Tyler Durden Is a Dear Friend of Mine

So I've spent two mornings waking up at 4:45 to catch the suspect in my gaslighting case.

The first morning was a rainy one...very rainy. The entire state was under a flash flood watch and there was concern the Arkansas River would swell out of its banks. I figured the culprit wouldn't show up to tap on my window, and I was right.

I laid my trap last night by opening the curtains to the bedroom window and sleeping on the divan, just under the window the perp had tapped on Tuesday morning. I was awakened by my alarm at 4:45 and lay in wait to see if I could catch the tapper in the act. Fifteen tense minutes went by as I wondered what I would do if it were someone I knew. Should I call the police? Yell at her/him? What?

Then, at 5:07 on the dot:

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

And both cats went running...

for their automatic feeder.

*cough*

Apparently it makes an occasional "ticking" noise before it advances which perfectly explains everything that happened: the 15 days between the two events, the consistency of the time, a 'Fraidy. Cat bolting off the bed...not in fear but in jubilation, cat paws running toward the kitchen (not under the bed...The Hubs heard it the 2nd time and says no vats came into the bedroom.

So, yeah, I've pretty much been gaslighting myself.

At least I'm not crazy.

And you're welcome.

Gaslit

Yeah, it's been a while. *cough*

And now I'm only posting to complain of being "sort of odd in [my] mind."

If you've never seen the 1944 version of Gas Light starring Ingrid Bergman as Paula Anton, Charles Boyer as Gregory Anton, and Joseph Cotten as Inspector Brian Cameron of Scotland Yard, you should. But be forewarned; you'll never view anything that happens to you in quite the same way ever again (the only panacea I know is Witold Gombrovicz's Kosmos, which enacts the same plot while remaining the direct antithesis of Gas Light. But don't read it because you'll just hate me; it's one of those sorts of books that "Sanslenom likes").

At any rate, Gas Light begins when Paula and Gregory move back into the home where Paula's aunt was murdered by a burglar in search of the family jewels (literally...get your mind out of the gutter). So that Paula doesn't have to relive the memory of catching her aunt's killer rifling through drawers in search of the goods, Gregory has all the old furnishings moved to the top two stories of the house and all the entrances to them sealed. Everything is fine until brooches, watches, and paintings go missing; Gregory convinces Paula that living in the house is too much for her nerves and that she's gone all klepto as a result. She's not hard to convince, nor is anyone else in the household or among their friends.

What really drives her to the brink, however, are the incessant sounds of footsteps across the abandoned floorboards above her and the constant dimming of the gas lights that illuminate the house. There's a line in the script that has nothing to do with what's going on in Paula's head, but perfectly describes it: "I thought I heard the muffin man." I don't know exactly what a "muffin man" is, but I imagine his sweets are poisoned.

SPOILER ALERT! A good viewer knows what's going to happen in the end: it will be revealed that Gregory is Paula's aunt's murderer, and he's stowed the furniture so he can rummage through it at night in search of the treasure he was denied. It's not the "who?" that matters, really. The question that keeps us watching is "How will Paula manage to confront Gregory while convincing everyone else she is not insane?"

The concept of the psychological abuse taking place in Gas Light is so precise that it gave us the term "to gaslight," meaning "to intentionally drive someone insane by causing them to question their memory and perceptions of reality."

So, why am I writing about all this?

Because I'm being gaslit.

Think I'm paranoid?

Let me explain and you decide.

On Monday, March 5th, I awoke at 3:36 a.m. How do I know this? I'm a collector of strange times. See, I wake up after every dream, which means I wake up seven or eight times a night. Back when I kept a clock by my bedside, I would look at the time when I awoke from a dream. Inevitably, it would be something like 1:23 or 2:22 or 6:54. This became such a source of curious fascination (I gleefully...and wretchedly...I know...anticipated waking up at 6:66) that I finally had to unplug the clock and put it away. I've been waking up at 7:00 a.m. on the dot all my life...except when the damn time changes...so really there was no point in having an alarm anyway.

And, just so you know I am not as insane as I might sound, it wasn't really 3:36. The Hubs sets his clock five minutes fast, so the real time was 3:31 (which I don't find particularly strange, although I'm sure a mathematician would be able to root out some extraordinary calculus to make it unique). My point is that it's all arbitrary, and I know that. I don't assign any sort of significance to it; I just find it fascinating. Fascinating enough that I'll a) remember it and 2) lie back down and think about it for two hours, which is not conducive to my overall health. Now, 3:31 is not a strange time (unless it happens to be the date as well). 3:36 is. It's strange because three + three = six. It's got a mathematical fullness to it that makes it memorable.

So on the morning of March 5th I had to get up to use the restroom. Okay, so how do I know it was March 5th? Because of an appointment I had later and the events I'm about to describe, the day turned out to be unforgettably miserable. So on March 5th I got up and fumbled around for my robe while I glanced at my husband's clock. 3:36. Ugh. I went to the restroom, got a glass of water, and went back to bed.

So there I was, about an hour and a half later by my reckoning, lying in a heap of blankets, listening to my husband breathing, wishing I hadn't looked at the clock and seen the evidence of my strange timing. Still dark.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Three sharp raps on my bedroom window, above the air conditioner, in quick succession. My eyes widened, attempting to get a glimpse of whoever was out there. Unfortunately, the shades and curtains were drawn, nothing to see. I waited for the person to knock again, but nothing. I was paralyzed in sheer terror, too afraid to risk the person outside knowing where we were inside to wake up The Hubs, who slept peacefully until his alarm went off at 6:00, frightening me all over again.

So how do I know I wasn't dreaming? The cat lying between us, terrified of strangers, bolted off the bed and into the dark recesses somewhere in the rest of the house. How do I know it was the window? Glass sounds different from wood. How do I know it was the window above the air conditioner? I tested it. It's impossible to tap on the windows through the screens and that's the only window on the south side of the house with no screen.

I told The Hubs about it the next evening, and he was insistent that we do a window and door check: "If it happens again, wake me up." I posted an update on Facebook asking if this had ever happened to anyone else in Conwag. No one. One of my colleagues later commented that it was probably a teenaged prank (I'm paraphrasing for both our sakes), which seemed reasonable to me. And so I forgot about it as a one-time occurrence.

Until this morning at approximately 5:00.

How do I know it was 5:00? The weather forecasters in this state are an excitable bunch and they tend to go a little overboard in their predictions. Two weeks ago, we were all supposed to be building an ark. I didn't bother and nothing came of it. Last night, we were warned to haul the mattress down the stairs of the cellar and sleep with the spiders. Sorry for mixing metaphors (you didn't get that little "overboard" and "ark" thing, did you?), but "Wolf" has been cried too many times this season, so I went to bed as usual. Not wanting to tempt fate too much, I shut and locked all the windows but the one in the bedroom and put my phone underneath my pillow. As luck would have it, at exactly 5:00 (according to my phone, anyway) my weather siren went off. I scrambled to find the phone and turn it off before the sound woke up The Hubs. I pulled down the notifications to stop the siren and see what was going on: "Flash flood watch." I thought, "For realz? It isn't even raining y'all!" Then, I put the phone back under my pillow and attempted to fall asleep. About 30 seconds later:

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

This morning it was five times in quick succession and on the living room window. Within milliseconds Fraidy Cat's paws speedily padded across the bedroom floor as she dove underneath the box springs.

Let's establish some facts:

• Both events occurred around 5:00 a.m.
• One occurred on the 5th, a Monday, the second occurred 15 days later on a Tuesday, the 20th.
• There's enough business with the number five to unhinge me (15 being the product of 5 x 3 and 20 being the product of 5 x 4), but it's entirely possible the person behind the "rapping on my chamber window" did it on the 9th, 13th (which is a prime number, and, therefore, not strange), and the 14th as well, and I slept through it.
• Regardless of my preoccupation with numbers, it seems this person may have a reason, other than gaslighting me, for being out at 5:00 in the morning which gives her/him legitimate cover: a paper deliverer? a runner? someone out walking the dog?
  
• It's probably not someone I know because I can't think of a single friend...or enemy for that matter...who has the time or energy to get up that early to play a prank on me.
  
• I'm not dreaming this: the cat heard what I heard both times.
• Whatever the person wants, it is not to actually contact me or The Hubs. If it were, the person would knock a second and possibly a third time to try to rouse us.
  
• The person responds to important changes in the situation. Remember, last night, because of the threat of rain, I shut all the windows, save one: the bedroom. Additionally, the curtains and shades of that window were open, so I might have been able to hear our perpetrator as he or she approached and I definitely would have been able to see her or him...especially since I was awake...so the person tapped a different window...one I didn't have a direct line of sight to.
  
• And it's this last fact that sets me a little unglued. The Hubs never woke up, even through my phone's siren. But I did. I was awake. And that makes me wonder if this person heard or saw the commotion with the phone and knew better than to approach the bedroom window.
  

I lay there watching the street from my position on the bed ready to bound to the window if I saw anyone walking down the street. After about 10 minutes, I realized that the person knows where we sleep and wouldn't have risked walking past the bedroom window.

You may wonder why I didn't wake The Hubs.

What's he going to do? Go out and shoot someone? Or equally worse, get himself shot?

No, I've got a closed-off front porch with a wraparound view and a better idea.

So, you tell me...paranoid? Or justified?

Twenty Hours

F-Bomb Alert^TM This post contains language that may not be suitable for all readers.

Since my dad died, I've been spending a lot more time with my mom because she's by herself. Unfortunately, she also lives 629 miles away, and my husband can only take off one week of work at a time, so I'm generally driving by myself. It's 10 hours one way no matter how I slice it. Twenty total. Twenty long hours to be completely alone with just me.

Twenty. Long. Hours.

One learns quickly just how fascinating one actually is in twenty hours of solitary confinement (not very, in my case). Here are some random thoughts from my holiday drive, "lovingly" hand-coded, by the way (and by "lovingly," I mean I cussed the whole time I coded this bitch).

THERE	BACK
Crap. I left the book I was going to translate at home. I wonder how many more things I'm going to remember that I forgot. I hate packing.	Eight whole days without dropping an f-bomb. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck fuck." Wow, I feel so much better now.
I am BYPASSING the entire drawn-out town of Vilonia. Woot!	People who are easily offended generally take great delight in it. They probably derive an equal measure of pleasure from being offended than people who enjoy being offensive. Hey, win-win!
Stupid people are REALLY into each other; hence, their numbers are growing exponentially...as demonstrated by all the idiots driving around me.	Whoa! The Led Zeppelin was in here the whole time. "Ah, caught you smiling at me/ That's the way it should be/ Like a leaf is to a tree, so fine."
Get your duct-taped hooptie out of my way!	If S...O...P...A passes, Big Bro is probably coming after me. I hope they aren't googling that acronym with my strategically placed periods of ellipsis. Note to self: Strike through Big Bro in case they're googling that.
Rice, rice, and more rice.	Three-quarters of a tank and I will pull over to fill up just before Illinois, thank you.
What I've learned from the Marquis de Sade: Know and embrace your inner beast and never apologize for your beastly ways.	Is this that place where I was followed by that creepy van? Thank the holies (the Marquis de Sade, Nietzsche, and Derrida...someday you will remember this) for those two truck drivers.
Cotton.	There is no right or wrong in nature. The ability to transgress is what makes us human. Acting on it probably also gives us humanity, empathy, and self-awareness.
This is the place where I rolled down the window and flipped off the dive-bombing crop duster who nearly caused a wreck on the freeway this summer. I wonder if he saw me?	Man, Illinois is boring.
I-55 exit to Portageville, MO: "Drug Check Point, K-9, 3/4 mile." Let me wrap by brain around this. Put up a sign that you're going to be searching for drugs...with trained drug-sniffing dogs...and it acts as a beacon for mules transporting the illegal goods to...gee...I don't know...St. Louis...Chicago? People are actually stupid enough to exit here with 10 pounds of coke in the trunk? Oh, wait...exponential growth in stupid people.	I can't believe I had to eat fast food to stay awake. Now I feel sick. I guess THAT will keep me from falling asleep.
"The Cleanest Restrooms in Fill in The State Here" usually means there is no toilet paper, no soap, and no paper towels. That's why it's clean.	Where's that confounded bridge?
The entire state of Illinois is one giant speed trap. I know this; you know this. Why do you speed? Why do you think you are pulled over? I pass you with a whiff of schadenfreude and a tinge of self-righteousness.	There's that confounded bridge. Just get me back in the South...and back up to 70 M.P.H.
Corn, corn, and more corn.	Surprise! Wrong exit. Oh, well, the Exxon Pit Stop or Reeves Boomland...six of one, half a dozen of another.
How many times can I sing "Femme Fatale" before I become hoarse? Hit the button again and let's see.	Hey, those restrooms really are clean...and well stocked. Maybe I should get gas here from now on.
They shut down seven miles of one freeway lane so two guys can watch another guy work at the half-way point. I'm amazed we even have roads in this country.	Damn CD-Player. I guess I'll have to listen to KGMO 100.7 while it cools off.
I have never seen a single person visiting the aluminum-sided Big Damn Cross since it sprung up by the side of I-57 south of Effingham, IL.	Thanks to the dick who nearly caused me to have a head-on. You were perfectly content doing 50 on 412 (which is a 60, BTW) when I started to pass you. What, you don't like being passed by a woman?
Time for something more sacrilegious. Oh, VU's Peel Slowly and See disc box set number four. That should do it.	If I concentrate, I can get to 67/167 before the last bit of sun disappears behind the Ozark foothills.
There isn't a whole Effing lot going on in Effingham except for the Big Damn Cross, and it isn't exactly happening. *turns up volume*	Woohoo! I'm burning up the freeway now! Look out fellow Arkies!
Thank everything I consider holy (the Marquis de Sade, Nietzsche, and Derrida), I'm in Indiana where they also appreciate guns and 70-MPH speed limits.	Surprise! Wrong exit again...in Beebe, Arkansas, population 5000 something. Seriously? I've lived here 25 years. I've been to Beebe a million times. I need to be home.
Arkansas smells like catfish and earthworms, Missouri smells like burning tires, Illinois smells like crude, and Indiana smells like poo. I can't decide which is worst.	Still loving the Vilonia by-pass.
Where's my bootleg Led Zeppelin? Crap. Another thing I left at home.	Gee, thanks for leaving the light on for me, Hubs. Damn, I need a drink. Fuck unpacking.

Photo courtesy Barb Henry through a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs License via Flickr.com, http://www.flickr.com/photos/bhenry/124519641/.

Thousands of Words, Hundreds of Miles, and Seven Pounds Later

Several of my friends have been using this month as a chance to reflect on the things they're thankful for. My mom and I conducted an e-mail exchange along those lines each November for a few years. But this year I spent the month winning NaNoWriMo (see badge at left). And when I finished that challenge, I realized the things I'm thankful for are things I made happen: I wrote a novel (no, it's not done and not even ready for revision), I became a runner, and I lost the seven pounds I gained after my dad died of cancer last year.

I celebrated these feats last night by drinking a couple glasses of wine and going to bed early. Hey, I know how party!

So let's start with NaNoWriMo: November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Anyone who wants to can sign up for an account at the NaNoWriMo.org website. Writers can then use a variety of resources to help them write 50,000 words by November 30: pep talks, a word count tracker, and merchandise like Chris Baty's book No Plot, No Problem! Writers who make it to the 50,000 word minimum "win" the contest. For their troubles, they receive a certificate and special internet badges that indicate they've won (see badge above). Yeah, that's pretty much it.

So now you may be wondering how I came to participate in the contest.

As with most meaningful things that have happened to me in my life, this one happened quite by accident. I woke up on November 1st, thought to myself, "Oh, NaNoWriMo starts today. Let's see if I can get 1667 words." And I did. Then I did it the next day and the next day and the next day until last night when I hit the 50,000 word mark and validated my word count on the NaNoWriMo site. Technically, I was supposed to have spent the month of October prepping, but since I wasn't planning to participate, I did no research whatsoever (which I'll come back to later on.) I had tried the contest a couple times before (never got past 6000 words), and then completely ignored it last year thinking that it just wasn't for me. So what was different this year?

First of all, I had a plot that included a beginning, middle, and end. Second, as I started writing, I either fell in love or in hate, as appropriate, with my characters. Third, the work is ultimately a discussion of some of my favorite subjects: art history, the Marquis de Sade, the link between pleasure and pain, the place of morality in the world, and what it means for something to be "beautiful." It also doesn't hurt that it takes place in Paris, the streets of which I can walk from the comfort of my home in Conwag.

And here's what I learned about life, writing, and teaching writing:

1) You have more time than you think. On Day Three, I had to respond to 35 student drafts while helping supervise the writing center where I am assistant director and attend two meetings. I figured I'd still have that night to write and was then that I had volunteered to act in a short film for my friend CEP. All the shooting was complete except for the green screen scenes, and he had reserved the screen room for that night and that night only. I asked if he didn't mind shooting everyone else's parts and then calling me when he needed me. No, he didn't mind (thanks, CEP!). So in the few hours between getting home and getting in costume, I managed my 1667 words. When I got to 35,000 words, my pace started slowing. I woke one morning at 3:30 and started feeling guilty. Then it dawned on me: "I'm just going to lie here tossing and turning feeling guilty. I'm never going to fall back asleep. Why not just get up and write?" So that's what I did. You've got five idle minutes? You gonna spend it on Facebook? Or you gonna write? Which will mean more to you in the end? Question answered.

2) This relates directly to number one: find people who support you because they'll make sure you've got the time. Leave behind those who don't support you because they'll only see your work as a frivolous excuse for turning down invitations and begging off extra work they've contrived for you to do. Facebook was instrumental in building a network of support. Posting my word count to strangers on NaNoWriMo didn't really mean anything to me. But posting the milestones on FB and receiving "Likes" and congratulations was a tremendous boost to my motivation. Which led me to another conclusion: psychologists say that if you tell someone you're going to do something, you're more likely to do it. That may be true, but if the people you tell start nagging you, you're going to dig in your heels and say, "Na, na, na, na, na, you can't make me." The reinforcement has to be positive. Also, The Hubs finally understands what I mean when I say, quoting Stevie Nicks, "I wanna be a star! I don't wanna be a cleaning lady."

3) Drafting and revising are separate activities. When you have a looming deadline for a rough, rough draft, just write the draft. It used to be that I had the leisure of writing from the beginning until I got stuck, at which point I'd go back to the top and start revising until I got unstuck. Then I'd begin drafting again until I got stuck and end up back at the beginning revising to "unstuck" again. I'm not sure that's the most efficient way to go about writing. I'm now convinced that just getting something down and often working on bits and pieces as the muse for that section calls is more efficient. Now that I've got a huge chunk of novel finished, I feel like I can continue moving forward without ever getting stuck again. And what's the point of going back to revise something that might end up cut from the original because of a plot problem? And this especially translates to teaching: why should a student revise a section of her research paper that may actually contradict her thesis or be completely irrelevant to her focus?

4) Sometimes you just need to write and fill in the gaps that need to be researched later. I could have spent the entire month reading about the philosophy of the Marquis de Sade, translating stories I wanted to use from Le Monde, etc. But I didn't have time for that. Better to get down the story line and develop the characters and worry about the details later. I used asterisks, blanks, and highlighting to indicate places I needed to develop through research, names I hadn't decided on, and fact and spelling checking I needed to do. I can now worry about those things during the December break. Le Monde is archived like any other newspaper; I can go back to the news that fits my story line and translate those articles later. And I get to keep Airaksinen's Philosophy of the Marquis de Sade until March, at which time I can certainly renew it from the library.

So that's what NaNoWriMo did for me.

I've written before about what running has meant in my life. I started the day my mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor (see post dated August 9). I had to put it aside when school started, but now that I've come to realize that I have more time than I thought I had, I've taken it back up again. Also, sitting in front of a computer for nearly a month has made me want to feel my whole body move again, not just my fingers as they glide over a keyboard. Funnily enough, it got a little cold yesterday, so I spent some time this morning doing research on technical gear for runners (that's backpacker/hiker/runner speak for clothes that keep you warm and dry) and discovered a new accidental challenge: the day I started running again (Thanksgiving), Runner's World started the first annual Holiday Running Streak: run one mile a day from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day. Pfft. That's nothing. If you're friends with me on Facebook or follow me on Twitter, you can be sure I'll be posting my triumphs daily, assuming this initial soreness doesn't put me in a wheelchair.

And as for the seven pounds...well, that came off without a hitch. I owe it all to single-serving bags of popcorn and Granny Smith apples for breakfast (because I don't like sweet stuff). If I lost a couple more pounds, I could easily rock a size two, but you know what...I'm pretty damn happy with what I've accomplished so far.

It's been a good year.

Ladies and Gents, We Have a Winner!

Yes, folks, I won NaNoWriMo, and here's my badge to prove it. More on what I learned later. Right now, I'm CELEBRATING!!!

Running for My Life

The day after my mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor was the day I started running for my life.

I'm going on two and half years of major life upheavals, and just when I thought I might get a respite, I found out my mother needed brain surgery. Major brain surgery. I'm not a self-pitying sort of person normally. But these last couple years, I've woken each day, usually around 3:00 or 4:00 a.m., with a heart-pounding sense of impending doom: "What bad thing will happen today? What important thing did I forget to do? Who's going to call with bad news? How much will the next bill cost me?" At 5:30 a.m. that morning, I got out of bed, sat on the porch, and decided to outrun the doom. At about 10 minutes after sunrise, I took off.

I can't say that first attempt was a resounding success: I walked three miles and managed, under the cover of the thick cedars along the nature trail I hoped would conceal my belabored effort, two pathetic 15-second jogs that threatened to kill me. It was more like running toward my death.

Now, a long walk with two short jogs has turned into mostly running the whole way, whatever "the whole way" happens to mean.

I've started exercise regimens before in the name of losing a few pounds, usually with friends, and it has never worked out (no pun intended). Those past attempts usually ended because the whole business started to seem onerous within days: "Crap, I've got to go exercise... again." Strangely, I wake up now, thinking, "Crap, it's too dark to run. Hurry up! I need to run!"

I've been wondering why this is so, and I've come to some conclusions. Here are the things I've learned from running:

• Abandon goals: Lao Tzu said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. Others have said it's about the journey, not the destination. Phooey. There's no use in trying to background a goal. If you have one (a journey which implies a destination), all you'll think about is how much farther you have to go in order to get there, no matter how hard you try. All the coloring books, car games, and breaks along the way do nothing to prevent the age-old question "Are we there yet?" If I wake up thinking "I don't have to run if I don't want to," I inevitably want to. Because I don't have to.
  

• Be surprised by something every day, even if it's the thing you were surprised by the day before. I learned this from rabbits. Two of them reside along my normal route. They know I'm coming through every morning at the same time, and yet they sit in the same spot and wait for me by the trail, one of them standing on its hind legs, nose a-twitch. They hold back until the very last safest second, and then take off running in an exuberant bunny version of hide-and-seek. So, when The Loose Rooster of Bruce Street cock-a-doodle-does every morning when I run by, I still laugh and it still feels like getting a little unexpected present. I like unexpected presents.

• Don't fight what you don't have to. Like the guy I met coming the opposite direction down a trail near my mom's house who only uses it to get to and from work, smoking like a chimney the entire way. While I've been known to imbibe in a cigarillo once or twice a year (I know, disgusting and unfeminine, whatever), I am NOT into sharing a ciggy-butt with a stranger sporting crotch-at-the-knees gangster shorts while I'm running. The best course of action, once you've determined that nuisance humans are invading a route, is to abandon it for a less cancerous one. Do not attempt to explain to the offender why and how he should get a life (this dude was in his 30's and vertically challenged; his choice of fashion only served to accentuate his "shortcomings"). This could result in hard feelings...and a fat lip. And even if it didn't, people never listen to the advice of others...except to rule it out.
  

• It doesn't hurt to plan ahead. There is a certain kind of charm about running in the rain, the fog, a heat index into the 110's; if you refuse to truck wimpy excuses, you're among the running elite. Sprinting at lung-burning speed while peering over your shoulder at a monster thundercloud that looks like a skull with fangs and a gaping maw churning the darkest most evil hocker ever to be coughed up as it attempts to gain on your skinny little ass to spit the vile thing all over you is not that charming. Even if it does conclude with a personal best.

• Cross-training is good for the body and mind. If you pair running with biking (or another activity like roller-blading or swimming that works your largest muscles, which are in your thighs and rear-end), you will develop your muscles in more ways and gain better balance. You will also cultivate hot legs (while not the point and certainly not the goal), which has shown to boost one's ego. (Yes, the link is sexist and borderline pervy. I still love Rod Stewart.)

• Whatever you do, don't stop. Chiggers, mosquitoes, ticks, and other nasties are waiting for you. Your hot, naturally tanned, legs won't look so hot bathed in pink calamine lotion.
  

• Apply liberally. The calamine lotion, that is. Also, a sense of humor.
  

• Give up on your bad self and allow those corny thoughts. Maybe it's runner's high; I'm not sure, but I think the most worn-out, trite things while I'm running...and I don't care anymore. Case in point: Crotch-Pants forced me to run the same trail in the opposite direction. The opposite direction runs along the cemetery where my dad was buried last year. Sunrises in our part of the world are humbled by trees and our need for sleep, outshone by their evening counterparts. But, on this particular trail, I found out that if you get up early enough and head toward a place where the rising sun is visible, like a cemetery, it is every bit as majestic as the setting sun. I don't believe in an afterlife, but my father did, and it comforted me to think how happy he would be to see this sight every day...as if he occupied the place he was buried...because it was glorious in a way that defies description. But I also thought about how every day we wake up to a roomful of choices. Every morning (every minute, really--the sun is just there as a reminder) you can change course. Or not. It's up to you. CORNY!
  

• You are stronger than you think you are. The last time I ran for the hell of it, just to move, just to feel alive, I was probably 13. Then I gave it up for boys. In other words, I didn't want to run or do cartwheels or hang upside down from the jungle gym because I didn't want to appear foolish. Now that I'm no longer interested in "boys" I feel like I cheated myself. I define "play" as doing something for the sole joy of doing it. Once we give up play we forget what it means to feel joy. I think we're tremendously weakened by this. But joy is about the easiest thing to get back. I did a cartwheel today. It was as pathetic as my first attempt at running: my knees were bent, and I'm pretty sure they were at about a 45 degree angle from the floor rather than being perfectly perpendicular. Perfection was not the aim. I was just playing, permitting myself to look foolish, and I think I'm a little bit stronger than I was before (admittedly, only my two cats were watching, but they're a pretty tough crowd, believe me).

So that's pretty much it. I'm running for my life, but I'm swiftly catching up to it.

Photo: Me and My Mom Two and a Half Weeks after Her Brain Surgery. Credits: The Hubs.

If You're a Masochist in Need of a Fix, Try Writing a Novel

Yeah, so what...I've been away for a while. I never expected this blog thing to get off the ground anyhow. Yet I still keep writing...in what can only be labeled a masochistic act designed to end in failure.

To whit: I've had a literary novel in my head and on my hard drive yearning for attention now over 10 years.

Too bad.

Because I got an idea for a novel, pure pulp fiction, no less, in a genre I love: the mystery/crime thriller that borders on horror. (I consider I Saw the Devil, a Korean flick, the penultimate film in this particular genre. But trust me, if you're sensitive in mind or stomach, avoid watching it at all costs; you've been warned.) In my opinion and since the novel is writing itself (even as I write this blog thoughts are coming to me left and right), this project should be easy.

Here's the problem: I keep re-reading and revising it and thinking, "This is total crap."

And by "total crap" I don't mean pulp fiction that sells millions of copies, all John Grisham like (a fellow who happens to hail from my home state, BTW). I mean "total crap" as in "I might as well join the Fulker County Writers' Society" (FCWS). (The name has been changed to protect the not so innocent).

Of course, if you're not from around here, you have no idea what the FCWS is all about. So let me clarify: if you write sentimental rhyming poetry, you might be a red...*cough*...a member of the FCWS. (A nod to Jeff Foxworthy for providing the lead in to that lame joke).

So I'm writing this stupid pulp fiction novel and beating myself up because it's not good enough. As far as this kind of writing is concerned, I'm thinking, "Plot and characters are your only concern. Don't sweat the cliches; they're short cuts the typical reader needs." But damn it, I want every sentence to be awesome in the way that my friend Kevin Brockmeier's sentences are awesome.

In other words, I secretly want this thing to be literary. Well, not so secretly anymore.

So I go back to baseball, which I'm pretty sure is the metaphorical cipher of the universe. There will always be minor leagues comprised of those players who want to make it into the big leagues and those who just love the game. So maybe I should just accept that I'm a minor leaguer with a passion for the game and keep on batting because, really, I've got nothing to lose, right?