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.

9-12

   Flags waved. Songs were sung with trembling voices. And people all across the country asked each other to remember where they were the day that the planes hit the towers.

   Thousands of lives were lost on September 11, 2001. And in the ten years that have followed, millions more have died or had their lives, their families, their homes, shattered beyond repair by the wars that were fought, and are still being fought, in the name of those attacks.

   I can't tell anybody else how to feel about that. I can't tell anybody else what to think about those attacks, and our collective response to them. But I can hope, for myself and my fellow Americans, that as the dramatic images and stirring words of the anniversary fade, we find our way to a place of thoughtful and compassionate reflection. A place of honest reflection. I can hope that we consider everything that happened that morning, and everything that preceded and followed the attacks, with an open mind.

   And I hope for those things, because I believe that this is the best way for us to truly honor and respect those that have died. I can hope for those things, because I believe that honest and thoughtful consideration of our place in the world, and of those that we share it with, is the most effective means of limiting the deadly conflict that puts such a tremendous weight on the hearts of so many people around the world.

   My own thoughts on the topic are numerous and muddled, and often conflicting. I find it difficult to believe that a world without war is possible, yet I find it immoral and unacceptable that we should strive for anything less. I believe that as Americans, we are guilty of unspeakable atrocities, both historically and in the present moment. I also believe that as Americans, we are responsible for acts of profound beauty, sacrifice, and heroism, both historically and in the present moment. And I believe that those truths, as well as many others, need to be considered in any worthwhile discussion of September 11.

   I don't want to elaborate on the specifics of those beliefs right now. Because that's not the point that I'm attempting to articulate here. I simply want to remind myself to thoughtfully consider those beliefs, how I got them, and what impact they might have on myself and those around me. And I want to hope that my neighbors will do the same.

   (Below are three pieces that offer viewpoints that I found thoughtful and honest. The first was published about a month after the attacks. It is a long article, but well worth your time. The other two were published yesterday, on the tenth anniversary of the attacks. One is a quick read from a faith-based perspective. The other is a four and a half minute video clip discussing the media treatment of the tenth anniversary.)

http://www.thedailybeast.com/newsweek/2001/10/14/the-politics-of-rage-why-do-they-hate-us.html

http://www.internetmonk.com/archive/911-the-last-word-for-now

http://www.mediaite.com/tv/toure-calls-out-media-911-nostalgia-leaves-dylan-ratigan-speechless/

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.