Fight or Flight

Often after I wake up from a short nap (especially if I've fallen asleep while reading something) I wake with a burning desire to put pen to paper. While the writing that comes out of me at times like these is not the most consistent in style and are typically riddled with references that only I get, this is one of the few times that I actually mint my words. So while the following piece of writing isn't perfectly polished, contains some poor examples, is outdated and possibly disingenuous, I still very much like certain parts of it and I hope you do as well. If you see a sentence that seems odd just assume it's from a song that you've never heard or a movie you've never seen.

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I wake up, eyes bleary from a half hour of half sleep, senses numb.
   

Where am I? I think.
  

I look to my left and right, I‘m on a plane; transatlantic red-eye, Fight Club open on my lap, J. Mascis’ distorted guitar blaring just loud enough in my ears to drown out the hum from the engines. 
  

What time is it? Is the next thought to penetrate the molasses that is my mental state. 
  

It doesn’t matter how long it is till we land, it’s 10 days since Guillome Matingion beat Wafo-Tapa in the finals of worlds, tying Brad Nelson for the title of Player of the Year, and 52 days until their final showdown in Paris. It’s 216 days since I made my big splash in San Juan, 78 days since I flew home from Shipol without slinging a single spell in the Netherlands, 13 days since I walked out of the tournament hall in Chiba without a single match win under my belt. 52 days until I need to prove that I can still play this game on what is reverently called the ‘Pro Tour’, not because the people there make their living from it, but rather because their actions are meant to set the bar for flawless play.
   

Prove to who? I think.
 

Surely not to you. Despite the vitriolic remarks that pour from some of the communities more outspoken naysayers with a regularity and force on par with old faithful, that are aimed at me more often than not, I could care less if you think I’m good or bad. No matter how many value judgements AJ Sacher sends my way, tweets of encouragement that Patrick Chapin omits my name from, or Pro Tour fantasy drafts that I’m not picked in (far worse than the football games of my youth), it will never be what drives me to step up to the plate.
  

This is about me.
 

I’m reading a book about people who make it their life’s work to see the world crumble and burn in front of their eyes. Am I going to sit idly by while the same thing happens to me? To my world?
 

No. I think, This one’s for me.  
 

In the words of Elliott Smith, “Nothing’s going to drag me down to a death that’s not worth cheating.”

The same holds true for my life as a competitor. To give up on the inside is to have already failed.
 

Ok, I lied, it is about them. It’s about every person who looks at me and says, “He can’t make it;” with myself first among that list of naysayers. It’s time to laugh right in the world’s unthinkable faces.
  

The child of 7 sitting next to me on the plane is watching cartoons on his iPod (another lie, he’s actually sleeping with his head on the armrest, making this very hard to type, but he was watching cartoons on his iPod). My two favorite cartoons, no, my two favorite television shows. In short I am still a child, and it’s time I step up to the plate and show I’m an adult. 
 

In the words of David Bazan, “I used to feel like a forest fire burning, but now I feel like a child throwing tantrums for his turn.”

It’s time to re-light the fire. 
 

How? What do I mean? I think.
 

As a kid, I was told that to succeed, the best thing to do was to visualize myself at the finishline, or shooting the game winning three pointer, well now, slightly older and wiser I think that that’s BS.
 

While I agree that to win, one must truly want it, desire it, I hold that there are two types of desire; active and passive, true and superficial. Wanting to win a match or a tournament is not the same as wanting a nice present for Christmas or a slice of apple pie. One you can fool yourself into believing to be out of your control, and thus blame whether or not is manifests on ‘the luck of the draw’ the other is the complete opposite. To want it means to pour yourself into it, what is practicing when playing magic is the whole of your being. Knowing that at the end of every lost game there is something, there is always something, that you could have done better should be the only motivator that you need to try harder and do better.
 

But I digress.
 

I’m on the plane, waking up bleary eyed and looking back. Frankly I’m disappointed in myself, and I know that now it’s time to reach out and grab the reins. The world is my oyster, and I intend to cover it in Tabasco and slurp it down my cape-hole*. It’s my life, and with every action, I’m playing to win.
 

And that’s what it is to grow up, not only to take responsibility for one’s own outcome, but to know that the world is yours to stomp on.
 

So where does that leave me? With a cold determination in my stomach, and a force behind each of my actions. A knowledge that my successes are mine, and with every move I make I am either winning or losing.

So what now? I ask myself.
  

I’m going to be perfect from now on, I’m going to be perfect starting now Doug Martsch screams in my ear.
 

I think I agree, I smile to myself and think “I’m going to win.”  
 

*all within the confines of an el sobrante fortnight.