All posts by manny@savo.us

internals

why the deadlift

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chatting with a friend of mine who had a terrific deadlifting session and felt pretty awesome about it. he asked me if i felt the same, if it was something reptilian. here was my response:

I think it’s the sense that things can go horribly wrong. So you focus, you approach the bar and review every sinew and sore spot. You think about your joints, you think about your grip. You think about the last lift you just did and how to make this next one better. All tied to a singular moment in time. You are present in a way that you usually are not. You are not thinking about work. You are not thinking about your mortgage. You are not thinking about that client call that went bad or how you shouldn’t have said what you said to her. To them. To yourself. There’s the weight in front of you and you need to get it off the ground because that is the only thing in the world that matters. You are the bar. You are the weight. You are the lift. You are the lockout. You are whole and fucking outstanding.

or, ya, something reptilian

internals

and if you’re wondering about the high level of excitement

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halloween is fast upon us, which i hate for all sorts of reasons that partly have to do with my children, the lunatic neighbors that out do themselves every year with laying out horrifying dungeons on their front lawns, and the teenagers that inevitably steal the bowl of candy we leave out towards the end of the night.

but getting past this cavity filled spookfest leads us to thanksgiving, which is rife with a completely different spectrum of familial tension and distended bellies and that car ride home where you are both flustered and dangerously sleepy behind the wheel .

that leaves us with xmas and the new year. which ok. that’s nice. it really is. favorite holidays of the year.

but that isn’t what excites me, and this is what might sound strange.

it’s the promise of SNOW. of BLIZZARDS .

and with blizzards comes long dark nights cuddled up together to watch the world turn pristine and humble outside your window. to watch your little part of this mad, mad world go quiet and serene and, however briefly, at peace.

internals

turning a promise lost

dear michael,
there was a time I would hold you gently, cradle you in my arms, talk to you in baby talk
there was a time I would hold your hand and we’d walk around and around the blocks, talking
there was a time I would hold you tightly, trying to calm you down, to let you know, I am here
there was a time I wouldn’t hold you at all, I just didn’t have the time, it was too late or I was too tired
there was a time I wanted to hold you, but I didn’t know how to ask, you were too far away or too angry
all these times, rattling in my head, every time I look at you
all these times, and with each glance you change
all these times, you cannot keep still enough
all these times, like flashes of sunlight
like a friend smiling across a room
like a lost ring suddenly found
like a promise lost
and out of nowhere you stumble into the room
and embrace me suddenly, warmly, completely
as if you were me telling me instead
“I am here, I am not angry, I havent changed at all”
Love,
daddy
2021.10.03

internals

that’s not right at all

my love,
Every year, every card, it’s so focused on the past. You’re such and such years old. Do you remember this? Slices of memories, sometimes light brush strokes, sometimes deep cuts. But it’s always nostalgia. It’s always about the past, about something that is gone. As if that’s all we are living for, to remember a past that we can never reclaim, we can never have again, hopeless, lost, out of our reach. And there’s a sadness to that, isn’t there? The immutability of time, the tragicness of how ephemeral everything can be, how fragile.
And that’s not right. that’s not right at all. It’s so inaccurate when it comes to how I feel and think about you, about us. I always think about the possibility. I always think about our future. It’s robust, it’s timeless, it’s engraved in stone that future archeologists will dug up and admire. They will see blow the dust off and marvel the etchings and carvings of our life together and instantly know. They will write stories that will inspire generation after generation.
Here’s what I foresee. I can’t wait until we travel. I can’t wait to see Paris again. I can’t wait to visit Colombia. I can’t wait to share a meal with you whose name I cannot pronounce. I can’t wait to see you on the beach again. I can’t wait to see you standing on a balcony and the breeze makes your hair dance. I can’t wait to see our children start lives of their own. Not to get rid of them, but to see them bloom and grow and stretch even more. I can’t wait for you to scold me for spoiling our grandchildren. I can’t wait to sell this house and buy another closer to anywhere, wherever anywhere could be.
Because that anywhere, that everywhere, that every when is always with you.
Always,
me
2021.08.31

internals

my father, my dad, my “ba”

Ba,
When you first came into my life, I didn’t know you, I was happy for my mom, but I didn’t know you and didn’t want to. I was happy for her, she would get off my back and that was good.
But you made her happy, and that was better than I had expected, and you guys were going to get married, so suddenly, I wanted to impress you. I still didn’t want to get to know you. That’s how teenagers are, we’re stupid and self-centered.
Then I got married, and became a father too. I wanted more than anything, for your admiration. I wanted you to admire the man I was becoming, the family I was making, the life I was building.
It was still all about me.
Now, now that the aches are starting to settle in, as the next phase of the kids’ lives is just around the corner. As I look around to everything I am and have, I can’t fight the feeling that I need you more than ever. And not to help with a crisis or a home project, but to hear the stories of your youth, your triumphs and your failures. To be impressed by you, to admire you, as you once were and still are.
I guess this is a long way of saying, I want to get to know you; my father, my dad, my “ba”.
Took long enough didn’t it?
Love, always,
Me
2021.06.18

frags

the form of the question

the form of the question, intricately woven with intent and anticipation. and a bit of fear. never forget the fear, always there. the form of the question is a rose. but not just the petals and the pollen and the stem, it is also the thorn, the pin prick of having indulged. the bead of blood pooling through the swirl of the fingerprint, the impression already made, the mark of a stain yet to be made after leaving.
the form of the question to be decided, to be told, how to unfurl. a curtain draped over abandoned furniture, what’s under there? the scattering of dust, motes flung into late afternoon light, the gathering of refined wool, or is it linen, cotton, what makes the question and the thing it asks heavy enough for a snap of the wrist to bring it to the fore for the revelation? pock marked legs and scoffed cushions. velvet or leather, arm rests slightly out of alignment and the overwhelming feeling that something that was once there, once there often day in and day out, is now irrevocably gone.
the form of the question begs the question, where to begin, how to phrase it just right, to know what i want to know and do i even really want to know?

frags

table turning

i was thinking the other day, how weird it is, to go from being admired by your daughter to admiring her. to go from expecting your daughter to impress you to wanting to impress her. to go from getting her to meet your expectations to realizing you can never match hers. it’s not meant to sound sad or morose, it’s more of how pleasantly the tables have turned.

internals

liminal seventeen

3/2021

lim-i-nal
/’limenl/
1. relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.
2. occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

So last year was a dud. Sweet sixteen and all that, but, you know, COVID and pretty much a near collapse of the world. No European world tour. Ok, not European world tour, but no Italy. No Rome, no Cinque Terre, no Florence, no Milan or Naples. No party, that was the trade off wasn’t it? No big coming of age gala at some hall with ridiculously loud music and awkwardness and maybe your parents being there or not. Preferably not. But again, no. Instead, COVID.

A year later, to the day, still COVID. And seventeen doesn’t seem as special. Seventeen feels like the day after something big and expensive. Seventeen is like the day after a parade where all the pretty floats are gone, the wonderful costumes are gone, the streets are empty but full of debris.

Seventeen feels like the guy who has to clean up all the confetti.

Now why the definition at the start of this little message to you? Why liminal? I can hear you in my head “What does that MEEAANN?” It’s where you are right now. It’s what seventeen actually is. Sixteen is really just symbolic. On paper, nothing really happens at 16 when you think about it. All the pomp and circumstance is just that: manufactured importance and arbitrary timing. Nothing really changes at 16.

Nothing really changes at 17 either… but it’s about to. It’s right at the cusp. It’s the transitional stage in your life. You’re not quite an adult, but you’re getting ready to be one. Making decisions about college, about to get your driver’s license, about what you want to do in your life, where do you want to go.

The “transitional or initial stage of a process” in this case is you. The becoming-you, the you-you that’s figuring itself out. That inbetween moment just before one thing ends and another begins. You are “occupying a position at, or on boths sides of, a boundary or threshold.”

And here’s the thing about liminality: YOU are the border and the threshold and the crossing. You are all the states of this transition, you are the baby, the child, the teenager, the lady and the woman. Seventeen is where everything, literally everything is in flux, it’s a wild storm. In the thick of high school but preparing your exit strategy. Laying the ground work for college but not sure which college to go to. Near home? Far away? Within driving distance? Excited to be free. Well, maybe not free as much excited to take ownership of yourself.

Seventeen is the year where all these morph and change and harden only to be recast over and over until the mold is set. It’s hard work. It’s effortless. It’s beautiful. Whether you like it or not. You’re being made and re-made right before our eyes.

It’s happening and I can’t stop watching.

-love, always
me

internals

imagine a cane

there was a point in time that there was a point a time. it’s all a blur as to when. it’s all a blur as to now. now it’s all a blur. this is what i’m talking about. nothing is lost. it’s all been lost. time. my friend. my enemy. my elusive lover. my beast. my better. this is what is lost once i start talking. time is lost. the words get lost. there is no atmosphere here, there is only the impending silence. the impending doom of time. i’ve said it so many times it’s lost in time, about time, it’s about time we wrote about what we’ve lost. and it’s ridiculous. higher than ever before despite the pandemic. they’re still here, my children, my mortal reminders of my mortality. i shot up in the dark the other night. the inevitability, the steady course, the unwavering destination, i saw it in my mind’s eye but i felt it in my bones. we laugh now, we all sit around and laugh. yes i can deadlift 300, 400, 500 pounds, but it’s right around the corner, right there, can’t you see it? it’s not an imagined point on the other side of the horizon, it’s not even on the edge of the horizon, it’s the next fucking destination. stiff bones, stiff joints, the difficulty in the hip, in standing, the crick in the back, i kept imagining myself needing a cane. can you believe it? me, a cane, because i couldn’t get off the shitter.