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Showing posts from November, 2010

Moving from left to right.

I had almost forgotten how much I loved running. Or, maybe, love is too strong of a word. Generally, even. Either way, I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed running. I was anxious about the whole thing. I mean, it was hard to find the time to run and train up before it. Not that I'd need to train up for a measly five mile run, of course.
So we ran cold.
It was wonderful. The crowd of people, the energy. I couldn't help myself. I just ran, made my way up the group a bit. Nothing spectacular. I knew those little 50-yard sprints were going to bite me, but I didn't care. I was feeling competitive. I love that feeling. So I ran and I ran until my knee started to bother me. It wasn't much. Just a bit tender. And then it got worse, so I walked for a bit. Just a bit, though. Because if there's one thing I love more than competition, it's pushing things too far.
And so, naturally, I sprinted the last mile as best I could. Which is bad, apparently. So tha…

Get 'em, Gooseboy.

It had been such a long time since I'd last seen him. Not terribly long, I suppose, but long enough that I took note. He's doing much better. Health-wise, emotionally. It's fantastic. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd seen him so happy. He was laughing and smiling and joking around. Not even self-deprecating jokes.
Real jokes.
And so we walked and we laughed and we caught up on things. Things and people. She's moving all the way to Dallas from Boston. Partly for work, mostly for him. She's good for him, I think. They seem like a good match, at least. Things are going well. As long as he's happy. I'll meet her in a few days and pass judgement. It's nice to hear him finally start talking like he knows what his future holds. Such a dramatic change. You can only beat a man down for so long.
It'll be interesting. Seeing them together. Got to make a good impression, I guess.

A long equation of letters.

“Okay.” The medic said.He continued to stare out the window at the city.The empty city.The quiet city.The somber city with its glass and concrete fingers that reached desperately up into the sky.He couldn’t tell if the sun had started to set.It was dark.Every day was dark.It was always dark.“I’ve heard enough.”“And, uh,” the man said, stifling a cough.“It’s like I was saying.We’re just looking to stay for the night.A couple days at most.Just until, you know.”He nodded toward the sleeping boy in the corner.The man looked tired.Frail in the candlelight.His thinning hair and the bags under his eyes made him look so much older than he was.Or probably was.Actually,the medic thought, he’s probably pretty old.He looked over the father again.The man wrung his hands silently.His eyelids dropped and he shook himself awake.The last couple of weeks had not been easy on him.He looked so tired just sitting there, as if the effort of sitting up and staying awake came at a tremendous cost to his body…

The cloister bell rings.

I've always thought it was funny to see what you absorb from your surroundings. The little personality ticks you get from your close friends. That weird pronunciation that slips through after you watch a bunch of shows where the characters have different accents. The little things that most people would never notice. Other people, I mean. But silently, you would acknowledge it every time. Or some of the time.
You would know, some of the time.
And I guess I have sort of an obsessive personality. I get attached to things quickly. And strongly. I get into things obsessively. Like Doctor Who. I love it. I love watching Doctor Who. I've watched the 10th Doctor's run so many times now that it's starting to manifest in my personality. The way I speak. The way I stand. The way I run around in my sneakers. The way I let my coat swing around me. It's pretty damn nerdy, but kind of funny. No harm, no foul, I suppose.
There's a whole science to it. To the per…

Wash, rinse, spin, repeat.

There's a certain friend of mine that never ceases to make my day whenever I run into him. There's just something about him. He's the most honest person I've ever met, I think. He's actually happy. And it rubs off. I've only ever seen him with a huge, goofy grin. Energetic and bubbly and hilarious. He's so full of life and faith and everything. I don't even understand how that's possible.
I was lucky enough to run into him twice within the span of a couple of days.
And it was fantastic. I aspire to be him, one day, probably. So humble and content and legitimate. I mean, it was only reluctantly that he told us he was on the football team. I think that says a lot right there. Truth be told, I barely even know the guy. But I respect him a lot.
So that's, you know, that.

The cold beneath my fingers.

I really want to play saxophone again. And immediately. It is a pretty terrible feeling when somebody asks, "Hey, I've got a big opportunity, do you still play saxophone?" and you answer honestly: "No, not really." Maybe it's the music I've been listening to lately. All jazz. Maybe it's the weather. Or some kind of identity crisis.
But the whole episode really burned me. I came home and sat on a bed with my saxophone in my lap for a while, just looking at it.Feeling it. The soft pap as I pressed the keys down. The airy buzz. The first sound that's so cold and so warm at the same time. But still so empty. Lonely. But I don't care. I'm going to play it again. And the clarinet, too. I haven't played it in forever. I saw a clarinet lamp and couldn't help but hold it. I miss it. I miss them.
I've changed, recently. Irreversibly, I guess. Maybe it's why I've had so much trouble getting back into wri…

Non-denom nom nom.

I knew how things would go down even as he walked down the steps. I tried to bury myself in the Sudoku puzzle--which I hate doing--when he walked up next to me. I took a quick glance at his shirt. Hell is REAL, it read. "Have you repented for your sins?" He asked. "Did you know that Jesus Christ our Lord and savior died for your sins? Did you know if you live a life of sin you will go to Hell?" And before I could think of anything to say, I said, "I know the word of the Lord."
And so began my 20 minute conversation with the Hellfire preacher.
But it really wasn't that good of a story or an experience except for the fact that it made me think about stuff. Entirely unrelated to what I was doing at the time. Because I was in auto-pilot mode. The mode where I detach my mind from my mouth and carry on full conversations with people without actually being invested in it. I realized I've gotten very good at it. I just don't process anything t…

Here's where I disappear.

The funny thing is, I actually really enjoy tutoring kids. I mean, I like kids. They're hilarious. I just don't particularly like going there. The bus can be a scary place. Actually, the bus is a scary place. Full of scary people. Which, largely, is why I don't ride the bus home anymore.
"Everyone here," he said. "Everyone here is fake."
I nodded silently, shooting a furtive glance to the woman behind me. Things were getting out of hand. "People are just fucking fake here, man. Up in fucking Chicago," he went on. "People were fucking real. There was no fucking 'Blood' or 'Crip' shit going around. Look at me." I looked up at him. "I'm fucking somebody. I'm fucking GD governor. GD. Gangsta disciple. I'm somebody, man. People here? They're fucking nobody."
"Damn, bro." I said. I checked my watch.
And, so, the conversation continued in much the same way for a while u…