Toxicity

There is a point in the run where you hit your stride and the euphoria of being able to conquer nations takes over. There is nothing you cannot do. When did the world become so gloriously beautiful?! When did the trees shedding their leaves get so cathartic? Why is the universe deciding to finally open up??  Endorphins. 

It hit me three miles into an early, overcast, drizzly run. Perfect weather. I planned to be out long so I needed to take water. I hate the awkwardness of my hand-held bottle so I dug my hydration belt out and wiped the dust off. Filled two bottles, strapped the belt around my waist, and texted my far-away husband that I was headed out on a run. And where. This joke in the back of my mind like, yeah, this will be on the news later, "She texted him her route." 

The thing is this. I normally wear a handgun around my waist, concealed in a belly strap. But it doesn't work with the hydration belt. I can't wear them both at the same time. This morning the mileage won out. I had to get at least eight training miles in and I couldn't do it without water. It was 8:30 in the morning so I figured the likelihood of me needing a firearm paled in comparison to the necessity of water. 

So I set out. And it was glorious. My goal race pace is 10 minute miles, and I was ticking off 9:40s without much difficulty. The sky was that beautiful gray that makes the colors of the leaves seem artificial. Super-saturated. The rich smell of autumn's decay and tilled earth perfumed my path. Potential energy stored away for another season.  The bittersweet melancholy of autumn settling in on the fields, the houses, the people. This is why I love Ohio; the forced introspection, life always in transit. THIS is why I run. This.

...

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.  Why.  I looked over my shoulder and there he was.  Long-legged and empty eyes, slow rolling on a bike behind me. My first thought was a unanimous FUCK. The second was a blinding rage. I breathed out and squared my shoulders. Turned again and he was still there. Looking at me. I had made it to the long stretch of asphalt that runs -for miles- between two roads, and traverses a vast and desolate farmland. Fuck. Me. There was no one. No house in view, just asphalt and to either side, cornfield. I started searching the ditches with my eyes, for rocks, for sticks, for anything that I could use as a weapon. I cursed myself for choosing water over my handgun. 

And then I got mad. 

The thoughts came rapidly and without prompting. I have a right to be on this trail. It is not my fault that I am a runner. It is not my fault that I run alone.  It is not my fault that I am not a man. It is not a handicap that I am a woman.  I am not a God damn victim. I refuse to let some piece of shit ruin running for me. 

He passed me. Slowly. He said "good morning" and I thought you are long in the tooth. He did not look away from me. Awkwardly. Purposefully. A full 30 feet and he kept his head craned. I felt certain that we would be fighting, and I imagined smashing his head into the asphalt over, and over (you grab the hair, just above the ears). I thought, Joe is going to be so incredibly mad at me. He bought me the gun, for just this purpose.  I imagined killing this stranger in the most horrible and gruesome way I could with only my hands. 

The man continued riding. Slowly. He turned around to leer at me every few seconds. But he kept riding. Whatever checklist he had in his brain, I failed. Or passed, depending on your perspective. I was not a good opportunity, apparently. And thank God. 

When I got home, 5 miles later, I immediately ordered a hydration vest. That will allow me to wear my handgun. Next time, I'll be armed. 

NTMF. 

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.

Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?

I have no idea.

My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,

And I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.

When I get back around to that place,

I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,

I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.

The day is coming when I fly off,

But who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?

Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?

I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer,

I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.

Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.

I don't plan it.

When I'm outside the saying of it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.

That's fine with us. Every morning

We glow and in the evening we glow again.

The echo of an empty well

I remember telling her once in a late night moment of vulnerability that the way I dealt with the ugliness of the job was by pretending that everyone I encountered was God. Like it was some kind of test to see how I would treat the meekest, when no one was looking and no one would care. It's just as true now although I recently (and painfully) came to the realization that I still refuse to recognize the divine in one person; myself.  Selfless service. I don't think they understood that we would eviscerate our own souls to live up to the words when they painted them on the sides of our cars.

I had this kid get into a staring contest with me on the first night of Ramadan. He had just turned 18 and took his new role as man of the house far too seriously. The specifics of the story are boring but it ended in a rabid-eyed power struggle that I refused to lose (and subsequently won).  Instead of accepting the silence that followed, he filled the void with vitriol about who he thought my ancestors were and how he felt persecuted.  That half-boy struggle is hard no matter how you were born.

I am in this weird place of awakening where I am old enough to not really give a shit, but still young enough to crave validation.  I struggle to find the slot where I most belong.  I had a co-worker vent to me about a recent relationship and he referred to the problem with women stemming from the gash.  He meant a woman's vagina.  In the same moment my hind-brain was contemplating what happens when we die, if we return to a sort of universal energy or if the self retains some kind of semblance after death.  How do I reconcile these two realities?

So much stream of consciousness.  I binge on makeup purchases while trying to stem the flood of this existential crisis.

I read a Kurt Vonnegut novel once where some of the characters were aliens and could assume human bodies like actors donning different wardrobes. This is how I feel sometimes, exactly.  A soul with a body.  I donned this particular wardrobe for some reason that at times I remember.  She's stubborn and intractable, and will not take no for an answer.  She also likes glitter and vanilla dominate scents.  What is this incredibly goofy thing, life?