Dear David Foster Wallace:

Nine months ago I picked up Infinite Jest for the second time with every intention of powering through. I believed my first failed attempt had prepared me for this undertaking. Now, cocooned in my bed on an autumn afternoon, it’s apparent that didn’t happen in the timely manner I’d hoped for.

Let’s start with the physical proportions of your behemoth. Over 1,000 pages with 388 endnotes, and a whopping 3.5 pounds. David Foster Wallace, your book is inconvenient. I couldn’t prop it up on the elliptical while mindlessly churning out miles of sweat, or pace around the house with it loosely grasped in one hand while brushing my teeth. From the start you demanded my full attention, and settled for nothing less. I frequently felt like a child: sitting upright, clutching the book with both hands, reading until my arms ached.

It’s safe to say this book left its mark on me. Literally. Remember the sunny day I vowed to read 50 pages in one sitting? Sprawled on the beach with 32 ounces of beer, a bottle of water, and ample snacks I was mentally and physically prepared. Six hours later, after emerging from the tangled vortex of a 10-page endnote, I hit that 50 page mark around the same time my second degree sunburn started blistering.   

Before now I’ve never read a book and the dictionary side-by-side. I have no doubt you did this intentionally. I’ll admit there were times I resented you for stretching the boundaries of language beyond good old Merriam-Webster’s capabilities. You manipulated the etymology of myth and medicine in ways I may never fully comprehend. Portions of this story read like a lexical temper tantrum. Do you realize there have been whole dictionaries dedicated to your creation?

It’s aptly titled. The joke is that you spend an infinite amount of time reading it.

Perhaps the worst things about reading this book was the inevitable question: but what’s it about? There’s no concise answer. The main characters are a prodigious teenage tennis player, a recovering drug addict/ex burglar, a subversive Canadian wheelchair assassin, and a horrifically beautiful veiled woman. Themes include depression, substance abuse, athletics, marketing and media, suicide, teenage angst, politics, pollution, and familial tension. You also managed to touch on incest, materialism, agoraphobia, love, and genetically mutated feral hamsters the size of Volkswagons.

As isolated as I felt reading it, I can’t imagine how you felt writing it.

David Foster Wallace, human beings are absurd. We’re repellant and alluring. We’re self-conscious and vain. We’re occasionally noble and martyred and affected. We wake up in gutters covered in our own shit and vomit, and still sell our last shred of dignity for another ounce of pleasure. But of course, you knew this. You possessed a concise and poignant view of the human condition, and chose to leave it of your own accord. I know, I know. The only advice I received when I started this book was to avoid reading it through the lens of your suicide. But you unknowingly cast the shadow of your death across every page.  

"Any man can slip out there. All it takes is a second of misplaced respect." pg. 169

I hope you’ve found more resolution than this story. Honestly, Infinite Jest is one of the most ridiculous and horrifying pieces of entertainment I’ve ever consumed. But also challenging. But also rewarding. David Foster Wallace, thank you. I know you’re responsible for this overwhelming and unexplainable feeling of accomplishment. I have to get back to my Real Life.

-b

I'm bouncing off the walls again.

I am 25 years old, and relearning the handstand.

It all started with my knees. This spring, two years post-op, I decided to rejoin the world of organized sports. After extensive googling I found the NetRippers Football Club, Rose City’s LGBTQ soccer club. This May I dug my cleats out of the crawl space, aired out the hand-me-down shin guards I wore throughout high school, and trekked to the Adidas Complex for my first Saturday afternoon practice.

You guys, I loved every minute of that first practice. Sprinting with purpose, letting muscle memory take over, working as a team toward a common goal… I was hooked.

As you may recall, I’m not the best at moderation. I started with Futsal. 44 minutes of high-impact aerobic activity once a week. Over the course of three months, this turned into two indoor soccer teams, an outdoor league, and a weekly Futsal match. By September I was playing 3-5 nights per week, sometimes multiple games a night.

The pain started after that first practice as a nagging tightness in the left knee. Not pain, exactly. More like an uncomfortable awareness that I have a knee, when typically I remain casually oblivious to my body’s existence. When Futsal started, the knee ached more acutely. Occasionally the rapid start/stop would cause buckling and sharp pain. After games I’d hobble upstairs to my bedroom and elevate it to reduce swelling. I started bracing the left knee for stability.

Six weeks ago, I was sitting at work while both knees crackled with some sort of maniac electricity. Imagine electrified ice water caught circulating just under your skin. Or the tip of a very small knife inserted beneath your nerve endings. They hurt when I sat. They hurt when I stood. They didn’t hurt when I walked, but they ached dully in a swelling-and-inflammation way. The only thing that alleviated the pain was squatting. Not crouching in a squat. That hurt too. No, the only relief was actively moving my body up and down in a squatting motion, pausing with my thighs at a 90 degree angle to the floor.

A week later I ceded, and dropped out of the soccer world.

Without soccer, I am relearning my body. I listen to the aches caused by miles of running on poorly rehabilitated joints. I’m learning to be strong, not only physically but mentally. Accepting limitations, giving myself time to heal. I am relearning the word grace.  

Handstands don’t require strong knees. Three weeks now I’ve padded barefoot into my loft and thrown my body against a wall. The first step is building strength. Training your upper body to bear weight: palms flat against hardwood, fingers splayed. Strength. How the shoulders ache and burn at every new angle. Heels against whitewash. I walk these hands back, walk these feet up. Hold. Thirty seconds, sixty seconds. Remember how to breathe. Forget how to count. Don’t worry about falling.

Across the city, Camille writes I feel a little Twilight Zone-y. She says The world is upside down. I say I’m learning to do handstands. My world is upside down. I’m not afraid of falling.

I have a friend back home who wears gravity the way airplanes wear sky. The way ships wear oceans. Effortless, like she was made for this; her body inverted and stock still. She has always been flat planes and sharp angles. I am not her. This does not come easy. Heels against the wall. Weight shifting forward, elbows locked. Balance. Breathe. Do you remember the last time you weren’t afraid to fall?

I hope you’re well, dreamweavers.

-b