Bodies in Motion

It wasn't the prettiest thing you'd ever see, but I did finish the Shamrock 8k run in Virginia Beach. Not only did I finish, but I ran the whole thing, which is more than I thought I could do. And ran it in a respectable 50 minutes. I really enjoyed the run, especially when I realized how many ordinary people participated in it and the half marathon the following day. I watched as people of all ages and sizes and abilities and speeds made their way across the finish line and I don't know that I have seen many things as encouraging as that. I was worried that I would embarrass myswlf, that I would be caught in a swell of very serious runners leaving my lumbering and chugging away behind, but it just wasn't the case. And if it had been, if I had struggled, as some did, the crowd was gracious and encouraging. It's pretty nice to feel that a group of total strnagers want you to succeed, want you to push yourself, want you to just make it across the finish line. What is it about applause that feels so good? How is it that two hands clapping together suddenly make the impossible seem possible? I can't say that I'll ever be dedicated and determined enough to make running a true hobby, but I think I'd like to work my way up to a half marathon. You see I misjuged the body. I forgot that there is glory in the strength of the body and that accomplishments aren't only made through thought, but through action. There is something, more than something poetic about a body moving.

The Epistolarian

I take great pleasure in very simple things. Today I sat underneath my bedroom window, on the floor with the light streaming in and the sun shining and though generally the sun and I are at odds, it was a late day sun and so brassy and orange and that color I always fall in love with. I wrote a letter to a friend and wondered why I don't write more letters. I mean, frankly in comparison to most people my age, I write and receive quite a few letters, but imagine writing them everyday. My hand gets too tired for that. But I do have this box full of correspondence that I've saved over the last five years or so and wow how beautiful a worn envelope feels. Sometimes I spread all the letters out in front of me, I flip through, I feel the paper and the ink, I look at the dates, at the signatures, I think I would give up everything I own for those letters. I would sell everything I own for the pages and pages of words written down just for me. Why is it gold is so popular?

Every Breath You Take

Here she comes here she comes. I am back and it is one week exactly, less a few hours, that I will be in Virginia Beach running an 8k. I am not a runner, I am a plodder. I can walk, and walk pretty briskly, brisker than plod implies, for miles and miles. I'm all about walking. But running involves breathing and I've never thought I've been a particularly good breather. Is it possible I have very small lungs? Restricted bronchial tubes? In any case I'm more than nervous about this run mostly because there will be people around me. I'm not a graceful runner. But I do remember, long ago when I was in second grade, before the year that I vomited in gym class after the presidential fitness two minute drill run, I do remember that I used to race against kids in my class and win. I do remember that I wanted to be an Olympic sprinter.

Call Me Kermit the Hermit

Hello my baby, hello my darling. I have been away for a while, haven't I? I've discovered, or myabe I always knew it and simply realize it more and more, but I am something of a hermit. I frequently go off the grid. I'm not good about answering emails, or returning phone calls, and as a penpal I am subpar. I usually blame it on a lack of time, but really I always have plenty of time, I just spend it in the wrong way. And it isn't that I want to ignore people either, but maybe I can again blame my introverted nature here and claim that for me communicating is somteimes exhausting. That's exaggerating it a bit, but I have to be in the right mood. That and I can never finishe what I start. Friends of mine have piles of letters addressed to them with only an opening paragraph completed. I hit reply to emails only to change my mind and say I'll do that later. I've tried to get better at these things, but as of yet I am unsuccessful. And it isn't as though I mean to make excuses, but simply explain or try to figure out for myself why I am the way I am.

If we're lucky Ill be back again tomorrow.

LW

The Cinema Firmament

I am a sucker for the movie montage. I never cease to be enthralled by classic film clips taped together to the accompaniment of a cresendo of violin music. In fact, I don't even mind watching previews or film trailers. I get goose bumps. I do. Of course I'm only thinking about these things becuase of the Oscars last night and no, I don't want to talk about who won or who didn't or what they were wearing or who they were wearing, but I am all for talking nostalgia. I watch the Osacrs now more out of obligation than actual interest, out of hope rather than genuine faith. I watch them on the chance that I might come away infused with some of that good old movie magic, that tingly feeling that means something wonderful has happened. I made it my mission a few years ago to watch all of the films on the American Film Institute's Top 100 list just so that I could catch all of the references, all of the lines, the glances, the subtle nuances of the numerous movie montages dedicated to classic films. And what it comes down to is the instant pay off you get when you boil down a classic to one scene, one moment, one orchestra blaring up over the backdrop of Georgia sunset, one look across the room, one flick of the hair, one dress. I've never minded much the way our emotions are manipulated by those kinds do things, the way we're forced to feel a certain way because the music tells us to. I've always thought it rather wodnerful that we have the ability to be molded that way. Yes, rather wonderful that I can still know something of magic, of make-believe, of Hollywood.

Could I Get the Window Without the Doggie?

I am learning about windows. I want to walk down the street and say ah yes, there is an oculus, that nice oval one there, whereas that, that is a sign of the suburban seep, the casement window. I want to talk about dormers and diocletians and paladian windows. I want to tell you all about them beucase I want to know all about everything. I want to know that hard hats were invented by workers constructing the Hoover Dam. Look at that, I do know that after all.

So I heard that maybe secretly, in some dark cement like place, writers want to be architects, that writers envy the physical, the creation of an actual object versus an idea, a word blurb, a thought bubble. Here I thought all writers, all people on this Earth only ever really aspired to be rock stars. I don't believe writers want to build buildings, not in the literal sense, but it's encouraging to think that people could pine away after such a calculated, intellectual, thin black tie and glasses, kind of lifestyle. I also heard that fifteen year old boys don't dream of becoming essayists, but then maybe they do. Are there people who always wanted to be accountants? I toyed with, still toy with, becoming a dental assistant. I have multiple friends who want to be farmers. Funny that dreams need not be glamorous.