to think, Boff had already raised his glass, "I've tuned out of the conversation. Let's have that drink. To the band!"

In unison, "To Chumbawumba!"

[superjoemunday-blog]

A Year in the Desert - Compromised and Readable

While countless mobile games and brief time sinks were released over the past year I found myself continuing to return to a single app. Whenever I needed cheap stimulation or to feel insulated from the rest of the world I would pull out my phone, load Desert Golf, and play 10 holes at a time. However, as I watched the ball drop at the end of 2015 I decided to uninstall Desert Golf from my life and catalogue my journey through the endless sands.

 Similar to actual golf, Desert Golf requires the player to move a tiny white ball into a series of holes in as few attempts as possible. Instead of the typical 18 holes Desert Golf continues on forever. I first downloaded Desert Golf to my phone prior to going on what my wife and I call our third honeymoon to Quebec City—a vacation we take at the end of every December to celebrate our anniversary and the new year in a place neither of us have ever visited. I booted Desert Golf for the first time near the end of the flight and nailed the first course with a hole in one. Many of the following holes were either entirely flat or had slopes which would guide the ball into the hole automatically if you landed your shot anywhere in the vicinity.

 Jump forward to my birthday on Valentine’s Day, or what I like to call, My Birthday. It was around this time, and at hole 255, that I came across the first water hazard. Up until this point the game consisted of a simple, continuous geometry and just the sight of blue was genuinely a relief. The obstacle itself was easily avoided but still, I had found water. For my Birthday my wife surprised me by inviting all of my friends over to our small apartment and had my best friend, and accomplished chef, make pizza all night. There was not a moment without fresh pizza. Infinite Pizza.

 April marks busy season for both my wife and I. Whole weeks can go by and the only interaction that we have with each other—or any human being for that matter—are the moments before falling asleep where she will exhaustedly ask me to tell her a story. Now I can’t be certain, but for talking purposes, at hole 350 there was a ball sized rock at the top of a hill. I had never seen a rock before and was momentarily intrigued to discover that not only were there rocks in Desert Golf but they have their own unique physics. Striking the rock with my golf ball knocked the rock into a valley just beyond the hole and it occurred to me that it might be possible to croquet the rock into the hole. After a few unsuccessful attempts I glanced up at the number of strokes I’ve taken on this hole and felt a sense of waste. I had been keeping a fairly low average par of 2 shots per hole but now I’ve spent over 20 shots on a single hole. I conclude that this grind is senseless and finish the hole in one easy chip from the valley and into the hole. I figure it’s best to move on and keep working because on April 5th my wife and I decide to start saving to buy a house.

 Before my wife’s birthday in late May we promised each other to stop extraneous spending all together to save for a down payment on a house. Prior to starting this journey through the desert I had read that it is technically possible to run into a hole that is not possible to complete. I had put this information out of my head because I still needed a gift for my wife and I pride myself in my ability to present the perfect gift. But this year I messed up. I got her a replacement makeup box because hers was falling apart but it didn’t quite fit her makeup in the right way. We ended up returning the makeup box and although she reassured me that the sentiment was spot on I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. At hole 1572 I had reached an impasse, a seemingly unbeatable hole. I had faltered.

 Although it took me a few days and over hundreds of strokes, I was able to pass hole 1572 and trudge on through the expanse. Still in search of a home, we were served our 60 day notice on September 10th to vacate the apartment because the current landlord had sold the house. We didn’t have anywhere to go but found a home in the process of being renovated and the seller was confident that he could finish the home by the time we were evicted. If this previous statement raised your eyebrow it’s because you’ve been lied to in the past and I can assure you that your bullshit detector is working.

 Beyond hole 2000 the color of the sand and sky begin to change. Slowly, gradually, the entire color palette turns from a warm orange red to a cool blue over the course of roughly 500 holes. It would be another 500 holes to get all the way around the classic color wheel and back to the original orange. From the initial notice of eviction in September to December 9th we had been kicked out, moved into temporary housing, and kicked out of temporary housing eventually forced to move into a house which was effectively 80% complete. But it did happen, we were finally home owners. At this point the stress and behaviors tied to worrying about being homeless should have gone away. But despite my efforts I couldn’t help but feel utterly despondent and dull at a time of celebration.

 At the recommendation of my wife I contacted a doctor who, in short, informed me that I have been dealing with, “extreme clinical depression.” My initial reaction was shock. Everything with the house had turned out right, I have a loving wife, we live on a budget with a very comfortable buffer, and am very personable so the thought that I could be depressed defied the logic. But that’s not how depression works. Attempting to “logic” your way out of depression is a fool’s errand and as the days pass by with crippling malaise I press forward through the continuous sand pit.

 The constant grains of guilt whirling around my chemically imbalanced consciousness would wear the nose off my face as I lie in a bed of my own inaction. I am painfully self-aware of how unfair this is to the people closest to me. But I continue golfing. Plodding forward when I know there might not be an end. Pushing through awkward conversations with the people I love, not to stir empathy but to equip them with a language to understand these unintentional feelings.

 By the end of the year I had reached hole 4720 and at this point the sight of water is no longer novel. I am haunted by the memory of the rock I passed over in hopes of maintaining a low score. The arbitrary exhaustion of depression which offers no quarter in the professional world has replaced Desert Golf as my common time sink. I deleted Desert Golf from my phone because I no longer needed it, there was no fourth honeymoon this year.

[superjoemunday-blog]

I Am Here for Bowie

On January 9th 2016 I noticed a new David Bowie album pop up on my favorite streaming service as a new release. It wasn’t a release I had been highly anticipating, nor one that I had deep seeded desire to consume. However, I have a particularly long commute and I was fortunate enough to have the time to sit through the entire album, Blackstar, from start to finish uninterrupted. To be honest I wasn’t even giving it my full attention. Hell, I was driving the entire listen. I was left with the distinct familiar sensation that although the editing felt a bit messy, if not rushed, it didn’t sound unintentional or markedly off putting in a way that sounds similar to J Dilla’s Donuts. The following morning I woke up to the news that David Bowie had passed away and all at once the puzzling sound of Blackstar made perfect sense.

David Bowie was one of those artists where if you were to reel back and look at the entire body of his work collectively as one single entity, it would astound and inspire. This isn’t to suggest that his music and contributions across all media are entirely palatable to your particular tastes, but his ability to re-invent himself in a literally life long quest seeking that newness of human experience is at the very least respectable. In that vein, many of us can relate or at least share an anecdote with some small part of his life. And so, the day of January 10th I was reminded all day of a pleasant moment I experienced while joining my wife on a business trip to Chicago.

During the day, while my wife was working, I was given the time to indulge in the beautiful city of Chicago.  On one of those afternoons I visited the Museum of Contemporary Art, which happened to be a pretty short walk from the hotel. The moment I walked in I was approached by an official looking lady with an official looking clip board and asked me this question in this exact phrasing, “Are you here for Bowie?” Having absolutely no supporting information for the context of this question and with a complete lack of understanding I look her directly in the eyes and respond with a clear, serious, determined, “Yes.” We remain, eyes locked, for a much longer amount of time than she intended and I can visibly see all other words escape her.  Moments later she directed me to where I could find the David Bowie exhibit, but for a hot second I was astounded by her ambiguous question.

I spent some time afterward considering possible responses in the same way one might carry on a fake argument in the shower. Was I to take her statement literally? Because if Bowie was indeed there and he needed me to be there for him, I would be there for Bowie. I also like to imagine a universe where she asks me, “Are you here for Bowie?” and I respond with something equally puzzling, “The Starman cometh.” and she hands me a pound of drugs as if my life were a poorly written crime novella. The exhibit itself was quite an impressive collection of David Bowie’s costumes, journal entries, and stage props. All of this was accompanied by an audio tour which would know the exact area of the museum you were standing in and say a few words to describe the collection. I revisited the museum with Leah a few days later and a different official looking lady with a different official looking clipboard was standing at the entrance to greet us and asked us in an official tone, “Are you here for Bowie?” But now, after his passing my response is crystal clear. I will always respond to that question with a resounding yes. I am here for Bowie.

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The Falcon

In any profession there are times where one might find themselves in a compromising position. My own work in demolitions is no different and on this occasion this was a huge job being held up by a physically small problem. This particular job was the demolition of half mile long steel truss bridge so the whole city was anticipating the blast.

One of the major scheduling concerns for the project leading up to blast day was the matter of a baby peregrine falcon learning how to fly. On one of the sections of the bridge that was to be blasted, there was a peregrine falcon nest and they laid an egg a few months prior. If you don’t know the peregrine falcon is a protected animal and it would be illegal to drop 20 tons of steel on a family of three. At the advice of the fish and game commission we were told that the baby should leave the next approximately one week prior to our set blast date which ended up turning out to be true, but that’s not the point of the story.

You see, blasting a bridge is a precise operation which is less about causing a big boom for an action hero to walk away from so much as it is using a bunch of tiny scissors simultaneously in a few key areas. One of the areas that needed to be cut just happened to be about 25 feet from the falcon nest and as the person tasked with marking all of the cut locations I can tell you with authority that those birds were not welcoming in the least.

The bridge itself was approximately 80 feet in the air at the lowest point and 130 feet at the highest. To access that high steel I went up in a man basket with a laborer about my age who was visibly terrified of the whole ordeal. In the days leading up to us eventually working near the nests location he would ask rhetorically, “Do we need to mark that steel in span 8?” When the day finally came the head superintendent stopped us before going up and handed me a rake saying, “I don’t want to know what happens up there…” before driving off and leaving two grown ass men in a man basket, a work platform the size of a bathroom stall, equipped with a rake, 130 feet in the air with the world’s fastest predator.

Twenty feet before we even hit the lower chord of the truss the mother bird started circling the tiny platform. I readied my weapon. I picture this scene in my head from fellow laborers on the ground watching two grown ass men whose high pitched screams are muffled by our altitude, limply waving a rake at a pissed off bird that is roughly the size of a football with wings. Not the proudest moment in my career, but I will say without that rake that bird would have been more than happy to show the two of us some motherly love. However, we were able to finish the job, sans dignity.

The following week it was still unclear if we had to move the falcon from the nest and I can’t express to you the dark satisfaction I had while drafting a “Falcon Harassment Plan.”

[superjoemunday-blog]

Losing to Yourself

I have spent a great deal of time playing fighting games at a competitive level. I write this in my head every time I have an unsuccessful night of hard losses and am unsatisfied by my performance. Today I wanted to share those thoughts in the off chance that someone else might find these words useful.  I want to cover the experiences that I have had and experiences that others have shared with me in how to deal with losses and how to prevent yourself from entering a self-defeating mentality.  Bear with the brief preamble in order to understand where I’m coming from because not everyone can approach taking losses the same way and expect the same results and in response I would like to hear what you all think about the subject.

If you’ve been around me long enough you might have figured out already that I am on the borderline unhealthy end of being self critical. Along with that comes the anxiety of thinking that I am not good enough, and anyone who has experienced anxiety can attest that the “at what” and “to whom” don’t actually matter so much as the physical sensation of a python-like grip around your chest. This mindset is outright self-defeating and we haven’t even gotten into the game yet. But I assure you, this is not a message of being ok with being ok, rather getting over who you are to become the person you want to be.

 Taking the First Loss

When I started playing fighting games the online component didn’t exist and there wasn’t a local scene to my knowledge. I vividly remember the Christmas that my parents got us Street Fighter II’: Special Championship Edition for the Sega Genesis. I was four years old and I remember that Christmas. I first played it alone and picked Ryu because he was on the cover of the box so my four year old mind knew he was the best character. Despite my inability to read I discovered that if I input a specific motion I could make Ryu shoot fire from his fists. I had figured out one special move and in my four year old mind, there was no one in the entire world who was as good as I was. Then my older brother asked to play. He chose E. Honda and I’m thinking to myself, “This game is already over. I will burn this fat man.” But then he jumped at me and repeatedly hit me with hundred hand slap until I died. He beat me with one button. Every loss since this genesis of losses is just a retelling of this first story with the addition of experience.

 Taking a Loss

I share that anecdote because that was the first time I experienced the salt. And since that loss I have lost a great number of times but the hope is that I’ve gotten better at taking losses. The key ingredient after every loss is to actively ask yourself why you lost and immediately seek the answer to that question. Sometimes the answer is as simple as learning to punish a certain move, but it can become much more complicated when you’re being outfootsied or aren’t optimizing your offense. The greatest personal loss is when you do not learn from your mistakes. Ideally, the quicker you can turn around this process the better player you will become. If, for example, my Gief eats Guile’s backfist in the neutral from a certain range, the quicker I learn that Gief’s sweep can beat backfist or to whiff punish with st.lp into Greenhand I have immediately become a better player. This type of adaptation can be made at the end of a match, end of the round, or even mid game. Keep in mind that a deeper understanding of the mechanics greatly increases the scale of which you need to be mentally flexible.

 Things to Avoid

There are a number of mental blocks that we can create for ourselves which can inadvertently hold us back. For me, I can become predictable in my post knockdown setups and overlook where I failed in the neutral. I get myself into this rut, I trick myself into believing that if I continue to do my Gief stuff and make the right reads, I should be rewarded with a win. Instead, what I should be doing is asking myself where I took damage and attempt to minimize those situations. Avoid the pitfall of believing that the rock will break the 100th time you bash it with your skull. Personally, if I can recognize when I have entered this negative feedback loop I need to take a step back and pull a hard reset on my approach. Having other people around you to offer advice is often the best way to pinpoint where you are struggling. However, you have to be willing to take criticism and be able to discern the difference between constructive criticism and straight up bad advice.

 Keeping Yourself Honest

Blame is a dirty word. Blame can be a dangerous word to include in your vocabulary. The ways blame can manifest itself are potentially the greatest road blocks to becoming a better player. There is a lot to cover on this topic so grab your bushel basket while we collect some low hanging fruit. If you take your competitive play online you have to understand that lag is real. The circumstances of lag are myriad. Game breaking lag is a thing and when it happens there is little you can do to mitigate the effects. I’m talking stuttering, input eating, unplayable lag. At this point the best thing you can do is just trash the match and look forward to your next opportunity to play. If points are at stake you just need to let it go and make a mental note to never play that person in those circumstances if you can avoid it. But what if there is about 7f of lag with about two or so dropped inputs per round? The way the math works out is that you have 20% less time to react to most jump-ins. This is where the grey area begins. At this point, whiff punishing is far less reliable but ambiguous situations become far more reliable. If someone outplays you in these handicapped circumstances have they really outplayed you? How willing are you to become better at something that isn’t an accurate representation of something you enjoy? Chasing the answer to this question is ultimately an exercise in futility. In fighting games, and in life in general, you can mitigate the effect of outside influences by clearly defining your own personal goals. For me I want to be knowledgeable and competitive among the best of the best, surely I am not always dead set on this goal due to other aspects of my life, but I am unwilling to allow the outside interference of lag to dictate the limit and confines of my ability. Next topic.

Another popular scapegoat is execution. Personally, I know that I have unreliable combo execution and my solution is simple—I practice. And I know that I need to practice. When my fingers, wrists, and arms cramp up, I recognize that limitation and move on. Mid match, if you don’t have confidence in your execution, don’t go for your most difficult 1f links but rather stick to guaranteed damage. Combo execution and the execution of fundamentals are two separate entities which, while not mutually exclusive, blaming a loss on a dropped combo is frivolous whenever you took the majority of your damage from random jump ins. There is a much larger discussion to be had over the risk and rewards for execution heavy characters but from my personal point of view if I lose because I dropped a combo, that’s on me for not putting in the time. Try to recognize where your skills are lacking and focus in on honing those abilities.

I think we can all agree that being around other people and going to locals is the best way to get better. But what if there are no locals in your city or providence? For me I live in Pittsburgh and there is a fairly small scene here which I could attend, but if I wanted to get serious about it I could travel to New York to get some serious competition. This is where it becomes a question of dedication and blaming the fact that you don’t have a local scene becomes a real reason to not put in any more effort. But what if you live in Middle America? There are places in Colorado where the internet doesn’t exist—what then? Perhaps my favorite aspect of the FGC is that it has a very strong sense of being a self-made community. What used to be smaller local tournaments are gaining worldwide traction simply because the people who are involved in those communities are pushing to further the scene. If that is your goal, you can make it happen. Reach out to the people who have already established a local scene and ask them what the best means and methods are to building a community.

All other arguments for blame that I can think of are all self-defeating. “X character vs Y character is a bad matchup.” Turn it into your personal good match up. “I got Ibuki’d.” Learn the setups. “Wake-up DP is for scrubs.” Learn to get a read on your opponent and respect the DP whenever necessary. I could continue this train of thought but I think I have made the point of this segment clear. Don’t be afraid to take the blame on yourself because the yoke is easy when you’re being honest with yourself.

 Practical Loss

I would be remiss if I failed to mention the benefits of rewatching your matches. Every version of the game automatically saves a back catalogue of all of your matches. If you go to a local and it’s being streamed, subscribe to their channel and rewatch the archive of your match if your match was live. When you go back and watch your old matches you can objectively look at how you played and decide whether or not you made the right calls. And if you’re not well versed enough to point out your own flaws, throw your match up on the internet and let other people tell you where you are lacking. Be open and ask questions when you are having trouble understanding. Opening yourself up to this type of criticism takes courage, because who would want to expose themselves as a fraud? I don’t, but my ego doesn’t win matches, I do. Even more to your benefit is that you can emulate the exact situations where you took damage in the training room and practice the correct response on your own.  While I can be pretty hard on myself, there is a difference between being self-critical and self-deprecating. It just takes a little bit more effort to wring that little bit of positivity out of your biggest failures.

 The Final Loss

I like to have fun. Because I’m a competitive person, I have the most fun when I am winning. I could very easily shrug off most losses and not learn anything in the process but that isn’t where I’ve set my personal goals—I’m not ok with that. As I mentioned earlier, the means and methods outlined in this message won’t and probably shouldn’t work for everyone. Even so, I still feel like this is only a snap shot of the conversations that can stem from this topic. Opinions change over time. I was an insufferable four year old when I first lost, but since then I’ve grown up and become a more sophisticated version of that same four year old.

[superjoemunday-blog]

This is a blog from Joe Munday

Hello and Welcome!

I am a writer and an advocate for games.

I have a degree in civil engineering with experience in demolitions.

The scope of this blog is to archive new and old written works which, while sentimental, may likely have little value to any publications.