Catch

Trotting, abbreviated, sick-sandwiched nausea, lying on shower bottom, fetally, the only distraction loud enough to forget; wincing in windstorms, tripping over trees and folding ankles; the best thought of every day - coffee, hot. I am black morning running, black evening running, loving the sides of my hips reorganized; weekly rolfing. There was a man in seizure at the bus stop and all these cars stopped suddenly, parked array, taking knees, the wrists of his hands curled and typing tremors; the security guard walked slowly as if thoughtful, aloof in footfall in contrast to the slamming of breaks, and it's like - a literal variance in caring. All this road rage red and timidity, receiving middle finger salutes held high from driver side window for not a brief reflection, but long and on, squirrels cleaning the insides of pumpkin spew on porches, and the cat mewling at the door to be let out, but then, suddenly, wants back in.

A few weeks ago we poured wine at the Taste of Tulalip, got to meet characters in the wine world with names like Sparky the Left-Hander, eating scallops out of bamboo boats, cheeses. A chance to observe a group that comes for a thing, a quality thing, in excess. Winemakers, buyers, salesmen, journalists. The white linen stained bloody in drips from curveless tips of the bottle's mouth, business cards slipped from inside corner pocket to inside corner pocket, nodding.

I was granted the good fortune of my first ever Hawks game via Al & her lovely family last weekend; afforded the opp to assess, indulge, review, cup cold hands, dodge the ever braiding boozed fans in a big open space. Irish coffee with blue & green sprinkles on a cream head. Rockets, but even better the smoke that trails in cold air for minutes after. Flag runners. Huddling, long coats, cameramen on floating chairs, the limp wrists of yellow towel waving Steelers fans, peanut carcasses on stairwells, spilled beer down backs, a son yelling at his elderly father about not having been ready in time, blue lips. Everything miniature except for Worthlessberger's cheeks.

With a 55 day turnaround I've slipped into CIM. Spazzing on footwear. Spending too much on brands trying to find the slipper fit for the pavement. It's another adventure. A chance. Such a family of us going. We are Sac-town bound with Folsom abodes. I went into Chicago with such fervor, having worked harder than I ever had, and fell apart. Now, it's about feel good, relaxed, passionate, loose lucidity. If Chicago were the Type A, straight A, A-Goal Serious me, then CIM is the feel good, wino me. Throw in some yoga, a fireplace, Infinite Jest and you got a whole new training cycle style. Mostly planning day-by-day, a forced in-the-moment-kind of living, have no idea where I'm at, at which capacity I can roll. It's ostensibly so that I've only run marathons in the sun, and I don't particularly enjoy that, so I'm excited for a chill, for throwaway gloves, arm sleeves and goosepimples.

As we plan for Sac, we're also planning for New Orleans during Jazz Fest and a girlz vacation to Europe come Fall for copious castles, steins and weins. All of these things are really nice, but I found that space again where things feel a little more disappointing, people don't put in as much effort, are a little more lazy, a little more selfish, talk down to you, everyone giving you advice and asking for advice but paralyzed. There's such good stuff going on, and I'm thankful for them, but the hard stuff is a little louder. I've been insanely lost inside Infinite Jest, with swift lips scanning the pages, reverting back guiltily, knowing full well there's a lesson in front of me, fighting lazy, fighting skim.