The Swamp of My Subconscious

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I sprawl out over the sun-baked earth as if shoved. My hands burn from the scrape, and my face lands flat on its side.

I get to my knees and blow dirt from my mouth. All around me is a barren wasteland. No vegetation or shade exists except for the thin dark clouds that block the sun’s warmth. The ground is a jigsaw of bleached mud, and there is no wind.

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Behind me is the thick iron gate of my consciousness. I don’t bother turning back; there’s nothing for me there.

I stand with shoulders slumped, alone in the familiar unknown. I shut my eyes tightly until my eyeballs throb. A muffled scream of frustration shudders through my body, and I pull my hair with my fists.

Even here, I can’t fully express myself. My pain and madness dwell too deep, like a volcano erupting at the bottom of the ocean. It passes quickly, and the tears evaporate before they can stream down my cheeks.

I look up to the sky and see nothing but endless grey. I sigh deeply and start the journey again.

I’m tired of this trek. It’s aimless and exhausting and repetitive. The same visions run through my mind as I put one foot in front of the other. I look ahead and see a shadow in the distance.

Instinctively I point myself in that direction, I know it’s probably pointless, but I can’t think of anything better to do.

A thought comes to me as the shadow grows bigger.

“Is this it?” I ask myself.

Something like hope flares in my chest, and my stout legs propel me a little faster.

I smell humidity, and my tongue begs for moisture.

The shadow comes into view. It’s a swamp. I stand on its edge, letting the moist air caress my face. It smells dank and mysterious, but it’s a welcome relief to the dry nothingness at my back.

Trees twist and tangle with each other; the space between the massive mossy trunks is black as pitch. The buzzing of mosquitoes, the long croaks of bullfrogs, and the strangled screech of some unknown animal bring sweat to my brow. Still, I yearn to explore, to make some final stand at the last secret of my scoured unconscious.

I have to see what lies within.

I push aside a giant spiderweb and step onto the spongey muck of the swamp’s floor. Mud sucks at my feet with each stride. My shirt clings to my body with sweat.

It’s surprisingly still in here, and close. I push through until the trees start to spread, and I stand at the edge of an inky black bayou. In the middle is a small island.boat-2-1553001-639x852

I’m not surprised to see a battered aluminum Jon boat leaning against the arthritic trunk of a Cypress tree. I wrestle it onto the water sending ripples across the surface. I grab the paddle hidden beneath the roots and climb in.

It’s like paddling through molasses. My shoulders ache with each stroke. It doesn’t take long before the hot sting of sweat streams into my eyes.

I run aground on the island. For some reason, I hurry onto land and look back to see what’s following me. I see nothing. The shore has disappeared, shrouded in mist.

The island rises behind me, so I turn and begin to climb. I crest the little hill and stop in my tracks. Four Frogmen stand there as if expecting me. They are seven feet tall with long muscular legs and arms wrapped in multi-colored skin. Small tunics cover their waists, and each holds a long spear with feathers hanging below the tips. Huge mouths frown at me, and their bulbous eyes stare unblinking.

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The one in front has green skin mottled with black and gold spots. He points a long amphibian finger at my forehead. Electricity shoots from the tip, hitting me on my forehead above my nose. It knocks me to the ground.

I get to my feet quickly, and we stare at each other again. They look at each other as if passing some unseen communication. I pull a knife from my waistband and crouch.

“A fight? Is that why I’m here? Come on then!”

The bullfrog in front steps forward on his webbed feet. Two golden balls sit at the hinge of his jaw, reflecting the dull sunlight. He drops his spear as the others spread out in a straight line behind him. They begin to croak rhythmically and pound the butts of their spears into the ground.

He raises his arms to the sky and springs forward. He covers the thirty feet between us in one leap. I look up as he descends, thrusting my knife into the air. His hand whips my arm to the side. He lands on my chest, pinning me to the soft earth.

His strong hands hold mine over my shoulders, and he opens his gigantic mouth as if to swallow my head. I twist one arm free and slice the soft white flesh of his belly. He croaks and rolls backward. I do the same.

I rush him headlong, letting out a primal war cry. He uses his gigantic frog legs to shoot forward, his eyes squinting in focused determination. We collide, his bulk knocks me to my back. I plunge the knife into his ribs. He opens his mouth in my face, and his tongue flashes out, wrapping around the blade. He swallows it down in one quick movement. His hands surround my face like a vise.

“Why?!” I scream.

His eyes soften a little somehow, then his tongue lashes out again. It wraps around my head and across my eyes. A burning sensation erupts behind my eyelids, and I scream.

He lets me up. I thrash around blindly, swinging my arms and spinning in circles. I claw at my eyes, trying to wipe the reptilian spit away. It doesn’t work, and the pain brings me to my knees. I lay defeated writhing in pain.

“See,” says the bullfrog, “Open.”

“It hurts!”

“Open. See.”

The pain has scrambled my brain. All I can hear is the croaks of his brethren. It drowns my senses; I have no choice but to obey. I force my eyes to open, and the pain disappears.

I rise and look out across the swamp. The mist is gone. Everywhere I look, I see life. The trees glow with energy, and my ears burst with the sounds of insects and animals. The black waters teem with life.

I sob uncontrollably as tears stream down my cheeks. I look to my guide. An aura of red and gold light surrounds him. I run into his embrace and feel the warmth of his body healing me.

He pushes me away, kindly, and removes a golden ball from his jaw. He presents it to me, and I accept it. I swallow it down in one gulp. My body transforms.

“You,” he says as he sweeps his arm, presenting the swamp.

I nod. I understand.

He returns to the three Frogmen. They thrust their spears into the sky. As one, they leap high and dive; I see their light streak below the surface of the water in opposite directions.

I gather my new legs beneath me and jump into the bayou. My slimy skin lets me slip through the water with ease. I plunge quickly and push off from the bottom with a mighty extension.

I break the surface of the water like a missile. The clouds part as I ascend. The sun shines on my face, and the air cools my skin. I hang for a second before dropping. I see the swamp is a mystery of hidden living things and its power throbs below me. I hurtle downward at incredible speed. The bayou rushes towards me, and I hit the surface of the water like a nuclear bomb.

I’m the epicenter of a massive shockwave. The swamp explodes outward, and a tsunami of water and living things rolls over the barren wasteland of my subconscious returning life to all that was dead.

I paddle the boat back to that great iron gate and open it. My frog skin sloughs off my body.

I return as a man.

-Mike Sposito

Owner Spowerks LLC

87 Flips

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“Dad! Can you smell that?”

This is never a comfortable question coming from a four year old.

“What Benny?”

“It’s Spring!”

I smile. He’s a few months early, but I smell it too. Last week the thermometer in my truck registered -4º F. Yesterday, February 5th, it was 53ºF and sunny.

Winter in Connecticut.

As a life-long New Englander I know I need to take advantage of the warmth, who knows when it will return.

“Okay boys, I am going to workout with the tire, so leave me alone for a little bit. I have to get to a hundred,” I announce.

“Ok!” they lie as they run from the playscape to the trampoline.

The tire was a gift. My dad picked it up from a farm equipment supplier. My wife wrapped it in a bow for Christmas.

My health journey is eclectic. I’ve spent years in the gym, I’ve trained for and run a half marathon, I’ve studied Judo, I’ve had two personal trainers, I’ve participated in mini-triathlons, and I’ve run a Tough Mudder.

I’ve been through a CrossFit phase, a rowing phase, and I am currently on a kettle-bell and functional strength phase. Yesterday, I inquired about competing in the Highland Games.

I know what I need to do, and my knowledge is extensive, I just can’t seem to find the one  workout that sticks.

My current workout is big, heavy and frozen to the ground.

I roll it behind the garden. It splashes down with a muddy thud. I inch my fingers under it and squat down. I pop it up easily. The mud splatters my shirt as it falls. Ten flips to one end of the garden, ten flips back to the beginning.

On and on we turn, the never ending cycle of man vs. exercise. My hands start to ache and my back is on fire. My legs are warming up and sweat stings my eyes. It doesn’t seem too hard at first, but soon enough I’m doing math:

“I’ve done thirty, that means I have seventy to go. No, wait, this length will be thirty. Ok wait, if the first length ends on an odd number and I am headed back to the start that means it will end on an even number…damn, now I lost count…ok so I think this is my third length and I am halfway through so…”

The grunts become louder. The rest at the end of the garden becomes longer. The boys want me to record them doing tricks on my phone, “Ok, but just for a minute,” I say with relief.

Mud from my fingers smudges across the screen. I am breathing heavily. Part of me wants to quit right here. I’m halfway through, that’s pretty good for my first time out, isn’t it?

I can feel the tire behind the garden. It’s mass has a gravity to it, pulling me back.

I go.

At flip number seventy, my mindset changes. It’s gonna feel so good to get there, to get to one hundred. Nothing can stop me. I am a machine. I can feel the mush transforming into iron.

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There’s just something about an outdoor workout.

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Yes! this is it, I’ve found what will get me healthy!

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This sucks, but in a good way! I am committed to this!

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“Dad! I have a bloody nose!”

I sigh as I pull my hand out from under the thick wet rubber. The kid is leaking everywhere. He’s tough but I can see a tinge of fear in his eyes.

“Ok, Bud, no problem, let’s go.”

We fumble our way into the house, shedding muddy clothes and boots as we go. 

I feel guilty as I head into the kitchen. We were out there too long. I have to get dinner made before basketball practice which is thirty minutes from now. I can see the tire  halfway down the garden path. It sits there waiting, wondering where I went. 

I didn’t reach my goal.

I failed.

The ache in my shoulders disagree with me.

I suppose it’s like life. We strive for our goals. They sustain us, they gives us hope, but sometimes we focus so much on finishing, we don’t appreciate the journey.

What if the mud and the sweat and the pain is what we strive for?

Who would we become? What would we value?

It might just make us love ourselves a little more.

-Mike Sposito

Owner Spowerks LLC

For proper tire-flipping technique check out this link!