Hello blogosphere and happy Thursday! I hope these words
find you all surviving your work weeks. Unless you are unemployed. Then I hope
these words find you in your underwear eating a gallon of ice cream with the
biggest spoon in your arsenal. That’s what I would like to spend the rest of my
life doing. I’ve logged a solid 35 hours this week and have 9 to go. One more
day of flying monkeys, hysterical Greek women and Top 40s dance parties. You
think I’m exaggerating. You guys, this is my real adult life.
This week. My god this week. Hopefully at least some of you
were here Monday when I had all the feelings.
While said feelings haven’t quite dissipated, I have managed to sequester them
into the dark and dusty back of my mind. They’re crowded back there with the impending
zombie apocalypse, my accrued net value (approximately -$35,000)
and the army of spiders planning a coup from under my bed. Seriously though,
auto pilot possesses its own strange allure. Wake up, work, gym, eat, sleep,
wake up, work, gym, eat, sleep… it’s either depressing or liberating. I haven’t
decided which yet.
All the sad people are
burning their lives down.
For once I’m not one of them. I’ve re-lived the same pattern
a handful of times. I’ve struggled and overcome and just when I feel some false
sense of security I throw a right hook into my own chin. Just to watch myself
fall. I keep setting myself on fire just to prove I can rise from the ashes, or
some such cliché bullshit. It’s exhausting and I’m tired of my laughter always smelling
like smoke. I don’t want to be a martyr to my own self-destructive impulses
anymore.
But then again, you’ve all heard that before.
I’m tired of pretending to be tired. Have you noticed that’s
the default excuse when you don’t feel like interacting with someone? Yawn and
stretch and claim you slept poorly, or you went to bed late? I’m tired of
pretending to be tired when in reality I just don’t have a fuck to give. Why do
we have to make excuses for ourselves?
I remember summer camp and 11-years old, crooked teeth, a
big belly and thick glasses. The campground was a ring of cabins loosely
crowded around a lake. Our swimming abilities were analyzed by teenage
lifeguards, practically godlike in their nearly-adult bodies. The strongest
swimmers could climb a rickety wooden ladder, stand on the sun-bleached platform
and take a frayed rope in both hands. The bravest kids took a running leap
while the tamer jumpers just let gravity carry them out over the water. At the
top of the arc you let go, let your body plummet what seemed like a hundred
feet until you hit the water, safely past the dock. The rope swing was a
surefire way to prove you were strong and confident and unquestionably cool.
I remember standing on that platform absolutely terrified
the first time I jumped. First of all, a crowd always gathered to watch the
jumpers and grade their performance. Second, the platform was high enough to
make me dizzy. But I was fucking determined to be unquestionably awesome
despite my crooked teeth and extra poundage and myopic vision. So I did it, I
grabbed the worn knots of that rope and let gravity cradle my body. At the top
of the arc when my stomach dropped before the rest of me, I felt absolutely
free. There’s just something about falling from a high place; the sound of atmosphere
flying past your ears, adrenaline pounding achingly through your body… For
those seconds before impact there’s comfort in knowing you can’t alter the
sequence of events you’ve begun. After the first jump I was unstoppable.
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| http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/amaksik/2008/06/like-breath/ |
Until the time I couldn’t let go.
I’d been jumping all week. I was an old pro. I didn’t
hesitate when I grabbed the rope and dropped into space. But when I reached the
top of the arc my white-knuckled grip refused to unclench. I felt the rope
tighten and begin to swing me back toward the platform. Everything slowed down.
I could hear people yelling. Just let go.
Just let go! And I did, entirely too late. I landed in shallow water too close
to the dock and raked a piece of submerged driftwood. I didn’t need stitches,
but I came damn close. The butterfly bandages on my leg kept me out of the
water the rest of the week.
Today Lo told me to hold on tight, and I have been. I’ve
been holding on with white knuckles while I careen wildly through space. But at
some point we all have to let go. At some point we have to trust gravity and
forward momentum and simple, dumb luck and trust we’ll land safely. Otherwise
we end up back where we started, and the landing can be fucking painful.
I’m learning to let go. Or trying to anyways.
Things I still need to tell you guys about: Night of Kink,
the unicorn derby, fire dancing strippers, and the King of Tails! I promise I
won’t let those experiences fall by the wayside. For now, this is what you get.
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| This puppy says: Catch you on the flipside. |
Many miles of love, from me to you.
-b
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