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| it had been a long day, but he was here to forget all that, to run. he
was not fast, but sometimes it helped to have a hobby for which he had
no talent. running humbled him, it took his complete concentration, it
disconnected him from the outside world. for others it was basketball
or sailing, for him, well, it was running.
he opened the rusty
gate and glanced out over the large expanse of nothingness; the field,
it beckoned him. he started out at a slow walk, savoring the sounds and
smells of the early summer evening. then, smoothly, almost
imperceptibly, he began to jog, the emotion welling up inside of him,
ready to burst forth. a smile slowly crept across his face as his legs
moved faster and faster, and slowly, surely, like the engine of a steam
locomotive, he gained speed.
he flew through the field, his
legs a multicolored blur against the yellow grass and blue sky. he
picked up speed and whooped in pure joy, the worries of the day falling
behind him like the spent stages of an interstellar rocket. fasted and
faster he ran, until all the disappointments and denials and disgust
were nothing, absolutely nothing. he was free.
but just then, as
he reached his peak, his legs and arms and lungs in perfect synchrony,
a root reached out and grabbed his ankles, flinging him into the air, a
tangle of limbs. his face hit the hard dirt with a crack. he spit out a
tooth, his head fell back to earth. and in his mouth, the blood and
saliva mixed with the bitter tears of the knowledge that it would
always be this way. | | |
| There was a man, he was traveling from Mexico to the North Pole. Mexico
was not his birthplace, not where he lived, but this was his starting
place. He walked north, hitching rides when the dust kicked up,
stopping in bars along the way, talking with the people, living his
life like he knew he should.
But a man gets tired, and
sometimes he needs a place to hang his hat, rest his feet. For this
man, well, this place came somewhere around Norman, OK. And he had
heard that a person named Brian had lived in an apartment there and
would live there again; he had heard good things about this Brian, and
he knew that his place would be a place where a man could indeed hang
his hat, could indeed rest his feet.
So he knocked on the door
of this once and future home, no one answered, and he knocked again.
Still lacking an answer, he opened the door, trusting implicitly in the
generosity of the occupants' reputation. And there it was, the blue
couch, tattered and torn by years of use, stained with beer and
smelling of sweat and drunken nights. There was a small pillow and
black blanket crumpled next to the couch, lying on the floor. For this
man, well, it was paradise.
Living next door, I came over one
day randomly, and there he was, this man, this liver of life, sleeping
on the couch face and hands dusty, clothes unkempt. Who was he? What
was he doing here? He woke up and his eyes locked with mine.
"My name is Dave. I am traveling from Mexico and I am going to the North Pole. It is nice to meet you."
And
for whatever reason, this seemed like enough. Intrigued, I brought over
a six pack from next door, and we opened the ice cold bottles, and the
stories flowed. We laughed together and we understood each other and
the emotions were real. This Dave, he was a man you could trust, and
you don't find many of them no more. The evening together ended as they
always do, and I reluctantly said my bit and bid my adieu. I closed the
door behind me, a smile on my face and love in my heart.
After
that night, well, I never saw him again and never heard from him again,
no postcards, no letters. I don't know if he ever reached the North
Pole, and for him, I don't think it ever really mattered. The goal,
this was nothing, but the traveling, that was something. The times he
shared with the people along the way, this was something. And whether
his feet ever touched the snow of the Arctic, whether he ever played
with the polar bears, or hunted with the Eskimo, what the fuck did it
matter?
I just sure hope he found what he was looking for. And in my heart, I think I know that he did. | | |
| set the scene: we have spent 140 dollars on a ticket, a couple hundred
more on hotels and food, driven over 20 hours to watch a football game.
we are amped up.
time to get depressed. paul thompson gift
wraps the other team some points, we are playing flat as anything. our
heads are low and we feel even lower. then, slowly, surely, we come
back. we stop them over and over, and we find ourselves cheering the
team on, our voices already lost by the fourth quarter.
then,
a legendary drive to tie the game, our top receiver out, the final play
a twice-deflected miracle strike, and we need a two point conversion to
tie. our hearts are absolutely in our throats. literally about to pass
out from the adrenaline. it takes not one, not two, but three attempts
to get the ball in and on an improbable, scrambling completion. we are
sweaty and ecstatic, hugging, high fiving everyone in sign.
then,
pandemonium. an interception return for a touchdown. we go absolutely
fucking nuts, blood pounding, dizziness, a random mosh pit, running
around hugging men, slapping hands with grandpas, cutting up shins and
knees with the jumping, weeping with joy. i can't even explain to you
what we felt like, 35000 fucking crazy people wrapped up in a joy
beyond orgasmic. i had no idea what was going on but it was bliss.
but
that only lasted for 20 minutes. we lose. i curse a blue streak for 20
to 30 minutes, punch boxes and chairs, bruise my hands, curse some
more. we go home, face the 18 hour ride home in shock and despair, our
throats a raw mess, repeating the mantra, "how the hell did we lose the
game"? I mean real depression. we vow to never read or watch coverage
of the game. i dont know why we get so worked up about sports, it cant
be explained.
but for 10 minutes we had solved the world and we will have that euphoria forever.
idaho?
no. you da ho. | | |
| dancing in the street because of saddam hussein's death is retarded.
| | |
| i need to write more.
i started to write here when i realized i needed to start acknowledging my emotion. i am an extremely emotional person, and the reds and greens and whites and blues are constantly overflowing my brain, jamming the circuits. yes, i cry at the movies and when i read books and when i go to shows. yes, i can go to walmart and end up consumed by sadness thinking of what the workers' lives must be like. yes, the simplest sandwich at subway can make me euphoric and the smallest insult can make me despondent for days. that's just the way i am, and i realized these are things that must be acknowledged. after all you first must be honest with yourself.
i was raised a certain way though. my parents, my dad especially, treat emotion as a weakness. if you are raised in a large family the way they were i guess you get a skewed view of the world, toughening up, avoiding anything that could possibly be construed as being soft. and that's how i was raised, not explicitly, but by what wasn't said. sadness and anxiety were to be controlled, the mind to be reined in; these were not things discussed or expressed. so i started to internalize these things and the problem began of using humor as a crutch, constantly deflecting tendrils of true friendship. thing was, i was good at it, still am good at it. and in high school, all seemed well.
but starting college, i began to realize how wrong it all was. my complete lack of success in relationships could completely be attributed to my unwillingness to be emotionally honest with anyone, including myself. if you can't even admit to yourself when you might be angry or depressed, or more generally, who you really are, how can you really ever get to that point of vulnerability with anyone else where something real might actually bloom? and when the suicide happened, i guess that was the real wake up call as to how serious unresolved emotion can be. i'm not saying i'm clinically depressed, i'm not, but it was still a sucker punch. these things are serious. you must first be honest with yourself.
so i write here for these reasons. and this is why i must continue to write, here and elsewhere. and if this entry is too emo for you, or more than you would like to know about me that's fine. i need to dispense with the notion of trying to please other people when it comes to dealing with what is inside of me, and i think it starts here.
im gonna really restart the writing bit, i hope mainly in the form of stories that i've been working on. i think it will be good.
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