They say that the game of poker can push a gambler to his mental limits. They say that this game can exploit a man's every weakness; you're never as vulnerable as you are when you have absolutely nothing to win with, yet you find yourself strongly standing your ground. The emotional ebbs and flows of the game will come at you gradually and then all at once, drop you from the highest plain down into the loneliest valley. So much for gradual.
I've been sitting in this poker tournament for a long time now...through several dozen table changes and the occasional reprieve to center myself, I've sat next to and across from probably a few hundred people. Some I've actually been able to make a connection with and some just didn't appreciate the way I play. At the current table, the player to my left was unusually connected to me and vice versa. At one point, we were actually able to read the other's cards and know whether to check, raise or fold. We both went up big over a short time, then leveled off for a much longer time. Then I got a little antsy and pushed all my chips in based on a false read. I can't say that I truly knew what the down cards were to my left, but I convinced myself that I knew. I convinced myself that it was the right play. The next three seconds of the game elapsed over the course of a hundred years to my disbelieving eyes. I made the wrong read.
I made the wrong fucking read...again...but I had never had to pay such a high price as I just had. I remained in the game since I had covered the player to my left, but it was scarcely enough to make any kind of push; at least for a while. What I had done on that one hand was give the impression that I had bluffed at it. All of the trust I had built with the player to my left was long gone because a failed bluff reeks of deception. It's a very uncomfortable and often times emasculating feeling - to suddenly be at the mercy of a player because you were called out on a bluff. And to further the mental and emotional beating of the scenario, you're completely and utterly controlled by that player's insurmountable chip lead.
It's been a marathon tournament that I've been playing in. Talk about ebbs and flows...I've bought back in several times, having been lucky enough to be backed by a very generous and understanding financier. That doesn't mean that every buy-back doesn't yank at my core of being. I win a little, lose a lot, win a little more, lose everything...then come back in with the fresh pangs of that last loss. But you can't just blanket yourself with all that sorrow and think that you have a fucking fighting chance of winning hands. The many mentors and teachers of the game that I've studied under tell me that I can't just put the blanket away. I can't just ball it up and toss it into the corner, just in case I want to use it again. No, they want me to douse the thing in kerosene and drop a match on it. I'm starting to see their point, I suppose. I haven't burned the blanket yet, but I have put it way the fuck under the bed, in a box with a lock. I want to eat the key, but I know that I'd be fishing that thing out of the toilet sooner or later. Maybe I'll burn it someday soon.
I've just changed tables again, but the tournament is whittling itself down...albeit it slowly. That player that I once had the connection with now sits at a table within view. I have to angle my head like a swan itching his belly to see that table, but I have to look over occasionally. Sometimes I get a look back, sometimes I don't. I see other players nearby that played with me, against me, for me. That comforts me until I realize that no one at this table is out for anyone but himself. I'll have to forge new partnerships and perhaps I'll get that stack back up to where it was. There's a glimmer of confidence that I'll end up at the final table and if the poker gods are as predictable as I optimistically hope they are, I'll be heads up with that player who sat to my left for that long stretch. Heads up for all that fucking money.
1.12.2009
1.04.2009
The Sun Isn't Always Warm
If you write at all with any frequency, you surely know what it's like to want to write something but you can't. I'm horribly guilty of this but I am duly guilty of not being able to write simply because there's so much shit piled up in there that I get buried and I can't even move my fingers.
I've been trying to define my life in LA to myself for the last several weeks. I've never lived outside of Massachusetts until six months ago, but I had been living with this burning desire to live in California since I was 16. I apparently was waiting for a real reason to make such an uprooting move, thus it took me 13 years to go through with the transplant. I knew what California was when I was 16. It was sunshine, sand, surfing and it was indelible on my sixteen-year-old mind. That same fantastical thinking stuck with me until I moved here, which made the anticipation of finally being here a cyclone of nervous excitement. That subsided over the course of a month or two.
There's only a few anticipatory times in one's life that I can think of at this very second that might always deliver forethought results. The first is Christmas when you're young enough to still truly wonder if Santa is real (forgive my unintentional ignorance of other religions here). You wonder what might be under that tree but you still have a pretty good idea. But more often than not, the realization matches the anticipation in terms of intensity. Another might be report card day (for better or worse, but in my case almost always worse) or maybe the day you propose to someone. I also link anxiety to these occasions, which might well have been better served as a precursor.
As previously stated, I haven't lived in many different places (2). But I feel safe in assuming that it doesn't matter for shit where you are, it matters what your state of mind is and what solaces you have within your reach. Moving is always a big deal, sure. Uprooting is an entirely different story altogether. You get to a new place with all your anticipatory excitement...you glow for awhile and you might carry some sense of false arrogance or stature because you're "from (insert city name here)". It's your defense mechanism for the fear of not being from wherever the hell you are. All of that quickly fades because you begin to realize that none of these people care that you're new in this city; that you're from that place and you do whatever it is you do. Well, no...unless you're somebody and in that case you can rapidly move into entirely new circles with zero obstacles. But that novelty of being in this great, new place wears off quicker than I ever imagined it would. Aesthetics are a barrel of fucking monkeys, man. A giant barrel of monkeys. Maybe the girl is gorgeous but if that's all she is, I give you perhaps a day and a half until you run for the hills. Maybe that suit looks like it was made specifically for you alone, but once you get in the office and realize no one gives a flying fuck about your duds, you recall that it's still work. And it blows. That was a bad example, I'm sorry. I'd take it back if I could...wait...
Warm weather is a farce. Ironically, I'd kill for the heating system I had in my previous apartment. I wake up in the morning staring at 59 degrees on my alarm clock screen. My nose could serve as an ice cube. My point is that warm weather can't make you happy if you're not happy about most other stuff. Neither can a good chiropractor, a really good sub or a sunset into a mountain just beyond the edge of the sea. These are just add-ons or enhancers that can also serve as the opposite once you start to understand their meanings. Most of the time they go completely unnoticed simply because of their iridescence.
I don't know how often we carry thoughts derived from childhood well into adulthood but there's a very tangible loss of innocence when that happens. I wanted to feel California for what it meant to me when I was 16 but that stinks of severe naivety. I carried the excitement of a teenager into an extremely effectual event of life, then I felt the loss as a an overly emotional and analytical adult. I think it best not to allow oneself to let this happen. Except that it's impossible...which creates some quandaries.
The Pacific Coast is a beautiful location; a very aesthetic place. But it's still just a place. LA is just a city. Venice is just an area. It's you that make these into memorable places...romantic cities...meaningful areas.
This blog entry has been brought to you by Heineken, painfully introspective music and solitude. Want to help? Simply visit www.helpfrench.com. Cash or check only. Sorry, no COD's.
I've been trying to define my life in LA to myself for the last several weeks. I've never lived outside of Massachusetts until six months ago, but I had been living with this burning desire to live in California since I was 16. I apparently was waiting for a real reason to make such an uprooting move, thus it took me 13 years to go through with the transplant. I knew what California was when I was 16. It was sunshine, sand, surfing and it was indelible on my sixteen-year-old mind. That same fantastical thinking stuck with me until I moved here, which made the anticipation of finally being here a cyclone of nervous excitement. That subsided over the course of a month or two.
There's only a few anticipatory times in one's life that I can think of at this very second that might always deliver forethought results. The first is Christmas when you're young enough to still truly wonder if Santa is real (forgive my unintentional ignorance of other religions here). You wonder what might be under that tree but you still have a pretty good idea. But more often than not, the realization matches the anticipation in terms of intensity. Another might be report card day (for better or worse, but in my case almost always worse) or maybe the day you propose to someone. I also link anxiety to these occasions, which might well have been better served as a precursor.
As previously stated, I haven't lived in many different places (2). But I feel safe in assuming that it doesn't matter for shit where you are, it matters what your state of mind is and what solaces you have within your reach. Moving is always a big deal, sure. Uprooting is an entirely different story altogether. You get to a new place with all your anticipatory excitement...you glow for awhile and you might carry some sense of false arrogance or stature because you're "from (insert city name here)". It's your defense mechanism for the fear of not being from wherever the hell you are. All of that quickly fades because you begin to realize that none of these people care that you're new in this city; that you're from that place and you do whatever it is you do. Well, no...unless you're somebody and in that case you can rapidly move into entirely new circles with zero obstacles. But that novelty of being in this great, new place wears off quicker than I ever imagined it would. Aesthetics are a barrel of fucking monkeys, man. A giant barrel of monkeys. Maybe the girl is gorgeous but if that's all she is, I give you perhaps a day and a half until you run for the hills. Maybe that suit looks like it was made specifically for you alone, but once you get in the office and realize no one gives a flying fuck about your duds, you recall that it's still work. And it blows. That was a bad example, I'm sorry. I'd take it back if I could...wait...
Warm weather is a farce. Ironically, I'd kill for the heating system I had in my previous apartment. I wake up in the morning staring at 59 degrees on my alarm clock screen. My nose could serve as an ice cube. My point is that warm weather can't make you happy if you're not happy about most other stuff. Neither can a good chiropractor, a really good sub or a sunset into a mountain just beyond the edge of the sea. These are just add-ons or enhancers that can also serve as the opposite once you start to understand their meanings. Most of the time they go completely unnoticed simply because of their iridescence.
I don't know how often we carry thoughts derived from childhood well into adulthood but there's a very tangible loss of innocence when that happens. I wanted to feel California for what it meant to me when I was 16 but that stinks of severe naivety. I carried the excitement of a teenager into an extremely effectual event of life, then I felt the loss as a an overly emotional and analytical adult. I think it best not to allow oneself to let this happen. Except that it's impossible...which creates some quandaries.
The Pacific Coast is a beautiful location; a very aesthetic place. But it's still just a place. LA is just a city. Venice is just an area. It's you that make these into memorable places...romantic cities...meaningful areas.
This blog entry has been brought to you by Heineken, painfully introspective music and solitude. Want to help? Simply visit www.helpfrench.com. Cash or check only. Sorry, no COD's.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)