The amateur runner is out after work, before class. He always means to wake up early and run before the day starts, but is always more tempted by his warm sheets and an extra hour with his eyes closed. He's out three to four times each week and wishes it were more. He makes half-hearted excuses not to go but never wants to come back in once he's out.
She needs music but secretly knows she runs faster without it. She remembers when her soundtrack was the clashing of sticks, the stomping, the shouting, her own gasping breath mixing with the panting of her teammates. The sound of cars always; the sound of wildlife never enough to make an impression. The thoughts running through her head. She wonders what the other runners are listening to and if they are wondering or assuming about her. She wishes she could broadcast the songs out of her chest and share them with the old couples and heavy souls walking by.
He has no real form--he steps and holds his body in whatever way is most comfortable and moves him the fastest. He remembers what it was like to run towards something, at someone, for something. He can still feel the jersey on his back and the pads on his shoulders. He can't run in circles around a track because he is finally running free and he needs the scenery to change. He pushes until sweat stings his eyes and his headphones slip out of his ears and his chest burns because he was told that he wasn't working hard if he wasn't sucking wind. He can't forget what it was like to be a champion, and he smiles right out loud knowing he never will. He almost tells the other runners who he is, what he's done, why he's not so fast anymore, what he's running for now.
The amateur runner can't stop judging the other runners, even those who fly past her, because they haven't been running for as long today (they probably just live down the block), or they don't have as far to go, and they obviously won't be able to keep up that speed for the rest of the run and hey, she's just an amateur anyway, this isn't her life, she wants to do this, this is fun. Besides, her knees really hurt near the water. She window shops as she runs past the bus stop; she likes that hat, should buy some boots like those, wonders what her hair would look like that shade of brunette. She can't help herself as she runs through a pile of leaves, kicking them up into the air and not caring if they get in her sock or if she loses a few seconds, not that she actually times herself. Waiting at the red light, she doesn't jog in place; she's far too busy catching a breath or stretching out stiff autumn muscles or trying not to dance along to the song that just came on. She can't help herself here, either, and amuses an old man in a grey sedan.
He doesn't own any special gear, just old tee shirts that tell of barbecues and 5Ks and schools that have turned into diplomas on the wall and photos on the computer and something to keep him warm as the new season falls. He wonders if the letters on his chest trigger any memories in the young couples pushing new strollers, if those letters are the reason for any hidden smiles or shudders.
She's out today because she's not that girl, because coffee ice cream and Johnny Depp can't make anything better and she can't waste any more time. Her pillows have too much mascara on them and she doesn't have the energy to sit still anymore. She wonders if any of the others are watching, admiring, needing to believe that there is someone out there that is worth all of this. She flips a song and is heartbreak, missing; every step is another strike. A new song and there is hope, there is moving on, there is "I didn't want this anyway," there is "I can do better," "I can be better." There is "I am young, I am free." There is finally a lap of release. Another song, there was love, there was safety, there was everything. The amateur runner quivers, tears, shakes it off. The next song is happiness, but happiness only in the ears and not the heart. It's the happy song that brings the runner to the bench; it is what is lost, not what is left, that pushes the runner to shaking outdoor tears. The runner shuts off all music and runs home in silence, head screaming.
I’ve seen a lot of things I didn’t know I was seeing. I’ve missed seeing a lot of things that were right in front of my face, obvious and vital.
I’ve heard some words I never thought I’d hear, waited for words that never came, said a lot of words that meant nothing, and believed too many words that were never spoken.
There are smells that remind me of a single room, of an hour, of a lifetime, of an era. Songs that make me shiver from the first note, songs I can’t play loud or long enough, songs that smack me in the heart and beat up through my brain. Music reminds me of certain people, and can make me like them more, or less, in my memory. It tells me how to feel when I can’t figure out anything in my head. I can’t remember a time that it wasn’t the most important thing in my world; every kind of music makes me want to dance, with my head or my feet.
I don’t know how people can feel without music. When I listen to Rhett Miller, I’m in love. Country, I am loved. Almost always, I am heartbroken. I can’t hear Brand New and not be sixteen in a Reliant K with speakers so loud they massage my back and fuzzy blue seats I can still feel on my skin, on the way to Taco Bell after a cold night football game, in a sweatshirt that lets the whole school know I’m number seventeen and I’m their hockey star.
I clutch on to these pieces of my history, these symbols, because the real events are too blurred and blended. I can’t trust my own memory but I can’t deny the lasting value of a few strums of a guitar or a sentence or a summer night and bug bites and falling in love. I can immerse myself in my own memories for hours and never remember more than a handful of scenes.
I am staring out the window of a rusty red Jeep, watching an imaginary horse with its seven-year-old rider, sometimes no rider, on its grey back, leap over every fence post, car, lawn ornament, motorcycle that blocks its journey through the yards of endless brick row homes. No matter how fast he’s going, he never makes a mistake; he hates trotting in place waiting his turn at the stop sign, but is ready to burst forward when the last car makes its left turn.
I am French fries with gravy and cheesesteaks, or a Filet-o-Fish (which isn’t shark meat) and a Hot Wheels car on a Friday night, every Friday night, watching “Seinfeld” and “All in the Family” and the Orioles when they actually won games. I am food on my lap on the couch, no conversation. I am anxious to get away and read my book.
My worried head can never relax—my mother is late getting home from her night job in the city and is too tired to eat the Pop Tart I stayed up to give her, but she does leave me a few sentences in the secret notebook we hide behind the microwave. She is home so I can finally go to bed, and I’ll eat the Pop-Tart in the morning (she likes Cinnamon Toast Crunch—which I always thought was “grown-up cereal”). I will always worry about something.
My sister and I have a fort in Grandma’s backyard—it’s in a forsythia bush and today, it’s a spaceship. The bees are all in the honeysuckle bush so we don’t have to worry about stings. Poppy is going to teach us to play poker , and our hands will smell like pennies all afternon because he actually lets us bet with real money. Grandma made us ham and swiss sandwiches, and hers is the only iced tea I can drink. They are the only babysitters we ever had, and I’m still the best card-shuffler I know. There is no place for television on summer vacation, as long as there is a deck and a woodpile and a partner-in-crime of a twin sister.
I thought I had a perfect childhood when I was in it, and I thought I lived in a charming small town. I never traveled more than a hundred miles away from it until I went to high school, when we packed the car for half a day's ride to see my first hockey game in Pennsylvania.
I left the town with only my ambitions and my education, and realized I had been raised in a very insignificant, undignified, corner of a much larger, more important world. I will never underestimate anyone again, especially myself.
Now I want to live an adventure, even if every day hurts.
I do everything I do with the intention of being perfect. I am very, very far from perfect. I have no idea what other people think of me.
I need summer nights, fall afternoons, long stretches of highway, harbor wind in my hair, football noises in the background, Christmas lights, hot chocolate that comes in packets, big, warm arms around my shoulders, acoustic rock, drums. I can draw, sing in the car, dance on a stage (and not be afraid), play any sport with a ball, make someone smile if I want to, make handmade greeting cards. I can’t sing, fake a smile, feign interest, apologize, style my hair, remember a book or a movie after two years, trust, dream enough. I will write a short novel, run a half-marathon, become fluent in Spanish again, fall in love one more time, never be satisfied.
worth $.99 on itunes: "orange sky" by alexi murdoch. oh, while you're at it, just get the whole 'away we go' soundtrack. oh, and watch the movie--it should pretty much be required viewing for anyone ages 20-30.
it's leaning too hard on strangers. laughing or crying too much at fiction or paper or anyone else's life.
almost always feeling like it's about to rain, or feeling like it feels like when it's raining. squeezing the glove in your pocket and shaking your head, making some movement that isn't moving somewhere or away from somewhere.
feeling constantly on cold fire. never being warm enough.
never sitting still and never wanting to move. it's go. it's far. it's a piano in the dark.
a look in eyes looking up under eyelashes, a mascarashield from eyes looking back.
the fastest steps still too slow everything down.
