I stood in church, attempting to sing along with the congregation. I was having a poor time of it, as there were distractions permeating the premises. In retrospect, that's probably a tool of the devil, huh?
Anyway, the most irresistible distraction was in the pew directly ahead of me. Distraction in the form of bouncing, baby boy.

Hazel eyes twinkled over a mother's shoulder. Mischievous little boy, not quite two, clung to his mother's neck with fierce strength. She clung back. No doubt having recognized the glimmer behind that sparkling, innocent face. Boyish dreams, adventures to be had, a kind of dormant masculinity: things only little boys can imagine. His eyes served as windows, a glimpse into the soul of the most innocent of aspirations and ambitions. A young boy dreaming of dragons, robbers, castles, weapons, the wild unknown. Intending to take it all because he is man, or will be.
The mother clings to her boy knowing full well that the gamut awaits him once she lets go. But let go she must. For the boy will need to severe the apron strings and set out on Adventure. Otherwise his destiny revolves around his mother's skirts evermore.

The sermon was good, people said later, but I hardly heard a word of it. I was lost in the stories told within those hazel eyes.

This year

If only I could run without knowing. Without feeling. Mostly without knowing. To be oblivious to the pain, the self consciousness, the shortness of breath. To focus only on the rhythmic slap slap slap of my feet pounding on the sidewalk. I want to run to forget, really, to run away - to run away from the pounds and the problems. It is fear of the unknown and anxiety to reach said unknown. Run toward it, run away from it. It would be an achievement to run at all. My body, my mind, my soul, they are too broken.
Slap slap slap slap. Nothing else.

My lips twitch. I wet them with the tip of my tongue. When they became chapped, I don’t know. Something stirs within me. I don’t know what it is or where it came from. Sort of like the chapped lips, I guess.

I want to run and I want to write. This will be the year of running and writing. That’s all I want from life right now. I want to go. I want to move. I want so much. I want to run toward it and I want to hide from it and I want to write about all of it. But things just don’t seem to flow ever. This will be the year of practice. Practice my endurance. The endurance of my legs and of my mind.

He stood in the rain because he wouldn't smoke in the car. He stood under a narrow ledge that hardly kept the dampness from his hair. The cigarette continued to glow. He had come to pick up the children, who are all fully grown. He wasn't allowed in the house because mother was there. His presence would provoke questions, a full scale interrogation. I didn't blame him for standing in the rain. Who wants to unwrap the sordid affairs of an infidel but those who have been cheated? So he stood in the cold rain. The water dripped down his face, which remained unchanged. As weary and as vacant as ever. A changed man challenging the tempest. A man with a passion for all that is wrong. A man seeing himself as too wise and too in control. A man in desperate need of being broken.

Running by the Tracks

I decided that I wasn't going to go for a jog as I was changing into my shorts. I didn't want to go outside and humiliate myself in a desperate attempt to get skinny. I plugged my ipod to my ears and was enveloped by The Shins. "Too much to do," I told myself, "you aren't going jogging," as I stepped out the door, into the cool evening.
My steps were short and quick. My breathing was harsh almost instantly. It was wonderful, and I hated it. I wanted to stop. A slight breeze brushed my hair back against my forehead, wiping up beads of sweat that were already forming. I ran. I ran for about 8 minutes (the length of two songs), and slowed to a power walk. My shins ached and my thighs rubbed together. Disgusting. I convinced myself to take a left at the pork billboard and head on home. Instead I took a right and began to jog again, down an unkempt gravel road.
I worried about cars. The road was narrow and riddled with trash and dirty, messy earth. Trying to jog on the uneven ground proved to be difficult; plus, I was tired. I began to power walk again. I swung my arms enthusiastically because I heard that provides a better work out. Swinging made the blood rush to my hands. The fingers were bulbous and felt tight, like the skin of a balloon. I swung just the same. When I reached the railroad tracks, I decided to turn toward home. I had a lot of homework waiting for me, and I bet mom was beginning to worry. I'd been gone for about 12 songs. Just the same, I took another right onto the railroad tracks, into the woods.
The tracks looked old. I hoped no trains would come. There would be no escaping it in the dense forest that surrounded the track. The tracks were old though, they didn't look fit to carry trains anymore. I wondered, as I walked, about what kinds of cargo a train of yesteryear may have carried. I wondered about hobos and vagrants. I hoped no train would come.
On the left side the track is the straight river, which curves around for miles and miles just to make a mockery of its name. It must have flooded when all the snow melted last week, because there were little algae-covered puddles in between the planks. It was hard to believe there was snow just last week. I thought about the little frogs laying dormant deep in the mud of the river. I wondered if they were emerging, maybe peeping their bulgy eyes up out of the water at me. I looked closely (as close as I could manage while still keeping a decent pace) into the puddles, searching for critters. I didn't find any. I did see deer tracks, though, in the mud alongside the right rail. I wished someone would have told me I was racing. The deer are way ahead of me. I suppose I'd have lost anyway.
I kept seeing displaced railroad spikes. I really didn't think the tracks were fit for trains, but I still worried. The spikes littered the ground for yards and yards of track. "I should pick one up for Bryan," I thought several times, for reasons I know not. But none of them seemed good enough. They weren't quite right. So I continued. I started jogging again.
I am Tolkien's dwarf. Even over my ipod, I could hear my feet crunching over the splintered tracks. I wished that I was more adept at woods-walking. Perhaps with practice. A flash of white shocked me out of my blind haste. Two white-tailed does ran across the rails not ten feet in front of me. They must have seen me long long before I saw them. They skittered and stopped, tails raised in alarm, and stared at me. For the first time since I'd started jogging, I stopped dead. The deer ran. Not ran, but flew, bounded. I swear their narrow hooves never touched the ground. It was majestic and beautiful. Too bad they felt threatened by me. I found myself wishing, ridiculously, that we may have been friends had they given me a chance. Not far down the tracks, though, I saw the remains of a shotgun shell. It contrasted boldly the grey and rotting strut on which it rested. "No wonder they ran," I thought to myself. As much as I want to at times, there is no method by which I can escape my humanity. I am one of them.
As I approached the crossing, where the civilization meets the forgotten track, I decided I would definitely pick up a spike for Bryan. But I couldn't find one. So I stopped and pryed one up. I hoped no trains would come. I hoped the track was truly forgotten. The spike will be of no use to Bryan, and I'm not sure that I'll actually give it to him. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I needed to pick one up.
I got to the road and decided, for real this time, that I'd head home. Home was still at least a mile and a half away. I began to jog again. I felt silly to the passersby. Motorists in their big SUVs and trucks sped by me. They all stare. Nearer to my house, I saw a dust colored mound up ahead. "Don't be an animal; be trash," I pleaded with no one in particular. It was an animal, though. It was a doe. It was fresh. It would have been sleeping, had its guts not frothed out of its mouth and nose. I'd never been so close to a deer before. My eyes stung. Poor creature.

I sprinted the last leg of the journey. There was gravel in my shoes and my feet felt like they were moving in slow motion. I wanted to stop. After five miles, I was finally feeling tired. I reached the house, pulled my shoes off. They squelched, not from sweat as I'd suspected, but from blood. The gravel turned my heels into hamburger. ... poor creature.

I think I won't go for a jog tomorrow too.

Today I...

woke up late and forgot to put on deodorant.
forgot to pack myself a lunch.
almost hurled my truck, Clarence, into the ditch.
spilled scalding hot coffee down my front while running to my first class.
was twenty minutes late.
realized part of my paper was missing for my lit class.
botched Allen Ginsberg's "Howl."

Thought of you. So I...

appreciated the cold weather that prevented me from sweating.
bought a granola bar from the machine and savored every crumb.
thanked God that Clarence held his ground in the end.
enjoyed the remaining half cup of coffee.
made up for lost time.
wrote in the parts I missed with a ballpoint pen, and added a smiley face.
laughed at my inability to understand obscenity.

It's impossible to have a bad day when I have you in my life.

Coffee Slurry and Movies

It's a class day! Now generally I'm not a fan. Today, I'm not a fan.

I drank a lot of coffee this morning. It was gross coffee because the half and half had gone bad. I couldn't quite chew it, but it bordered curdles. The only word to describe it would be glop: it was coffee glop.

Glop reminds me of ooze, which reminds me of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Despite my inexorable fear that it will be a severe disappointment, I desperately want to see that movie. Which brings me to another point:

I saw Grindhouse last night with my bro.

It was disgusting and repulsive and disturbing. In short, everything I love in a movie! It was the best three hours I ever wasted. Oooh oh oh. There's some fantastic female dialogue in the second half of the flick that just tickled me. I'll provide an approximate recreation:

Girl 1: I really don't approve of you carrying a gun

Girl 2 (after some banter about dangerous laundromats): Well what should I carry?

Girl 1: Pepper spray?

Girl 2: Bitch please! Some dick gonna try an' rape me, I ain't gonna give him no skin rash.

Girl 1: Well, what about a knife at least?!

Girl 2: You know what happens to people who carry knives?

Girl 1: No, what?

Girl 2: They get f*ckin shot.

Ok, so maybe you have to watch the movie to appreciate the fabulous character development. So if you can handle poignant gore and excessive expletives, you ought to see it.

... bitch please!

Sometimes when we nap together, I don't sleep. I watch the ceiling or I watch your face. Sometimes tears swirl my vision because I can't imagine ever being happier. Sometimes I just want to wake you up to tell you every detail of what I'm feeling, even though I know I'd blush and stutter.
Mostly, though... mostly I think that I could lie there forever.

Worm Stompin'

It's a rainy day. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love rainy days. What a morning.

I woke up crabby for absolutely no reason at all. I drove to Mankato because it's a class day. The drive was foggy and rainy and dreary. I rolled the window down to let the mist come in. Most of the time I carpool, but this morning I was alone. I could listen to whatever I wanted to and sing as loud as I wanted to, and I could let the mist come in. That was the best part.
The walk to class was wet. Wet and enjoyable. Because it was raining, the worms were out all over the sidewalks. I always try to avoid them. Poor little guys, scattered all over. It's a war. Every time it rains, the troops come pouring out of their holes. Onward! To battle! To death! Death by squishing. I saw the dead worms, littering the streets and sidewalks. The death toll was rising. I saw a girl ahead of me lift her foot and look beneath her shoe with some kind of disgusting grimace. Poor fella. Stomped to death by some girl in Uggs (Uggz? Ugs? Who the hell cares?). Is there a less honorable death than that? I doubt it.
Kate used to make fun of me when I lived with her. We'd go outside in the rain and I'd avoid the worms, but she'd step on them. I bet if she hadn't known how sensitive I am about worm killing, she'd never have thought to kill so many. Alas, many fatalities because Kate knew it would bug me to mash them. I assume full responsibility.

Back to Mankato. I've realized that I am a hypocrite. Of course, I've known this for some time. But today it became extremely apparent. Here I am, attempting to prevent needless death, and at the same time thinking about picking these worms up, bucketing them, and takin' the suckers fishing. Some of those guys were huge! I could have baited about six hundred hooks at least. So, again. This brings about this subject of an honorable death:

Is it dishonorable for a worm to be squished needlessly on the sidewalk, but more honorable to die on the hook? To be eaten by a fish? Bryan says yes, because the worm then serves a purpose, rather than having it's life smeared on the sidewalk. He makes a valid point, but I wonder. Death is death, right? Does it matter how it comes about? Hemingway puzzles over this question as well. Underneath his macho, masculine, unfeeling demeanor, hides a soul torn by experience in a pointless war. Extreme casualties. For no purpose. Is that honorable?
Basically, I've been trying to stall because I really don't have an answer.

Death is never good, but worms make excellent bait.

Doing Laundry

I'm becoming increasingly disgusted with my childishness.
Are you afraid of the dark?
Me neither... sort of.
So... ok fine. Here's the story:
I wanted to switch my laundry. The washer and dryer and soap and whatever else I needed were in the basement. That tends to be the place for such things. We've all seen Home Alone, right? Except there's no scary heater thing that awaits me in my basement. In fact, there isn't much of anything down there. Except the washer and dryer and soap and whatever else I needed. That, and darkness.
I was fine putting my darks in the dryer, added some dryer sheets to keep my jeans from getting too stiff. I had no difficulties putting my whites in the washer; though, I think I may have left the cold setting on. I've heard that whites ought to be washed in warm. Oh well.
Anyhow, I stretched to my tip-toes to reach the string that connects to the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. I always falter with the light. My stature is not appropriate for such short strings from such high ceilings. Nevertheless, I was able to reach after much stretching and hopping. Then plunged into utter and pitch darkness. I literally felt as though I had dove under water. It was cold and it seemed the air had been pinched from my lungs. Plus, I suddenly felt like the nocturnals had awoken and were silently drifting near... like those biting sunnies at Lake Kohlmier. Waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark took more self control than I could muster. Alas, I lack the discipline to stand up to the ebony unknown. Hence, I ran.
I ran across the room, slipped on the damp concrete floor. A slip! That's exactly what I need, to slow down, to let whatever is pursuing me, advancing with ease. I imagine they are darker than darkness itself, which is a terrifying thought because darkness is scary enough for me.
So I slipped. I didn't fall though. I caught myself on the wall and rushed onward. Up up up the stairs. I knew I was being ridiculous, but I couldn't help but feel I had narrowly escaped some unspeakable doom. I was hot; I could feel my face burn, probably from shame. What a child, running away from my imagination. As if I could actually conjure the beasts I created in my mind. My face burned. My chest heaved. I could hear my heartbeat in my head. The blood was rushing, exploding through my veins. Embarrassed and ashamed, I convinced myself to walk down the dark hallway to my room. I stepped on my toes, ever ready to take flight in case any threat might arise. Believe it or not, I made it to my room safe and sound.

Pretty pathetic, huh? I think so.
Then again, how unbelievable is it to imagine there is a monster hiding in the basement? It could nestle behind the dryer, where is would be cozy and warm.

I bet it eats socks. I always seem to come up short.