The worst thing about being first out in a poker game is it gets you thinking. You’re out, alone, and practically kicking yourself for that last bogus call. You can’t seem to sum up the courage to distract the others’ concentration and so you zone out into your own world imagining the possibilities of the turn and river.
Did I play too tight? Or was I too aggressive? Should I have played that folded hand? And what about that Ace 8? You really wonder if you’ve made the wise move or it’s really just the luck of the draw.
Perhaps it’d be better to be out than hanging on by a thread, winning a small pot or two just to prolong the agony. You keep hoping for chances you’re not sure will come at the same time second guessing everyone else.
Sometimes the ponder goes even deeper than that. You’ll, no doubt, reach the point when you start to compare your life thus far to a certain hand.
Of all of them, the one that seems to stick is an Ace 8. It’s an odd hand, really. Halfway between here and there, it’s playability depending heavily on the situation, or perhaps more on if you’re one to take chances or not.
Maybe it was wise to fold on the flop, not having paired it up with anything. Or would you let the fish hooks bait you in, hoping the river will deliver that second lifesaving bullet. It ain’t that deep in the pit, but it will certainly take some aggressive play to fish it out of the spot it’s in. And there’s always the chance that everyone will call.
Any wise player will fold versus pockets. I guess that’s where the optimist in me comes out. Here I am hoping the river will deliver, while every one seems to be paired up either at the pre-flop, flop or the turn. And here I am still hoping the river will deliver.
5.24.2006
5.19.2006
Nomad So To Speak
It’s been quite a while. What with all the moving I’ve been undergoing, it’s quite difficult to sit down and get some thoughts together. I’ve been quite the nomad lately, and have, for now, settled back into where I started — the old house.
Yet the moving itself was quite a different experience. It’s a different kind of discipline knowing that you only have yourself to rely on when it comes to keeping safe whatever valuables you have at home. It’s always on your mind. It’s that gnawing feeling that tells you you might have left your stove on, or have forgotten to look the door. Or that water could be overflowing in the tank, each droplet, echoing the ding of coins adding to that enormous water bill. Or wonder if the dogs have enough food and water so they don’t decide to tear up furniture in a fit of boredom. It pesters you until you’re inevitably forced to return home early and make sure everything is safe, and to kill that damn anxiety. It’s the same anxiety that cancels weekend plans, urges you to sit back and enjoy a beer, find novel ways of amusing yourself and while the hours away. Why spend to go out when staying in is costing you just as much?
It’s all quite contrary to what I was steadily growing adept at a couple of weeks before — escapism, a fear of home of sorts — anything to avoid return to the domestic chaos. You find all sorts of excuses to avoid the inevitable. An hour extension turns into two, weekend plans turn into overnight, and gimmicks slowly creep into morning so that much of the day is spent sleeping through the daily household routines. Sleepover invites will be taken up with little discretion, if only we were still twelve, and any and all acts couldn’t be misconstrued as any other nature.
In both cases, home ceases to be a home, but rather just a place to rest. It’s a halfway house on a long pilgrimage — a temporary shelter from the enduring pain of the trek.
I’ve rehearsed a certain speech countless times in my head in the hopes that the day I finally deliver it will be the end of my woes — a search answered by discovery. It’s not so much the physical comfort I seek but the balm that only a certain manner, a certain trust, a certain anticipation can knead.
Perhaps I’m just nitpicking and ought to learn to appreciate more. But you still can’t help but why wonder why a part of it just isn’t quite inviting.
Yet the moving itself was quite a different experience. It’s a different kind of discipline knowing that you only have yourself to rely on when it comes to keeping safe whatever valuables you have at home. It’s always on your mind. It’s that gnawing feeling that tells you you might have left your stove on, or have forgotten to look the door. Or that water could be overflowing in the tank, each droplet, echoing the ding of coins adding to that enormous water bill. Or wonder if the dogs have enough food and water so they don’t decide to tear up furniture in a fit of boredom. It pesters you until you’re inevitably forced to return home early and make sure everything is safe, and to kill that damn anxiety. It’s the same anxiety that cancels weekend plans, urges you to sit back and enjoy a beer, find novel ways of amusing yourself and while the hours away. Why spend to go out when staying in is costing you just as much?
It’s all quite contrary to what I was steadily growing adept at a couple of weeks before — escapism, a fear of home of sorts — anything to avoid return to the domestic chaos. You find all sorts of excuses to avoid the inevitable. An hour extension turns into two, weekend plans turn into overnight, and gimmicks slowly creep into morning so that much of the day is spent sleeping through the daily household routines. Sleepover invites will be taken up with little discretion, if only we were still twelve, and any and all acts couldn’t be misconstrued as any other nature.
In both cases, home ceases to be a home, but rather just a place to rest. It’s a halfway house on a long pilgrimage — a temporary shelter from the enduring pain of the trek.
I’ve rehearsed a certain speech countless times in my head in the hopes that the day I finally deliver it will be the end of my woes — a search answered by discovery. It’s not so much the physical comfort I seek but the balm that only a certain manner, a certain trust, a certain anticipation can knead.
Perhaps I’m just nitpicking and ought to learn to appreciate more. But you still can’t help but why wonder why a part of it just isn’t quite inviting.
