Help From Outside

"You don't understand anything until you learn it more than one way." - Marvin Minsky

   Run head first into the wall. Bang your head against it a couple more times for good measure. And repeat.

   I spent a pretty good chunk of this past Tuesday afternoon doing that. I had a partner. Or perhaps I was her partner. Either way, the wall came in the form of fourth grade math. And we never did break through it. Nor did we wise up and look for another route.

   Fractions and decimals. 3/4 = .75. That kinda thing. I couldn't get it to stick to her. I tried the usual analogies. I pulled coins from my backpack. Showed her some of the ways in which she already converts numbers from one form to another on a daily basis. But she wasn't having it. And as time wore on, she even seemed to regress. Not only was she failing to learn the new stuff, but she was suddenly incapable of doing the more simple work that she'd done just fine with only moments before. Arms folded. Lips pursed. Eyes stared off into eternity. The verdict was in. She had reached her zenith, and there was nowhere to go but down.

   Of course that probably wasn't her zenith. Her next tutor probably found a better way to explain it to her. And she is probably on her way to new challenges in arithmetic as I write this. Or perhaps that was it. Perhaps she's smoking her first cigarette right now. Setting in motion a series of bad decisions that will culminate in a life full of hardship and bad math skills. But regardless of her path, my mistake remains the same. I didn't find another approach.

   It's not that I didn't consider the need for another approach. I did. But I wasn't coming up with anything useful on my own, and I didn't ask for help. There was plenty of help to be had. I was in a room with more than a dozen other tutors. There was another tutor three feet away from me. Hell, I could have even asked an older student. Somebody that had just learned this stuff as recently as last year. But I didn't. I just beat my head against the wall. I acted as though I too had reached my zenith. I acted as though I had nothing more to learn from anybody else. That student and I were two peas in a pod.

   The next morning, I went for a run along Lake Michigan with my friend Ryan. It was sunny and unseasonably warm. We ran at an easy pace. We talked about basketball. We talked about running. And we talked about running injuries.

   I still haven't fully recovered from an ankle injury that I suffered over five months ago. I've tried a few things. I've tried rest. I've tried light running. I've ditched old shoes. I've done some ankle exercises. And then I've repeated those same things. Over and over.

   As we ran, we dodged the holes and ruts that winter weather had worn into the lakefront path, and Ryan occasionally dropped behind me when the path grew narrow. That vantage point offers a view of a runner's form that they're unable to get on their own. From behind, you can see how a runner's feet hit the ground. And if you get just a little to the side, you can gauge their stride and posture. Ryan is a running coach, and naturally engaging and personable, so it made sense that as he dropped behind me while I talked about my injury, that he'd take a moment to assess my form and offer his thoughts.

   He had several things to point out about my form. And he offered a number of suggestions as to how I might make some changes or improvements that might keep me healthy, and perhaps even make me a faster and more efficient runner.

   I took his advice. I started working with his ideas during that run. And yesterday, I got on a treadmill by myself and focused on a couple of specific points that seem to need some work. And while that didn't lead to any immediate miracle cure, it did seem to help quite a bit. I found myself running with a level of physical comfort that I hadn't had in a while. And with that comfort came some hope and optimism that has also been in short supply as of late.

   But there was also a sense of frustration. For months, I've been beating my head against the wall. Fighting this injury with the same failed tactics. Over and over. Folding my arms. Pursing my lips. Staring into eternity. And choosing to ignore all of the help that is readily available for me. Choosing to go at it alone, rather than acknowledge that somebody else can offer a perspective that I'm not seeing on my own.

   This pattern isn't a new one. It's one that I've struggled with for as long as I can remember. And I know that there is not going to be any instant and immediate change in that regard.  I won't walk away from this keyboard and make a dramatic and permanent change in the way that I deal with adversity. And my ankle won't instantly heal, simply because I tried something new. And that student won't magically let go of her frustrations and begin soaking up every lesson thrown her way.

   But I can chip away at it. A moment of humility here. An awkward and embarrassing question there. I can let my guard down from time to time. And hopefully, eventually, come to the conclusion that I never needed to have it up in the first place.

   

Kevin

   My big brother, Kevin, was born forty-one years ago today. He passed away nearly twenty years ago. I've thought about him often over the course of those two decades. I've thought about who he was, and the impact that he had, and continues to have, on those who knew him. I've thought about the time that I spent with him, and I've thought about the times that I missed out on his company, even though it was right there waiting for me.

   I was eighteen years old when he died. At that point in my life, I didn't have a healthy appreciation for the impermanence of everything and everybody around me. I didn't have an appreciation for my own impermanence. So I took people for granted. I took time for granted. But in a sense, that also helped me get the most out of some of the experiences that I did have with him.

   During childhood and adolescence, I was totally caught up in the immediacy of whatever thoughts and feelings I was experiencing at any given moment. I wasn't concerned with the "big picture" of life. Life was what was going on right then and there. And that helped me see Kevin in ways that I'm not sure I'd have been able to see him, had I known him as an adult. Had I seen him in the context of our mutual mortality, I might have missed some of the more subtle, and most valuable, experiences that we shared.

   Kevin was born with cerebral palsy. He wasn't expected to live long enough to leave the hospital. But he not only left the hospital, he lived another twenty-one years. And to this day I can't say that I've known a happier person.

   Outside of the house, Kevin was usually in a wheelchair. That wheelchair took him to school and church. It took him to Easter Seals Camp and to the park. And when he went to those places he infected everybody around him with his smile and with his voice. He sang loud and often, regardless of where he was. Propriety was never a concern of his. But at home, he was rarely in the wheelchair. At home, he was usually on a thin mat or beach towel, on the floor.

   I remember laying down next to him on innumerable occasions. Sometimes we'd be the only two people in the room. A television or radio might be on, but we were otherwise alone. And I'd lay on the floor with him. Two little boys. Two brothers. And I'd look at him, and he'd look back. But he looked back in a way that nobody else did. He looked at me in a way that nobody else did. It seemed like he was completely free of any consideration of himself. He just soaked up my every movement. Every facial expression, every word spoken, every inflection in my voice. It felt like all of that was being taken in. And in turn I looked at him differently. He wasn't like everybody else. He seemed to be more. When I think about those moments now, I can't help but wonder. I wonder if I can find that place that he was in.  

      The father of three of my cousins passed away yesterday. And on that topic, my cousin Katrina posted this on her Facebook page this morning: "My Dad lost his battle with Pancreatic Cancer yesterday. Everyone keeps asking how I'm doing... Here's what I want to share; I'm okay. I was so blessed to get to spend time with him just last week. While the battle was long and full of highs and lows... It allowed me extra time to pay closer attention to things like, the way his beard felt when he kissed me on the cheek, Or the expression on his face when he told a story that he wanted to get just right. I'm thankful for the time I got to spend and that I was able to have a few more memories to cherish."


   I read those words, and it reminded me of Kevin. It reminded me of those days from my childhood when I could recognize his ability to see other people. To see them without a filter. To see them with curiosity and compassion, rather than with judgement or frustration. To see them without his outward vision being tethered to his vision of himself.

   And I've spent most of today with those thoughts. Thoughts of others and how I relate to them. Thoughts that are at times fragmented and uneasy. And at other times warm and reassuring. And I haven't come to any grand conclusions. I've had no epiphany. I'm just sitting here in front of my computer. Drinking too much coffee. As lost as ever. Trying to make sense of a world and a life that seems so overwhelming at times. But grateful nonetheless, for those fleeting moments of clarity that I receive from others, during those brief moments that I'm able to see what is right in front of me.

Happy Birthday Kevin.

 


  

Preaching and Practicing

"All it takes is all you got." - Marc Davis

   I was on the treadmill yesterday and my thoughts drifted to a friend. I was going to meet this friend for coffee after I left the gym. Our original plan was to meet for pizza. (She is a former Chicagoan. And I would imagine that upon leaving this city, one of the more devastating losses to deal with would be the loss of Chicago pizza.) But pizza was cancelled. Though not because Chicago pizza became any less delicious. It was cancelled because she was at the borderline starvation stage of her seemingly endless cycle of dieting.

   It's a frustrating process to watch. In part, because I know how fruitless and unhealthy that process is. But also because she knows how fruitless and unhealthy that process is, yet she continues with it anyway. However, I've had that conversation more times than I've cared to, and so I just agreed to switch to coffee and I kept my self-righteous rants to myself.

   As I continued to run, my thoughts breezed on through other topics, before eventually settling on my upcoming marathon training schedule. I've been fighting an ankle injury for months. I think that it's more or less healed at this point, but I know that I need to do more to build the strength back up. I need to do ankle exercises on a consistent basis. That kind of stuff is not my strong point though. No part of marathon training outside of the actual running is my strong point. I don't stretch enough. I don't swim enough laps. I should lift weights more often. I should do yoga more often. I should invest in compression socks to help my legs recover from long runs. I should do a lot of things. But I don't.

   And as I thought these thoughts, I began to recognize the similarities between my cycle, and that of my friend. I know what I need to do. I know that doing these things will help me achieve goals that I've been unable to reach so far. Yet I continue my pattern of short-cuts and half-measures anyway. I continue with my fruitless practices even as I preach to somebody else about the absurdity of doing the same damn thing. The hypocrisy is hard to ignore.

   And this pattern exists in other areas of my life as well. In college I rarely missed a good History or English Lit class. But I skipped the hard sciences on a regular basis. Regardless of the knowledge that those were needed for a diploma. When I clean my home, I inevitably stuff junk into a closet or a drawer. Pushing aside an easy task, and saving it for a tomorrow that often never comes. In my private and public life, I often choose to do just enough. Just enough to keep my head above water. Like paying nothing but the interest on an old debt, even when it is within my means to pay it all off.

   Which brings me to here. To this morning. To this keyboard. In just a few days, I will begin an eleven month training schedule. A training schedule that I'm writing out right now. I will run three marathons in that span. The goals are simple. Set the bar high, yet realistic. Train hard. Train smart. Train honest. Skip nothing. Take no short cuts. And cross the Finish Line of that third marathon in under 3:10:00. Qualify for the Boston Marathon.

   Half-measures won't get me there. Nor will excuses. There is no easy route. There is no pushing it off for another day. Either bridge the gap between what I preach and what I practice. Or come up short. Either, or.

Goodbye

"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.

Soft Footsteps

   I was ten years old when I saw it for the first time. We'd moved to a new neighborhood, and I'd met a kid that lived down the block from me. His name was Kirk, he was also ten years old, and he had leukemia.

   I knew that that was a serious illness. And I understood that it would kill Kirk at some point. I was old enough to grasp those concepts. But I'd never given much thought to how the disease would affect his life on a day to day basis, prior to his death. At ten years old, the idea of "day to day life" was so automatic, that it never seemed to warrant any conscious thought.

   Kirk was small for his age. When we played, he often ran out of energy. When we rode our bikes, he went around the obstacles that I would jump. He was quiet and soft spoken.

   There were times when we were playing with large groups of boys, and the play would turn loud and rough with the collective energy of the pack. Kirk would head home when that happened. It wasn't that he didn't like the rough play. He just couldn't do it. He'd never say goodbye, or let me know that he was going. He'd just disappear.

   A lot of our play happened inside the house, with action figures and toy cars. We'd mimic the chase scenes that we'd seen on TV, or jumble the identities of the action figures, combining characters and story lines from pro wrestling, Cold War era action movies, and the NFL. Like a lot of young boys, we idolized grown men that were stronger and faster than the next guy. I think the wistful aspects of that play were especially acute for Kirk. He was never going to grow up to be a man. Strong and fast, or otherwise.

   A year passed. His trips to the hospital became longer, and more frequent. Sometimes he was at school. Most of the time he wasn't. And then one day I looked out of my bedroom window and saw an ambulance driving slowly down the street, coming from his house. I really think that I knew at that moment that it was over. A few hours later, his older sister called our house. Kirk had passed away.

   I was sad about his death. But I wasn't grief stricken. There was a general melancholy lingering about my thoughts and feelings, but it was a quiet and peaceful sadness. Maybe that came from Kirk himself. He'd seemed at peace with his fate since I'd met him. He accepted his illness and its consequences with a soft dignity and humility. If he was suffering through any internal torments, whether physical, mental, or spiritual, I never noticed it.

   I remember one night that he'd come to my house to sleep over. When I woke up the next morning, he was already gone. My mom explained that she'd heard the door shut in the middle of the night. She looked outside and saw eleven year old Kirk walking down the dark and empty street by himself. He'd gotten cold, and rather than ask us to turn the heat up, he'd quietly made his way down the block to his house. It was just a few months later that he left this world in the same manner.

Me & My Beast

"All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story; to vomit the anguish up." - James Baldwin

   I haven't done much serious running over the last four months. Which is to say that I've been running all summer, but I've done it sporadically, usually at an easy pace, and rarely for distances beyond eight or nine miles.

   I had been writing a lot over the first two thirds of that stretch, but that has fizzled as well.

   I feel like the two are related, though I'm at a loss to explain that feeling in a succinct manner.

   After I finished the Cleveland Marathon last May, I knew that I was ready for a break. That was my third marathon in eight months, and I was physically and emotionally drained. So I reigned it in. I ran when I wanted to run, and I rested when I wanted to rest. I filled my summer with greasy food and cold beer. I indulged my social life in ways that I'm unable to do while training.

   I very quickly let eight months of work fade away, and let my body go soft.

   But not all of that time went to idle comfort. I spent a lot of time at this keyboard. Some of it for this blog. And some of it for other forms of writing. I dusted off an old fictional character and saw him develop and grow in ways that he never had before. And I saw a new character born as well. I worked through the early periods of gentle exploration with her. Slowly and gingerly seeking to discover who this person is. It feels like watching a bird hatch from an egg. I try to nurture it and keep it warm, while letting it emerge from its shell at it's own natural pace. A beak pecking through the shell here. A wingtip emerging there.

   But after a while the writing grew stagnant. The process became sluggish and cloudy. And my head grew soft.

   I've been picking both of those things back up as of late.

   I'm running the Memphis Marathon in less than three months, and the miles are beginning to pile up again as I become more committed to my training. That is a relatively straight forward process at this point. I know what I need to do, it's simply a matter of doing it. There are frustrations over the degree to which I let myself go over the summer, but I know that I can put that aside. There just isn't anything useful to do with that stuff, so you set it down and walk on.

   The writing process however, is far less straight forward. There are the standard problems of writing to work through. Sorting through the words that stream through the head. Trying to sort the honest thoughts and feelings from the comforting lies. Trying to figure out what fears and disappointments and regrets are lurking beneath those lies. That stuff is always a big part of the writing process. In fact, that is the very reason for writing. Writing is simply searching.

   But it isn't enough to just find those truths or expose the lies. Because the discovery doesn't bring instant resolution. If anything, it breathes life into some things that are big and powerful and at times terrifying. And you find yourself sitting there with this beast, and you know that it has to find a home. It can live, sometimes it has to live, but it can't live with you alone. It'll kill you. So you want to let it out into the world.

   But that's not so easy to do. The beast may belong to me. It may carry my name. But it also knows everybody that I know. And if I just set him free, there's no telling who he'll cross paths with.

   I remember reading Long Day's Journey Into Night in an English class. The story itself was dripping with the tension of desperation and fear and love and suffering. But what really hit me was the story of the author himself. When I learned that Eugene O'Neill had sealed the manuscript and asked his publisher to wait until 25 years after his death to publish it, I was dumbstruck. Not only had he decided to live alone with the beast, he'd agreed to let it climb into his coffin and follow him into eternity.

   Maybe that's where my connection between running and writing comes in. I haven't yet figured out what to do with my beast. I keep breathing life into him. He grows in front of my eyes. And I'm not as afraid of him as I used to be. But I know that I can't live with him forever. So for now, until I find a way to set him free, I take him running with me.

   It takes a while to wear him down. He's a strong runner. But I'm stronger. He grows quiet as the miles add up. And when I get home, there is a moment of peace, I can almost believe that we could be friends. And I can sit in front of this keyboard and breath yet more life into him.

Butt Call

   My phone rang this morning. I was still half asleep, and pretty hungover, so I didn't get up to see who was calling. I just let it ring.

   It was my girlfriend. Well, it was my girlfriend's phone, but she didn't mean to call. She was at work, and the phone was in her pocket. The sequence of numbers necessary to call my phone happened to be accidentally pushed. And I got a voice-mail filled with random tidbits of conversation and lots of background noise.

  She is a waitress. I heard a guy asking her about a side of fries. Mundane stuff. But it struck me. Hearing a piece of her life. A piece that has nothing to do with me. I thought about her. I thought about her as an individual person, with thoughts that are only her own. The center of her own personal universe. Trying to navigate her way through the world. It was endearing.

   Her name is Abby. And she wakes up every day, with her own myriad thoughts and questions and conflicts.  This happens billions of times per day in this amazing and beautiful world.

Malaise

   I feel like I should have a lot to write about. But nothing worthwhile seems to be coming out.

   I crashed my bike a few nights ago. The wreck didn't cause any notable structural damage to myself, or to my bike. But I did get a deep gash under my left eye. Deep enough that it definitely needed stitches. I got to the hospital around 2 a.m. Five hours later, a doctor finally got around to sewing my face up. In the interval, I sat in the waiting room, with mounting frustration, exhaustion, and anger.

   I was frustrated and angry with myself for the carelessness that landed me in that hospital. I was frustrated with the hospital for the long wait, and the jaded and indifferent staff. And I couldn't help but think of the right-wing claims of private sector efficiency, as I sat in the waiting room bleeding onto my apparently useless insurance card.

   That should be easy to write about. But everything that comes out just seems like a rant. And I don't want to rant.

   I'm also in the process of switching jobs. After six and a half years at my soon to be former job, I'm making a change. The job description will be similar, but the environment is radically different. I'm leaving behind a mammoth, impersonal, bureaucratic corporate restaurant. And I'm starting at a local restaurant and beer brewery. The new place is a breath of fresh air. I like the people that I've met there. I like the environment that they've created. And the product that they're selling is made with pride and a clear commitment to quality, rather than simply focusing on profit margin alone. The contrasts are clear and easy to see.

   That should also be easy to write about. But everything that comes out seems like a preachy rant. And I still don't want to rant.

    Over the course of the last week, I've seen thought provoking live readings and a live painting exhibition. I've read good journalism and literature. I've followed the flavor of the week political stories. I've spent quiet time by myself, taking long walks and runs. And I've found good conversations with intelligent people.

   All of those things usually lead me to write. But I've got nothing more than some bits of fictional dialogue to show for it.

   And that is where I sit now. With a collection of thoughts, ideas, and feelings stewing inside of me. But with no palatable means to organize and express them.
 

Cool Breeze

"For them that think death's honesty - Won't fall upon them naturally - Life sometimes must get lonely" - Bob Dylan

   I woke up this morning before dawn. Quickly, suddenly, violently awake.

   I went to the doctor yesterday. I feel fine, but I wanted a thorough check-up. I'd never had one before. I've always felt healthy. So I assumed that that meant that I was healthy. But I'm 37 years old. Which isn't far from 40. Which means that I am a middle-aged man. So I figured I should go make sure that everything is in proper working order. I'm still waiting on the results from my blood and piss.

   My father was diagnosed with prostate cancer early last year. My uncle, my dad's youngest brother, was diagnosed with lung cancer last month. Another uncle of mine, and another of my dad's brothers, died of lung cancer years ago. There is a fourth brother, and I doubt that he's healthy. I don't mean to sound cold, or overly pessimistic, but he's been drinking and smoking heavily for decades. And he doesn't get regular exercise. And all three of his brothers have been diagnosed with cancer.

   The doctor checked my prostate. I'm younger than most men that are diagnosed with prostate cancer, but what the hell. We're in the doctor's office and they've got the gloves, so why not start shoving fingers in assess. Apparently the inside of my ass feels just fine.

   So now I'm just waiting on my blood and piss. I get those results next week.

   My dad's cancer has been removed. He keeps himself in good health, and the cancer was discovered early. He should be fine. My uncle's cancer is much further along. His road will be a tough one.

   I was talking with my uncle about a week ago. The one that has been recently diagnosed with cancer. I started to tell him about my recent trip to Cleveland. I was beginning to tell him how much he'd enjoy the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame. And then our voices faded, and we moved quietly on to another topic. Its not that he couldn't make it there. But again, the road that lays in front of him is a tough one. And he'll need to choose his pit-stops carefully.

   After the doctor checked my prostate, he said that I could probably set that concern aside until I was about 50 years old.

   And that's the number that I woke up with this morning. That number, and the overwhelming truth that I could be dead by then. It may be the first time in my life that I was hit with the full force of my own death. The gravity, the inevitability, the immediacy, and the permanence of death landed on me clean and clear and undeniable.

   I won't be here. I won't have these thoughts, or any other thoughts. I just won't be.

   I was at home, in the perceived safety of my own bed. But for a moment, I was overwhelmed by fear and sorrow. A deadening sadness covered me like a lead blanket.

   It seems a little absurd now. Like I'd considered myself immortal up until this morning. But it was real at that moment. For that moment, in my heart and mind, I may as well have already been dead.

   I didn't jump out of bed and write a bucket list, or vow to make any drastic changes in my life. Nor did god speak to me. I just rolled over, bunched up the blanket that was under my head, and felt the cool breeze coming in from the window. But it's still sitting with me. It's still lingering.

Getting Back To The Edge Of The Cliff

"and god is whoever you're performing for" - Doug Martsch

   Too much time in this space. This blog space. Not time well spent. Wasted time. Distracted time.

   I started writing here for a few different reasons. But it's becoming a crutch. It's becoming an easy alternative to more difficult, and more rewarding, forms of writing.

   And worst of all, is the Stats page. I keep looking to see who is reading this. And how often. And which posts. That's a terrible habit, and I can't let it continue. I have thousands of stories buried underneath my 37 years. Pains and joys tucked away in the crevices of my gut, my spine, my heart. And I can't find them if I'm looking outward. I can't find my honest thoughts and feelings, while looking to other people for validation. I can look at other people to see other people, but I can't look at them to see myself.

   I don't think that I need to shut down the blog all together. I think I can still use it from time to time. But I have to reign it in. And I'm going to start that process right now.

Bug Bite - Part 3 of 3

Mexico City (D.F.)

   I had never before seen anything like Mexico City. Street vendors, tourists, beggars, business people, and paint huffing six year old children, walk among 800 year old Aztec ruins, 400 year old Catholic Cathedrals, and modern sky-scrapers. All of which share the same patch of real estate. College kids drink in the same bars as prostitutes. Displaced indigenous women sit on the sidewalk and sell hand made tlacoyos for thirty cents to the Americans and Europeans that reach down to drop the coins into their waiting hands. A beautiful park filled with miles of green grass and lush trees sits just a few miles from the trash dumps that hundreds of families use for food and shelter. Impeccably clean museums frame the history of the city with well preserved art and artifacts, while garbage and pollution help to spread sickness outside of those same walls. Massive Diego Rivera murals show the clash of the cultures that have come together here over the years. Modern subway trains cost twenty cents, and provide transportation for elderly grandmothers, grade school students, and petty thieves alike. The contrasts are unmistakable and unavoidable. The noises, the colors, and the smells of the place bombard you at every turn.

   These different worlds, thrown together in one boiling mass of humanity, produce a chaotic and exhilarating energy, and I was instantly drawn to all of it. But it also brought to the surface a lot of conflicting thoughts and emotions within myself. And as I walked through the city and interacted with the people there, I found myself beginning to question the validity of how I viewed myself in relation to other people.

   I had always looked upon the privileged classes with a degree of judgement and scorn. To my way of thinking, there was something inherently immoral about the accumulation of large amounts of wealth, in a world where dire poverty is so widespread. And I had never had any doubts as to which side of that struggle I was on. But then I found myself surrounded by people that wouldn't make as much money in a year, as I would make in a week, or even a day. There were millions of people struggling to survive in this city, and many of them had to choose between crime, prostitution, begging, starvation, or leaving their home and family for a foreign and potentially hostile land. And seeing this, I had to acknowledge that my own station was far more privileged than I'd ever admitted to myself. Because struggle or not, my options were virtually limitless.

   Here, I did not have the luxury of considering the lives of others through the lens of books and movies. I could not sit in the safety of a college classroom, and talk about the collision of cultures and its impact on those that are directly involved. The people in question were now all around me. They weren't photographs, or statistics in a sociology textbook. They were living breathing human beings. And I couldn't cozy up to the romantic notion that my working class status in the U.S., somehow automatically tied me to the struggles of the poor and oppressed worldwide. Here, I was forced to recognize and accept the fact that no matter where I fell among the income strata in the U.S., my status as an American citizen with full-time employment (and with the resources to travel throughout a foreign country), placed me among the wealthiest people in the world. So I now had to take all of the harsh judgement that I had applied to the people that Americans consider wealthy, and see if I could stand up underneath it myself. And one person in particular helped force that view to come into focus for me, more than anyone else that I met on that trip.

   It was our first night in D.F. I was sitting in a bar with the two friends that I was traveling with. The bar was on the second floor of an old building made of stone. Near the entrance, there was a small wooden dance floor that stood empty. On the other side of the room, sat a group of eight Mexican men and women, that all looked to be about twenty years old. They were clean cut, well dressed, and just loud enough give the impression that they were having a good time, but not so loud as to be obnoxious. A quiet, heavy-set, middle-aged woman was serving us. The rest of the room was empty.

   It wasn't exactly what we were looking for. We wanted to find something a little more lively. But we hadn't received any good suggestions yet, and all of the bar descriptions in our travel book seemed vague. In the other cities that we'd visited, we'd been content to wander the streets aimlessly and leave our night to chance. But we were all a bit apprehensive about the prospect of wandering the streets at night in a city that had such a notorious reputation for crime. So we sat with our beers, and talked about calling it an early night. We still had several more days left, before heading back to Monterrey. Perhaps we'd be better off waiting until we found somebody to point us in the right direction. And then we noticed two attractive young women sitting at a table at the other end of the room, and we decided to have another round of beers.

   We were half way through that next round of beer, and still debating the best way to approach a couple of women that were probably on the opposite side of a language barrier, when we noticed that a third woman had joined them. The significance of the language barrier, and any other social barriers, now seemed to be shrinking rapidly. Clearly this was just short of divine providence. Things had been falling into place for us throughout the whole trip, and from underneath the warm and fuzzy comfort of several beers, it looked as though it was happening again.

   And then our soft spoken waitress decided to help us out. When she came around to offer us another round, she suggested that we buy a round for the three women as well. Perhaps that should have been a red flag. Perhaps three unaccompanied women sitting in a bar in Mexico City should have been a red flag too. But we were seeing the world as we wanted it to be, not as it was. So we bought the round of drinks and asked the women if they'd mind us sitting with them.

   There wasn't any collective "Eureka!" moment for the three of us. But through a series of glances at one another, we did all convey to each other that we finally understood what was happening. We realized that the three women were prostitutes, and that they worked for the bar.

   We knew each other well enough to know that none of us were going to be purchasing another human being for sex. But we weren't sure of what it was that we were going to do. And now that we were seated at the table with the three women, it was an awkward topic to discuss.

   So we just talked with them. We bought another round of drinks for everybody, and we talked. We used what little collective Spanish was available to us, and they did the same with a seemingly equal amount of collective English. The uneasy feeling that had come with the discovery of their profession, began to fade away. And on the surface it almost became something as simple as three guys talking to three gals.

   My supply of Spanish ran out first, and I was initially content to sit in silence and observe. But after a while, I noticed that one of the women had a particularly short supply of English as well, which put her in the same boat as me. So I finished my beer and I asked her if she'd like to dance. She smiled and said yes, and we made our way to the otherwise empty dance floor.

   I put some money in the jukebox. She picked the songs. And we took a few spins around the floor. As we danced, I decided to take another shot at speaking with her. With just the two of us, we could talk at our own speed, and perhaps have more success with our words.

   We started at the beginning. We exchanged names again. I told her that I lived in Chicago, and she asked if it was really so cold there. I asked her if she had always lived in D.F., and she said that she was from an area not far from the city. She asked about my family, and I told her about them. She furrowed her brow as she took it all in, and occasionally she offered a polite nod. I asked her about her family too. I couldn't discern the details, but it seemed that they were no longer around. Then I asked if she had any children, and she gave me a smile that managed to be both sheepish and enthusiastic. She told me that she'd just had a baby three weeks prior. I asked about the father, and she just shook her head.

   I realized how personal our conversation had become, and then the thought came to me that perhaps that was the only type of conversation available to two people that have so few words to work with. Small talk, in its own way, is more complex. It often involves elements such as cultural references and inside jokes. Things which just don't translate well. But simple and honest emotions such as sorrow and joy are universal. And so are the comforts and concerns that inevitably accompany our relationships with friends and family.

   I had also become curious about her age as we talked. When we first spotted the women sitting at the table, I might have guessed that they were in their early twenties. But I was starting to realize that my estimate had probably overshot the mark in this case in particular, so I asked her how old she was.

   When she said "trece", I stopped in my tracks. I asked her again, thinking/hoping that perhaps I'd misunderstood her, or that my limited Spanish was failing me again. The second time she said it, she said it with a whisper. She had obviously noticed my surprise and discomfort. But the number stayed the same. This girl was thirteen years old.

   More specifically, this girl was a thirteen year old single mother. She was living in Mexico City without any family to help her. And she was a prostitute. Those facts punched me in the face one after the other. And on the heels of those facts came several more. I was sitting in a bar, buying her drinks, and talking and dancing with her.

   Somehow, in a matter of minutes, I'd gone from a guy that was out to have a few beers, and maybe talk/flirt/dance with a woman, to a guy that was offering at least a passive contribution to child prostitution.

   There was an unbearable amount of commotion in my head at that moment. I had no idea what to do. I didn't know which direction I should even start in.

   We left the dance floor, and I could see that the girl was embarrassed, and maybe a little ashamed. I wanted to do something to make it better for her. I wanted things to be other than the way they were. But more than anything, I wanted to be out of that building. I wanted to put some distance between myself and what was happening in that bar. I wanted to rebuild that fragile barrier between my world and hers. A barrier that had seemed so solid just an hour before.

   I did leave the bar. But I couldn't rebuild the wall. The shock of learning that girl's age, had blown open the window, and given full view to the ugly truths that I'd been choosing to ignore. My world was more closely tied to the world of that child than I'd ever wanted to acknowledge. And my role in the relationship was not as benign as I'd dreamed it to be.

   In theory, I'd had some awareness of my privileged life for some time. And I knew that my privileges came at the expense of others. I knew, for instance, that the products that I bought in the U.S., often came from countries where workers were underpaid and maltreated. And that by purchasing those products, I was supporting an unjust and immoral system. But I rationalized my decisions. I told myself, that I couldn't change the world, and that I couldn't possibly function in American society without supporting such systems. I told myself that I had to pick my battles and then move on with my life.

   But standing in front of that girl, I was forced to honestly consider the real human impact of that perspective. And, though I tried to block this process out, it also forced me to honestly consider what I truly felt in my gut about my place in the arrangement.

   The truth was, that from the moment I'd set foot in Mexico, I'd been enjoying the power and freedom that my relative wealth gave me. I'd walked around like a tiny benevolent dictator, doling out coins that came so easy to me, and feeling self-satisfied when I saw the enthusiasm with which they were gobbled up. That unequal distribution of power made me feel like a giant, and I liked it. I felt dirty and ashamed for liking it, but I liked it none the less.

   And I'd still liked it when we were talking to three prostitutes in a bar. I'd convinced myself that I was on firm moral ground because I wasn't going to have sex with any of those women. But the imbalance of power was still there. I had money that they needed, and I got to choose whether they'd get it, what they'd have to give me in exchange, and exactly how much I'd part with. The circumstances stripped those women of most of the equalizers that they might have had if we'd crossed paths in the U.S. And consequently, I was free of any insecurities or social anxieties that I'd have been subject to at home. It was an arrangement that was easy to take advantage of, but one that was in direct conflict with my view of who I am and who I want to be.

   I wrestled with that conflict throughout the remainder of the trip, and I still wrestle with it today. I still struggle, sometimes unsuccessfully, to resist selfish impulses, even as I acknowledge the adverse affect that my actions can have on others. I have yet to find a formula for ridding myself of those impulses and desires all together. But I am trying to be more honest with myself about the choices that I'm making. I'm trying to limit the rationalizations and the excuses. I'm trying to be honest with myself about who I am. And I'm hoping that that will bring me closer to being who I want to be.

   We stayed in Mexico City for several more days. We climbed the Aztec pyramids outside of the city. We went to museums and parks. We wandered around in the daytime, and soaked up the raw and vibrant life of the city streets. We ate wonderful food. We watched street performers. And then, eventually, we made our way home.

   I've been back to Mexico a couple of times since that first trip. It's a beautiful country, and it will always have a special place in my thoughts, because it was the there that the travel bug first took a really big bite out of me.

Joe, Me, Jason.
On top of a pyramid, outside of Mexico City.

   I've also had the opportunity to explore some other countries since then. And through those travels, I've made discoveries about myself and the people around me, that I don't think I could have made at home. I'm still drawn to the big cities. I'm still drawn to the unfamiliar. I still find plenty of profound beauty and human dignity among all of the widespread cruelty and tragedy. I enjoy getting out of my comfort zone. I like having to make conscious observations about unfamiliar surroundings. And I like the surprises, even when they're tough to handle.

Lou

   I met a man at a bar about six years ago. His name was Brian. He had Lou Gehrig's Disease. He was in a wheelchair. His body was thin, and his limbs were slightly contorted. He was 30-something years old. He'd lived a physically active life before the disease arrived. He'd done a lot of hiking, mountain climbing, boating, and martial arts. But his passion was for motorcross. He knew that he'd be dead within months, or possibly even weeks.

   He wasn't close to his family, but he'd had a group of friends that shared his active lifestyle. When his disease made that lifestyle unsustainable, they abandoned him. All of them. They stopped calling. They didn't come visit. They didn't write. They were gone. He was left to face death alone.

   He moved to the north end of downtown Chicago. That part of the city was easily navigated by wheelchair. He had money in the bank, and he made the bars of Chicago's Gold Coast neighborhood his new and final home. The bartenders and doormen all knew him by name. But he was desperate to be truly close to somebody.

   He told me all of this with a steady downpour of words. He had no time for pretense or subtlety. He could not afford to be cowed by the thought of rejection. He did not have the luxury of lying to himself.

   And I listened to all of this. I let the words soak in. I could feel the fear and the loneliness in every word that the man uttered. We moved together from one bar to the next. Faces that were familiar to him, helped him in and out of bars. Onto and off of bar stools. He drank gin. And he threw his naked pleas for companionship at me like a mad fisherman, furiously throwing his line at the water, over and over again.

   As the night inched closer to morning, he wound down. The urgency that had been in his words and movements began to subside. But there was no peace in the creeping silence. There was only defeat.

   When we prepared to part ways, he gave me his phone number. I don't know whether he believed that I'd call. I do know that he wanted that call to come. But it didn't come. Not from me.

   I was sincerely sympathetic. I was even curious. But I was also scared, and that was the emotion that won.

   I don't know how long I held onto the number. I don't remember how close I came to calling. I only remember that I didn't do it.

   I sometimes wonder how his final days played out. Whether he found somebody more courageous, or simply more caring, than me. Whether he had somebody to hold his hand as he died.

   I wonder what would be different with me too, had I made that call.

Where to Put Things

"I don't know where to put things, ya know? I really do have love to give. I just don't know where to put it." - Quiz Kid Donnie Smith


   I've been trying to learn how to write for roughly fourteen years. But for the most part I've kept the results of those efforts to myself. That doesn't mean that I have thousands of pages of writing hidden away in my closet. I don't. I have hundreds of pages at best, and most of that would be meaningless to anybody but me.

   Throughout those fourteen years there have been long stretches of time in which I wrote nothing. Though there have never been long stretches of time in which I did not think about writing.

   Fiction is what I want to write. There is a desperation in my gut to make that happen. But that desperation rarely succeeds in traveling from my gut to my fingertips. It happens, but not often.

   I can't give a full explanation of why I want to write fiction. I know that it started with falling in love with literature that was written by others. I know that I saw those writers use fiction to engage the more difficult aspects of living. I saw them use their characters and stories to explore the dark and disturbing elements within themselves. And I wanted that for myself. I still do. I also know that that explanation is far from complete.

   I created this blog in October of 2009. In April of 2011, I finally started using it. I wasn't sure what I'd do with it. I don't see myself using this space for fiction. But I felt like I needed to put something out into the world. I needed to get comfortable with the idea of other people reading the thoughts that I've put down.

   I also needed to develop some discipline. I needed a routine. A writer has to write. The fiction will not be there every day. It isn't there most days. But there is always something in my head. When the fiction isn't there, I can write on other topics. On the days that I can't seem to dig deep, I can sort through the things that are a little closer to the surface. That keeps the fingers moving.

   Sometimes I think the experiment has been a fruitful one. I've been writing almost every morning for the past few months. But I do question it too. Am I settling for the easy stuff too often? Most days I don't even try to write any fiction. I just go straight to the blog. Have I created a cheap and hollow replica of my honest desires? Am I settling for something less than what I want, because I'm afraid of the real thing?

Marathon #3 - Berlin, Germany

3) Berlin


   I ran my third marathon in Berlin on September 26, 2010. My finishing time was 3:43:17. When I crossed the Finish Line, I was a physical and emotional wreck.


  I got out of bed at 4:00 am on race day. The hotel was quiet and still when I left the room thirty minutes later. The race was scheduled to start at 9:00 am.

   I went down to the lobby to get some coffee, and eat breakfast. I sat down at a small table near the window that looked out on the cool rain that was washing the East Berlin street, and I wrote in my notebook:

   "I feel good about the race. I went for a run on Friday morning and my legs felt fresh and strong. And it felt great to run in the cool air. It's been a long, hot summer in Chicago. I've got the same picture of Kevin in my pocket that I carried in each of the first two marathons. I'll also have dad in my thoughts. He ran a 5k yesterday which included a free prostate screening among its goodie bag items. He (and of course we) is hoping that the cancer has receded and that he'll be able to avoid invasive surgery. Aside from how much I want to qualify for Boston today for myself, I'd also love for him to see me enjoy that level of success with my running. I know he'd get a lot from that."


   When the first trickle of runners spread into the lobby, I packed up my things and began making my way to the Start Line in Tiergarten Park. I remembered the crowds for the Chicago Marathon, and while I had the benefit of a seeded corral this time, I also had a language barrier to work through and I was in a city that was unfamiliar to me. So rather than risk the frustration of a last minute scramble to find my corral, I decided to get an early start.

   The rain had eased up when I left the hotel, so I walked for a bit. It was cold out that morning, and I found myself wishing that I'd brought some throw-away sweats from a thrift store. There were tall rectangular apartment buildings lining the streets. They were all still dark. The only noticeable sign of life was the occasional Saturday night bar patron, shuffling their way home before the daylight made Sunday morning official. I saw a train approaching, and I hopped on.

   I had done everything I'd set out to do in the months leading up to the race. Everything that I did in July, August, and September revolved around this marathon. I put my social life on hold. I organized my work schedule to fit my training schedule. I followed strict dietary rules. For three months, there wasn't a half an hour that went by without me thinking about Berlin.

   I felt good as I made my way through the park. The rain had picked back up though, and there wasn't any shelter to be had. So I told myself to just accept the fact that I'd be cold and wet, and to put it out of my mind and move on. Once the race got started, I'd be running hard, and I'd get warmed up, and everything would be fine.

   In the meantime, I waited. I stretched. I stood under trees. I watched other runners mill around. I waited. I tried not to think about the rain that had been falling off and on for the last 24 hours. I tried to ignore the standing water in the streets and in the lawns of the park. I tried to put my cold and wet body, and my wet and heavy clothes, out of my head.

   I tried all of that in vain. As 9:00 am approached, I was spending far too much time wishing that things were other than they were.

   And then the starting gun went off.

   We started off so fast. Seven minute miles right out of the gate. I'd never felt a starting pace like that in any race that was longer than a 10k. I was in a corral near the front and this was an all business crowd. I quickly shed my thoughts about the weather and all of the other factors that were out of my control, and I just ran. I had every intention of proving that this was were I belonged.

Me in the white shirt and dark shorts.
About Mile 6.

   But in the back of my mind, I was already worried. My legs were heavy. The strong and fresh feeling that I'd had just a couple of days before, wasn't there that morning. Early on, I told myself that I'd warm up after a couple of miles. But the first few miles of the race came and went, and nothing changed. By the 10k mark, I knew in my head that I couldn't hold the pace that I was at. I knew that if I didn't slow down, I was going to crash.

   I didn't slow down though. I'd put in too much work to get ready for that race. And I'd tied every bit of that preparation to the idea of qualifying for Boston. I told myself that I'd find a way to push through.

   I didn't push through though. By the half way point I was already unraveling. My legs were on fire and I was slowing down. I watched other runners pass me by. First by the dozens, then by the hundreds. By the time I hit the 25k mark, it was over. I had another 17k to go, I was in a lot of pain, and Boston was out of the question.

   I went through a wide range of emotions over that final ninety minutes. Initially, I was frustrated and angry, and I felt sorry for myself. And then I tried to shift my focus. I wasn't going to qualify for Boston, but I could still beat my Chicago time. I could still PR. And I reminded myself that I was still running the Berlin Marathon, and that I should be embracing that experience, because I probably wouldn't ever do it again.

   But as the race wore on, the pain became more severe, and I couldn't find a way to keep my focus positive.  I shuffled along, but I was desperate for it to be over.

   And then, finally, it was over. I turned the last corner and I saw the Finish Line from several blocks away. My legs were stiff, but I pushed them as hard as I could. I crossed the Finish Line more than thirty minutes past the time that I'd hoped for, and my eyes filled up with tears as I accepted the Finisher's Medal. I'd given everything that I had to that race, and somehow I'd actually gotten slower.

   I spent the better part of the next 24 hours feeling sorry for myself. I went through the post race motions. I ate delicious greasy food. I drank cold beer. I had ice cream for breakfast the next day. But I wasn't happy with the way things had gone. I did eventually snap out of it, and enjoy the rest of my trip. But I had a lot to reflect upon. I knew that I had a lot to take from the experience, and I knew that it was important that I do that.

   Some of the problems that I encountered were out of my control. And in hindsight, I don't think that there was any scenario in which I would have qualified for Boston that day. That is a longer and more difficult process than I had recognized. However, there were things that were within my control. There were things that I could have done differently, that would have made the experience a more enjoyable one.

   Most notably, I knew that I needed to change my mental approach. I can't limit my ideas of success and failure to the numbers on a clock. The clock can help me in my assessment of myself, but that's all it's there for. It's just a tool. It's not a goal in and of itself. And I knew that I needed to be more honest with myself about my ability. Even if I'd been warm and dry and had fresh legs, I wasn't physically ready to qualify for Boston. And I knew that I needed to make better decisions during the race. Had I slowed down early in the race, I would have lasted longer, finished faster, and had a more enjoyable overall experience.

   So I tried to take those lessons with me, while setting everything else down and moving on. Berlin was finished, and I had more races on the horizon.

Walk Away

"Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools." - William Faulkner

  Sometimes I just want to walk away. From my friends and family. From just about everybody. I just want to throw in the towel. I might keep a select few people in my back pocket. People that rarely seem to need anything from me. But when the moment comes that they do need me, I'd like to walk away from them as well.

  Its not because I don't care about other people and their needs. If anything, I care too much. Or at least more than I want to. But I see them struggle, and I know that I'm relatively helpless. I can say things like, "I'm here for you". I can tell them that I love them. And those things may be true. But what good is that truth, really? The difficult struggles, the ones from which we find it hard to believe that we'll ever emerge, are the ones that we have to fight through by ourselves. They're the internal struggles that really are about life and death. And I don't have the ability to go in there for anybody but myself.

  So I sit on the sidelines and I agonize over every misstep. I try to decide when to offer help and when to back off. I try to decide when to listen passively and when to act. And as I look at these words, I feel like all of this should be simple enough. But its not simple. And its exhausting.

  And sometimes I just don't want to do it anymore. Sometimes I just want to walk away.

Why I Run Marathons.

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep." - Robert Frost

"To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift."  - Steve Prefontaine

  I am not good. I can be, but often I'm not. I'm not talking about running, but life in general. In fact, running is one of the handful of things that I am good at. But at life in general, I usually come up short. And I don't mean this in an insincere/self-deprecating/self-pitying/fishing-for-sympathy-and/or-compliments, kind of way. And I don't think that this is how others view me. My life is full of loving/caring/supportive friends and family. I'm also not saying that I'm unhappy. I have a wonderful life, full of wonderful people and experiences, and I feel incredibly fortunate. 

  And it is not in spite of those truths that I say I am not good. (It may even be partially because of them.) I am not good, because I give up. I give up on myself and others. I make excuses. I lie to myself and to others. I am selfish, cowardly, and cruel. I am all of these things. And the truth is that I am all of them often. 

  I choose to see the worst in people. I choose to consider their shortcomings rather than their strivings. I choose to take advantage of people when they're vulnerable. I pass people by when they are in need, and sometimes I even choose to kick people when they're down. 

  I also let myself down. I am terrified of failure, of not being good enough. And I am terrified of being discovered as a phony. So I set my goals low, and when I still come up short, I pretend that the goals have changed. Whether in my private endeavors or in my relationships with friends and family, I retreat into my shell when things get tough. 

  I hit my lowest point nearly twenty years ago. My big brother is the strongest and bravest and most beautiful person I've known. And when he died a slow death, I wasn't there. I was physically there. But mentally and emotionally, I wasn't with him. I was with myself. Worried only about myself. But he stayed with me anyway. 

  And he still does. And I'm still wrapped up in myself. But I'm trying. Little by little, year by year. I'm trying to be better. But I'm not always honest about that effort. Sometimes I stall. Sometimes I wander off the path. And a long time can pass before I recognize and admit that I'm not moving in the direction that I want to move. 

  And this can happen when I run too. I can get lost in the simple pleasure of movement. I can settle into the motions that my body knows well. I can roam the soft hills of my life, and I can keep the jagged mountains on the periphery. 

  But I want to be better than that. I want to push harder. I want to go further. I want to be better. I want to remember that I have so much more in front of me. But I have to work to find it. I have to work to find the best in myself, and in others.

  So I run marathons. Marathons allow no lies. The marathon is the truth machine. Marathons demand the best of me, and as I move among my fellow runners I can see the best in them. I can see them struggle as I struggle. And if I haven't worked hard enough, the marathon will tell me so. If I've taken short cuts, the marathon will expose them. But if I have worked hard enough, if I have been honest with myself, then I will find a sense of peace that I have never known anywhere else. 

  And my brother is with me when I run. His picture is in my pocket for those 26.2 miles. And I  hold his smile in front of me. He is reminding me to be better, and convincing me that I am.


(Thank you Dad, for helping me find the beauty in running.)

Walking to the gym on a cool cloudy day.

  There are days when I leave the house and immediately put on my headphones and turn on my ipod. Most days are like this. I start my walk to the bus stop or the el, and I crave the isolation that those headphones grant. With music in my ears, I'm free to think whatever thoughts I choose. I am safe from the intrusion of the sounds of the city. And on those days I'm thankful for that solitude.

  And then there are days like today. The ipod is there. Its in the side pocket of my backpack, and I can reach it in seconds. But I don't. I just walk. I skip the bus and the train altogether, and I just walk. And as I walk, I become increasingly aware of the sounds of the city. I listen to the cars. Their engines, horns, and brakes. Their stereos singing and their doors opening and closing. And I listen to the people. I pick up bits and pieces of the conversations of those who walk past me. Couples, families, kids. They all offer me a bite of their day, and then leave me to fill in the blanks. I hear the crash of steel on steel, and turn to look at a construction site. I hear a hollow thud, and I notice a woman struggling to force a laundry bin into the back of a truck. Down the block, another woman is digging through her purse in a mad search for coins to feed the meter with, and when I get close enough she asks me if I have a solid quarter.

  I do have a solid quarter, but I hesitate. Not because I don't want to exchange my quarter for her two dimes and a nickel. The coins are an afterthought. I hesitate because I'm not used to being out of my shell. Because I don't usually walk down the street without my guard up. Because I don't need anything from her, and I don't want her to need anything from me. And so I quietly say "no", and I keep walking.

  A few steps later I pause, reach into my backpack, pull out a quarter, and I walk back. I lie to her. I tell her that I forgot that I had some change in my bag. We exchange the coins. She thanks me. And we go our separate ways.

  I continue to notice new things. Pastel suits in shop windows. An old man with a cheap cane. A jogger. Some litter. A homeless man with one shoe on and the other by his head, laying next to a small fire under the bridge on Roosevelt that carries myself and countless other thousands of people today over the south branch of the Chicago River, over the railroad tracks that stretch south from Union Station, and over the empty field in which that man is laying.

  I pass all of this. And I see it, and I hear it, and I smell it. I absolutely feel it.

  And I did need something from the woman at the meter. I needed that exchange. However brief. However mundane. I needed that from her. I needed that walk.

  And I needed to have these thoughts, and to type them here.