"Then leaf subsides to leaf." - Robert Frost
I said goodbye to an old friend tonight. I've only known her for four and a half years. But "old friend" still feels like the right way to put it. A lot passed in that short period of time. Her life saw a lot of changes. Mine did too.
Right from the beginning, we shared things with each other. We opened up the good, the bad, and the ugly. And we seemed to accept, and even embrace, all of those aspects of each other with little effort.
She's moving across the country. She may be back here one day. She may not. But it still felt like goodbye. I'll keep in touch. I'll see her again, whether here or there. But it's goodbye in the sense that we won't be meeting for drinks or coffee. We won't go bowling or see a concert or take her dog for a walk. No more Monday morning matinee movies in January. We'll just catch up every now and then.
I've done this before. I've moved away from friends. And friends have moved away from me. And I'm mostly okay with it. It's a little sad, to be sure. But this is what happens in life. People come in and out of it. You tie a string to the most important ones, and every now and then you tug it, just to make sure that they're there. But they're barely there. Over time their voices grow faint and their images become blurry.
We met briefly for coffee. I saw that her car was filled to the brim with the few possessions that she hadn't abandoned. We were both tired, and her night wasn't quite done. We stumbled through some small talk. And then it was time for her to go.
She dropped me off at my apartment and I felt a sadness that I never gave voice to. I already regret that.
An hour later, I picked up the phone and sent her a text. Trying to do justice to the goodbye that I felt. We traded a few inside jokes and I smiled. The jokes were small acknowledgments of the history that we'd shared. Something that was ours and ours alone. That would have to do.
She should already be in another state by now.
Monday, October 31, 2011
There Isn't
It's the middle of the night. I'm in my bed. There is no sound other than the low hum of the refrigerator.
There is a sense of neglect to my apartment. My sheets and blanket need to be washed. Magazines and books and stacks of CDs need to be reorganized. I should vacuum and mop too. The place feels like an old car with rust on the body and an empty pop can that has been on the floorboard too long. I feel a little dirty by extension. And I also have the somewhat contradictory feeling of having just woken up here.
I've been reading. The book is Stop-Time by Frank Conroy. The line that keeps coming back to me is this: "...as if there were all the time in the world."
I keep putting the book down and looking around at my apartment. And I feel those words crawling all over everything.
There is a sense of neglect to my apartment. My sheets and blanket need to be washed. Magazines and books and stacks of CDs need to be reorganized. I should vacuum and mop too. The place feels like an old car with rust on the body and an empty pop can that has been on the floorboard too long. I feel a little dirty by extension. And I also have the somewhat contradictory feeling of having just woken up here.
I've been reading. The book is Stop-Time by Frank Conroy. The line that keeps coming back to me is this: "...as if there were all the time in the world."
I keep putting the book down and looking around at my apartment. And I feel those words crawling all over everything.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
The Crushing Weight of Doubt
Some days I sit in front of this keyboard and I feel good. I find a thread to follow. I find a way to express something that I'm thinking or feeling. And if I can sit back and look at the product of that day, and believe that I've created something honest, then I'll probably feel pretty good about it.
Other days nothing comes out. On those days, I usually feel like I have something to say, but I just can't find it. I can bounce around from one angle to the next. I can poke and prod. I can shake all the bushes, but the thing that I'm searching for remains hidden, and I'm eventually forced to abandon my search for the day.
And then there are days like today. And those are by far the worse. Those are the days when the heavy voice of doubt is booming down from the mountaintops. "Who the fuck do you think you are? What the hell makes you think that you have anything meaningful to say? Why would anybody give a shit about your thoughts on anything? You're nothing special. You're a joke. You have nothing to offer anybody. So just shut up and go away. Find a corner to crawl into. Finish out your pathetic little life in your pathetic little corner, and be done with it."
Days like today are tough. But writing this made it a little less so.
Other days nothing comes out. On those days, I usually feel like I have something to say, but I just can't find it. I can bounce around from one angle to the next. I can poke and prod. I can shake all the bushes, but the thing that I'm searching for remains hidden, and I'm eventually forced to abandon my search for the day.
And then there are days like today. And those are by far the worse. Those are the days when the heavy voice of doubt is booming down from the mountaintops. "Who the fuck do you think you are? What the hell makes you think that you have anything meaningful to say? Why would anybody give a shit about your thoughts on anything? You're nothing special. You're a joke. You have nothing to offer anybody. So just shut up and go away. Find a corner to crawl into. Finish out your pathetic little life in your pathetic little corner, and be done with it."
Days like today are tough. But writing this made it a little less so.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Obstacles
"I just have to make sure that in my mind, I'm ready for being able to play with the pain." - Kim Clijsters
Seven weeks from tomorrow, I am going to run the Memphis Marathon. I'm not ready. I'm far from ready. I sprained my ankle last month, and every time I think it's on the mend, I have another setback. So now, I'm giving it all the rest I can.
I've run once in the last ten days, and that hurt. So I sit. I elevate. I ice. It's not good for me to sit this much. Running is much more than just exercise. It is my grip on sanity. It keeps my head clear. It brings me peace. Without it, my thoughts swirl and crash into one another. I get anxious. I become irritable.
And I look at my shoes. I look out of the window. And that just compounds the frustration. I just want to run.
I still go to the gym. I lift. I get on the elliptical. I should be swimming more.
I have seven weeks. I'm not in bad shape now. I'm just not in marathon shape. If I can get back on the road next week, then there is still hope. Hope of getting myself in a position to enjoy the race. I've already thrown the clock out of the window. This won't be my fastest marathon. But that doesn't mean that it can't be a good one. I can put in a lot of work in six weeks. If I'm healthy.
In the meantime, I sit. I elevate. I ice. I simmer. I try not to boil over.
Seven weeks from tomorrow, I am going to run the Memphis Marathon. I'm not ready. I'm far from ready. I sprained my ankle last month, and every time I think it's on the mend, I have another setback. So now, I'm giving it all the rest I can.
I've run once in the last ten days, and that hurt. So I sit. I elevate. I ice. It's not good for me to sit this much. Running is much more than just exercise. It is my grip on sanity. It keeps my head clear. It brings me peace. Without it, my thoughts swirl and crash into one another. I get anxious. I become irritable.
And I look at my shoes. I look out of the window. And that just compounds the frustration. I just want to run.
I still go to the gym. I lift. I get on the elliptical. I should be swimming more.
I have seven weeks. I'm not in bad shape now. I'm just not in marathon shape. If I can get back on the road next week, then there is still hope. Hope of getting myself in a position to enjoy the race. I've already thrown the clock out of the window. This won't be my fastest marathon. But that doesn't mean that it can't be a good one. I can put in a lot of work in six weeks. If I'm healthy.
In the meantime, I sit. I elevate. I ice. I simmer. I try not to boil over.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Room With A View
I was at a high school yesterday afternoon. I was there to help some students with their English papers. There were a lot of students in the Learning Resource Center, which is available for one hour after classes are over. Many were working on their own. Perhaps just taking advantage of an atmosphere that is conducive to studying. Others were using the computers. And others were there in search of academic assistance. The latter group is the smallest, though not for lack of need.
It can be difficult to ask for help. Difficult to admit uncertainty or reveal any sense of vulnerability. This is true for most of us, but it's an insecurity that can be especially acute among adolescents. Though some of the students did seem to be more comfortable asking for help with some subjects than with others.
I sat at the table designated for English tutors and waited for students. There were students at the math table, and several at the science table. One student asked me if I knew anything about quantum mechanics. I told her that I didn't, but that I'd try to read through the work with her and help in any way that I could until a more qualified tutor became available. Thankfully the cavalry arrived sooner, rather than later.
I also talked with a teacher for a moment. We discussed the low levels of writing proficiency among many of the students. That was something that I'd seen firsthand through tutoring, but that she was more intimately familiar with. She nodded at the empty seats at the English table and said, "that's a tough one for them to admit they need help with."
I thought about that statement for a while. For better or for worse, math and science are subjects that many people in our society struggle with. Perhaps that lessens the feelings of inadequacy for the students that need help in those areas.
But English is different. Our relationship with words is personal. We use language to communicate with each other. We use it categorize and organize everything that we encounter in the complex world around us. And, perhaps most importantly, we use language to sort through and define our own internal thoughts and feelings. And in that sense, our words are intricately and inseparably tied to our sense of self.
In that light, it makes sense that students would be hesitant to ask for help. The insecurities, anxieties, and self-doubt that seem part and parcel of being a teenager, would make the already difficult task of opening oneself to personal criticism seem absolutely unbearable.
However, being sympathetic to that doesn't really help me as I sit at the table waiting for a student. I can create a recipe that spices up constructive criticism with sincere praise, but I still have to get some food in the kitchen in order to cook.
I'd like to say that I had some sort of epiphany while waiting for students. That I discovered a method for miraculously breaking down the defensive barriers built by pride and fear. It feels good to wrap a nice little bow around the solution to a problem. But that didn't happen.
I did eventually get a student to work with though. He was writing a paper on Macbeth. He knew what he wanted to say, but he wanted my help with the structural aspects of the paper. He knew that there were improvements to be made, and that those improvements were escaping him. He listened to my feedback openly and thoughtfully, and seemed eager take what he could from our exchange.
His willingness to acknowledge his linguistic shortcomings was both refreshing and endearing. And I found myself searching for the source of that courage while we talked. He apparently excelled in other areas, such as the hard sciences. Maybe that success helped give him the confidence to address the things that he struggled with. Though I'm sure that there is much more to it than that. My interaction with him was brief. And any conclusions that I might come to about what makes him who he is, would be hopelessly incomplete.
We finished up, and I looked at the clock. The hour was almost over. I looked around the room. I looked at the students. Watched them interact with each other. Saw a few knowing glances exchanged among friends. Noticed the top of the high school hierarchy of strong boys and pretty girls. And I saw a few fevered pencils quickening as the time to leave approached.
There was something comforting about the familiarity of it all. There were plenty of outward differences between this environment and my own adolescence. But underneath, there was something timeless and reassuring. Something that said that all of life's dilemmas were here long before I was, and that they'll all be here long after I'm gone. There is a peace that comes with the moments that I can see this, and yesterday I got that peace for a little while.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
A Collection of Random Thoughts From a 17 Mile Run Through Chicago on a Cool Fall Day
Standing on my front step. Looking at the light rain. Hesitant. And finally into the street. The first steps are good. Not great. But better than what I'd feared. Tightness in both upper thighs and my right calf. But nothing that I can't run with. And the left ankle feels fine for now.
East on 19th Street. Go by the old laundromat. Cross the weed choked railroad tracks. Come out onto Halsted and turn south. I feel good. Better than expected. But this is a long run, and it's dangerous to get too excited too early.
Over the drawbridge, under the Orange Line tracks, out of Pilsen, and into Bridgeport. The doors are open at Freddie's. They're not open for business yet. But this is the first time I've seen the inside of the building since the fire. It's been completely gutted. Everybody inside is wearing a tool belt. And nobody is eating pizza. But it's good to see that there is work being done.
A man mowing the lawn in the rain. I remember mowing lawns with an electric mower when I was a kid. Long orange extension cord stretched out behind me. One couple that I mowed for, seemed to always be fighting. I wonder where they are now. I wonder what they're like.
East on 35th. Run by the ballpark. Tag the statue. Rituals can be helpful. They can help you remember things that might be easily forgotten otherwise. Over the Dan Ryan. Under the Metra tracks.
Out of Bridgeport, and into Bronzeville. North on State. Through the ITT campus. Dodging students. Umbrellas in one hand. Cell phones in the other. Eyes locked on the phone.
Traffic on State Street is light, yet slow. A cruising sedan parts the waters of a giant puddle, like a canoe on a small lake. A crosswalk beeps its signals for the visually impaired. I cross the street and make a soft left back onto the sidewalk. Careful with the ankle.
East on 31st. Moving beyond the campus. Residential Bronzville. Vacant lots behind chain link fences. Old churches. Broken glass in the gutter. A lonely gas station. John J. Pershing Magnet School. The lights behind the windows of the classroom trailer seem dim. The fall weather suits the neighborhood well, and I feel comfortable and at peace as I pass through.
Onto the bridge that takes me over a dozen or so sets of of railroad tracks. Outbound trains headed for places like South Bend, Indiana and Kalamazoo, Michigan. The skyline comes into view from the bridge. The dark and misty fingers of the sky grab the tops of the buildings like a chess player resting his hands on his pieces, uncertain of his next move.
Onto the lakefront path. 31st Street Beach. An elderly man is talking to himself about the rain and the wind and the waves. And my first thought is that he's at least a little crazy. But I was contemplating the same things in my head. And he was simply giving voice to his thoughts. Is that gap so big?
The man fades into the background, and I'm left with one of Chicago's best kept secrets. The south end of the lakefront path. Bird sanctuaries filled with wildflowers. Waves crashing into the seawall. Several miles of quiet open space. The rain picked up as I ran by the Fallen Firemen and Paramedics Memorial Park.
Next to McCormick Place, I see a small group of ducks with their beaks shoved into small puddles. And I wonder what type of food there is to be found in such a spot. On the north side of Burnham Harbor, I see people fishing in the rain. They're the first people I've seen since the old man.
Around the aquarium and into the downtown stretch of lakefront. The weather keeps all but the most determined tourists at bay on a day like today. And even this stretch is free of all but a handful of people and a few dozen geese.
Ohio Street Beach. Oak Street Beach. People standing by the water. Just looking at it. That's incredibly common. Something about the massive body of water just draws the attention of people. I don't remember ever going for a run along the lakefront without seeing at least one person in that trance-like state.
North Avenue Beach. One last water fountain, before heading into Lincoln Park and turning south to go home. Empty carb packets litter the area around the fountain. Many of this city's marathoners are only twelve days from Race Day. And they will have just finished the last of their long runs.
There had been trucks scattered along the beaches. Gathering seasonal equipment, and taking it to storage until next year. And the same thing was happening in the park.
I ran through Old Town. Boutiques and restaurants. Bars and condos. A world that always feels a little foreign to me. I pass the shop windows and give a passing glance to the things that I can't imagine even wanting, much less buying. With the one exception being food. I do love food in all of its delightful variety.
The fatigue and the soreness were getting hard to ignore. It was a lazy summer, and the rust is still apparent. But there was no sign of injury. And fatigue and soreness can be beat. Besides, I wasn't settling for anything other than total exhaustion today.
I ran down Orleans, just south of Division. A stretch of road that doesn't seem to fit with any of the neighborhoods that surround it. Not Old Town to the north, or the Gold Coast to the east. Nor River North to the south, or the ruins of Cabrini to the west. Orleans from Division St. to Chicago Ave. serves as a cafeteria for many of the city's cab drivers. Indian, Pakistani, and Somalian restaurants populate this stretch of the city. A small pocket for the locals, on the outskirts of a downtown area that is geared to the tourists and suburbanites that seem to prefer the comfort and familiarity of the big chain restaurants.
I turned west, not wanting to get caught downtown. I ran by the home of the Jesse White Tumblers and a large community garden. And I turned south on Halsted, rounding the Tribune building. As I climbed my final bridge, I put my head down and locked my attention into a series of slow but steady strides. Up the hill. Over the tracks. No slacking on the pace. Crest the hill. And bring the head up to feel the rain as the downhill stretch begins.
This is the spot that tells me I'm almost home. Just a few more miles to go. My steps were slow, and my legs were heavy. But I felt good. I wasn't moving fast, but I was moving clean. There was no hitch. No pain. I was almost 15 miles in, and I was fine.
My head cleared as I moved through the West Loop and made my way back home to Pilsen. I wasn't thinking much about my surroundings anymore. I was just movement. Steady, flowing, movement.
I saw a small bird on the sidewalk near the end of the run. It wasn't moving, but it sat upright and from a distance it didn't seem hurt. But as I got closer, I could see it's right wing was sticking out at an unnatural angle. And then I got close enough to see the raindrops collecting on its cold stiff feathers. Beads of water standing on the stillness of a vacant vessel. I stepped over it and made my way home.
Nine and a half weeks 'til the Memphis Marathon. Time to move.
East on 19th Street. Go by the old laundromat. Cross the weed choked railroad tracks. Come out onto Halsted and turn south. I feel good. Better than expected. But this is a long run, and it's dangerous to get too excited too early.
Over the drawbridge, under the Orange Line tracks, out of Pilsen, and into Bridgeport. The doors are open at Freddie's. They're not open for business yet. But this is the first time I've seen the inside of the building since the fire. It's been completely gutted. Everybody inside is wearing a tool belt. And nobody is eating pizza. But it's good to see that there is work being done.
A man mowing the lawn in the rain. I remember mowing lawns with an electric mower when I was a kid. Long orange extension cord stretched out behind me. One couple that I mowed for, seemed to always be fighting. I wonder where they are now. I wonder what they're like.
East on 35th. Run by the ballpark. Tag the statue. Rituals can be helpful. They can help you remember things that might be easily forgotten otherwise. Over the Dan Ryan. Under the Metra tracks.
Out of Bridgeport, and into Bronzeville. North on State. Through the ITT campus. Dodging students. Umbrellas in one hand. Cell phones in the other. Eyes locked on the phone.
Traffic on State Street is light, yet slow. A cruising sedan parts the waters of a giant puddle, like a canoe on a small lake. A crosswalk beeps its signals for the visually impaired. I cross the street and make a soft left back onto the sidewalk. Careful with the ankle.
East on 31st. Moving beyond the campus. Residential Bronzville. Vacant lots behind chain link fences. Old churches. Broken glass in the gutter. A lonely gas station. John J. Pershing Magnet School. The lights behind the windows of the classroom trailer seem dim. The fall weather suits the neighborhood well, and I feel comfortable and at peace as I pass through.
Onto the bridge that takes me over a dozen or so sets of of railroad tracks. Outbound trains headed for places like South Bend, Indiana and Kalamazoo, Michigan. The skyline comes into view from the bridge. The dark and misty fingers of the sky grab the tops of the buildings like a chess player resting his hands on his pieces, uncertain of his next move.
Onto the lakefront path. 31st Street Beach. An elderly man is talking to himself about the rain and the wind and the waves. And my first thought is that he's at least a little crazy. But I was contemplating the same things in my head. And he was simply giving voice to his thoughts. Is that gap so big?
The man fades into the background, and I'm left with one of Chicago's best kept secrets. The south end of the lakefront path. Bird sanctuaries filled with wildflowers. Waves crashing into the seawall. Several miles of quiet open space. The rain picked up as I ran by the Fallen Firemen and Paramedics Memorial Park.
Next to McCormick Place, I see a small group of ducks with their beaks shoved into small puddles. And I wonder what type of food there is to be found in such a spot. On the north side of Burnham Harbor, I see people fishing in the rain. They're the first people I've seen since the old man.
Around the aquarium and into the downtown stretch of lakefront. The weather keeps all but the most determined tourists at bay on a day like today. And even this stretch is free of all but a handful of people and a few dozen geese.
Ohio Street Beach. Oak Street Beach. People standing by the water. Just looking at it. That's incredibly common. Something about the massive body of water just draws the attention of people. I don't remember ever going for a run along the lakefront without seeing at least one person in that trance-like state.
North Avenue Beach. One last water fountain, before heading into Lincoln Park and turning south to go home. Empty carb packets litter the area around the fountain. Many of this city's marathoners are only twelve days from Race Day. And they will have just finished the last of their long runs.
There had been trucks scattered along the beaches. Gathering seasonal equipment, and taking it to storage until next year. And the same thing was happening in the park.
I ran through Old Town. Boutiques and restaurants. Bars and condos. A world that always feels a little foreign to me. I pass the shop windows and give a passing glance to the things that I can't imagine even wanting, much less buying. With the one exception being food. I do love food in all of its delightful variety.
The fatigue and the soreness were getting hard to ignore. It was a lazy summer, and the rust is still apparent. But there was no sign of injury. And fatigue and soreness can be beat. Besides, I wasn't settling for anything other than total exhaustion today.
I ran down Orleans, just south of Division. A stretch of road that doesn't seem to fit with any of the neighborhoods that surround it. Not Old Town to the north, or the Gold Coast to the east. Nor River North to the south, or the ruins of Cabrini to the west. Orleans from Division St. to Chicago Ave. serves as a cafeteria for many of the city's cab drivers. Indian, Pakistani, and Somalian restaurants populate this stretch of the city. A small pocket for the locals, on the outskirts of a downtown area that is geared to the tourists and suburbanites that seem to prefer the comfort and familiarity of the big chain restaurants.
I turned west, not wanting to get caught downtown. I ran by the home of the Jesse White Tumblers and a large community garden. And I turned south on Halsted, rounding the Tribune building. As I climbed my final bridge, I put my head down and locked my attention into a series of slow but steady strides. Up the hill. Over the tracks. No slacking on the pace. Crest the hill. And bring the head up to feel the rain as the downhill stretch begins.
This is the spot that tells me I'm almost home. Just a few more miles to go. My steps were slow, and my legs were heavy. But I felt good. I wasn't moving fast, but I was moving clean. There was no hitch. No pain. I was almost 15 miles in, and I was fine.
My head cleared as I moved through the West Loop and made my way back home to Pilsen. I wasn't thinking much about my surroundings anymore. I was just movement. Steady, flowing, movement.
I saw a small bird on the sidewalk near the end of the run. It wasn't moving, but it sat upright and from a distance it didn't seem hurt. But as I got closer, I could see it's right wing was sticking out at an unnatural angle. And then I got close enough to see the raindrops collecting on its cold stiff feathers. Beads of water standing on the stillness of a vacant vessel. I stepped over it and made my way home.
Nine and a half weeks 'til the Memphis Marathon. Time to move.
Into The Storm
"Everyone who has run knows that its most important value is in removing tension and allowing a release from whatever other cares the day may bring." - Jimmy Carter
I got up at 6:00 this morning. I work at night, so it's rare that I'm up before 8:00 or 9:00. My dreams were strange and vivid, and maybe even somewhat relevant to the real world? I've got too much crap in my head right now. Unavoidable family stuff for the most part. Things that I am helpless to change, and equally helpless to let go of. I'm glad that my training schedule calls for a long run today. It's the only way I know to clear my head.
17 miles. That will be the longest run I've done since I ran the Cleveland Marathon in May. I feel pretty far removed from that race. But I'm slowly making my way forward. And I do have time. The race is nine weeks from Saturday. If I can get back into a good rhythm within the next few weeks, then I'll be fine. I keep reminding myself that I ran my fastest marathon just three and a half months after my slowest. And most of those gains happened in the final two months of training.
But that's looking too far down the road. Right now I just want to run. And I want to feel good doing it.
The sky outside of my window looks something like an old blanket that's been left outside for months. It may have had some color to it once upon a time, but it's just a grey mass now. Cold and heavy and wet. And the trees are not made a brighter green by the rain, the way they are in the spring. They just look tired. I imagine the lake looks restless and agitated right now. It all sounds incredibly inviting. Time to lace 'em up. Time to run.
I got up at 6:00 this morning. I work at night, so it's rare that I'm up before 8:00 or 9:00. My dreams were strange and vivid, and maybe even somewhat relevant to the real world? I've got too much crap in my head right now. Unavoidable family stuff for the most part. Things that I am helpless to change, and equally helpless to let go of. I'm glad that my training schedule calls for a long run today. It's the only way I know to clear my head.
17 miles. That will be the longest run I've done since I ran the Cleveland Marathon in May. I feel pretty far removed from that race. But I'm slowly making my way forward. And I do have time. The race is nine weeks from Saturday. If I can get back into a good rhythm within the next few weeks, then I'll be fine. I keep reminding myself that I ran my fastest marathon just three and a half months after my slowest. And most of those gains happened in the final two months of training.
But that's looking too far down the road. Right now I just want to run. And I want to feel good doing it.
The sky outside of my window looks something like an old blanket that's been left outside for months. It may have had some color to it once upon a time, but it's just a grey mass now. Cold and heavy and wet. And the trees are not made a brighter green by the rain, the way they are in the spring. They just look tired. I imagine the lake looks restless and agitated right now. It all sounds incredibly inviting. Time to lace 'em up. Time to run.
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