Say what?

I long to say something profound, to impress you with my mastery of the English language, but it never comes. I think, formulate, open my mouth and fuck it up. Your constant look of confusion would be comical it were not directed at me. I promise, I am deeper than I appear, have more to offer than a stupid grin and a canned joke; if given the chance, you may one day see past my ineptness, and appreciate me for what I am not – articulate.

I am sorry...

I know that you do not blame me, but I can not help but to blame myself. I have a sinking suspicion that if I had given your very rational fears even the slightest credence, you would have listened to the voice that created your initial wave of concern, and things might have turned out differently. I should have protected you. I failed at that and I am extremely sorry—I will never let it happen again.

**Head bobbing off beat**

Every person I know longs to be somewhere else, doing something different. I am no exception. If I am honest, and I rarely am when it comes to these type of things, I want to be a member of a dance troupe. I can see it now, me and my crew gyrating down the street guided by our freedom and the smooth beats of [name your favorite artist here]. I figure all I need is style, rhythm, dedication, years of professional coaching, and six lucky individual to believe in the dream. . . .

Growing pains

He attempted independence at twenty-one, but could not rid himself of his overbearing family and their ever present fears about his health. At twenty-two, he received both a gift – the long awaited transplant – and a curse – the added fear of a full body revolt. Now, however, a year later, at the age of twenty-three, he felt himself breaking free from his caged-self. For the first time, he was strong, capable, and free from the daily regiment of drugs that had kept his body viable since birth. As he giddily spoke to them about his revised hopes and dreams, he felt a shift in the family dynamic – he was no longer only resented by his siblings for receiving all the attention, but also by his parents for not giving it back. They had dedicated their lives to making his last, and he wanted nothing more than to experience everything they had foregone to care for him. And on what should have been the happiest of days, he learned his cruelest lesson, no love is selfless.

Scared into hiding

I tell people I am neurotic about my personal information because I do not want to be found. The truth is, I long to be discovered by those I abandoned. To be told that my absence is noticed, that my sins can be forgiven. At this point, even a scathing email would be a welcome relief, as it would confirm that my presence meant something. Putting the excuses aside, the fear that no one is looking is the real reason I mask my identity. For the thought that I have been erased—by my own doing—sickens me to no end.

You are the light at the end of my dark tunnel

I fear that my overbearing presence has trampled your dreams; that you will one day look back on your life with regret because I dominated it. I have never had anybody be dependent on my existence, and that intimidates me. What happens if it doesn’t work out; if I choose a path that leads to a life of unfullfillment? I worry that you were meant for something more than this……than me. The thought of clipping your wings and making you less of an asset to this world than you are meant to be paralyzes me.

I want nothing more than for you to tell me that this will all work out, that we will continue to be as happy tomorrow as I perceive us to be today; but again, that would be me laying the weight of my selfish single-mindedness on your shoulders. It is not your job to placate my demons, you are more important than that. I fell in love with you because of your passion for life, and want nothing more than to continue to see that fire rage. So, as we reach our next cross-road, please be honest with me—and regardless of how I react, I want you to stand by your desires, for, at the end of the day, it is more important for me to have you shine that it is for me to get what is easy.

Thirty-two years and counting

I have thought about this post for weeks now, trying relentlessly to compose the perfect piece to honor this occasion—but, as I have come to accept, there is no combination of words that I can put together that do this day, or you for that matter, justice. Thus, you are stuck with my tired, oft stated, and dull birthday wish.

S, you are the best person I, or anyone who knows you, has ever met. Everyday of your thirty-two years have been a blessing, and we all long to spend the next sixty plus in your presence. While others struggle to leave their mark on the world, yours is already firmly entrenched. I hope you take this one day to realize just how amazing you are, and understand that each and everyone of us are is complete and total awe of you on a daily basis. Your kind heart, gentle smile, and constantly outstretched hand makes us better, even if we grumble at yet another one of your “good person” ideas. Nobody is perfect, but you are damn close. It is both and honor and a pleasure to be able to spend this day—even if it is 1500 miles away—with you. We love you, and wish you the happiest of birthdays.

Titles

I could not think of anything to write about, so I decided to take the fist few songs that came onto my ipod and use their titles in a story. They appear in the order in which they played.

Everybody knows that there is so much more to this seemingly two-headed boy than meets the eye. While he appears to be stuck up the spout of life, dreaming of a wild world, he is bound to become more, a man of conviction. Amongst his future accomplishments, he will build Havana, under the cover of darkness, in his small section of the world; artfully recreating the place his parents once called home. But in this moment, there is no rush, for he knows that all in good time, perfection will come. And while waiting on the night, he will slip between the bars of society, pucker his loose lips and kiss the gentle moon.

Songs: (1) Everybody Knows by Gougers; (2) There Is So Much More by Brett Dennen; (3) Two-Headed Boy by Neutral Milk Hotel; (4) Up the Spout by Mateo Messina; (5) Wild World by Cat Stevens; (6) Man of Conviction by Brandon Rhyder; (7) Build Havana by Future Clouds & Radar; (8) All In Good Time by Ron Sexsmith; (9) Waiting on the Night by The Greencards; (10) Between the Bars by Elliott Smith; (11) Loose Lips by Kimya Dawson; (12) Gentle Moon by Sun Kil Moon.

Change in the blink of an eye

I am trying to play it cool, but am having a hard time forming a coherent sentence. I desperately need a drink, but fear my shaking hand will give me away, and you will see how smitten I am with your presence. Six minutes ago, in a world that did not include you, I was a statue, incapable of emotional attachment. But, in this minute, I am the definition of vulnerable.

The Devil pt. 3

Notwithstanding my stated intention to tell her upon her return to the continent that I no longer harbored a place for her in my heart, I broke. As her arrive neared, I spent countless hours in the gym, completing my transformation from a 230 pound blob to a 170 pound sculpture. The vision of her stepping off the plane and being memorized by my new found physique and confidence drove me. On that fateful day, I drove to the airport with flowers in one hand, and my middle finger prominently displayed on the other—torn as to which would make an appearance. As she trudged down the ramp, I lost my nerve—I handed her the flowers, gave her a kiss, whispered that I loved her, and shed a tear.

Her reintroduction into my world was awkward. I was forced to distance myself from those that had kept me company the past 12 months out of fear that they would disclose one fact too many, and my cover as the faithful boyfriend would be blown. I truly wanted to make it work. The problem for her was that in her absence I had rebuilt myself into a confident—if not arrogant—young man finally able to cast aside the sheepishness that had caused me years of turmoil. She noticed a difference and it scared her.

For the first time since the inception of our relationship, I had the upper hand. The year of partying, pastries, and overcast skies had done a number on her once magnificent frame, and olive complexion. She was bloated and ghostly; I loved it. To make matters worse for her, I moved into a house with my high school buddies—individuals who had known me pre-devil, and were hell bent on having me join them in their quest to cast aside all things socially acceptable. Her groupies were gone, replaced by an odd cast of unique female housemates. Either due to a growing sense of attachment, or a feeling of loneliness, she fought for us.

For the most part, I appreciated her effort, and did all I could to make her feel welcome in my self-centered world. But, unlike years past, I did not spend every waking minute pining away for her—choosing instead to enjoy the company of numerous inebriated women who longed to show me the “true” college experience. Nonetheless, while I enjoyed the endless company, I basically stayed true, keeping it in my pants long enough to make it to the devil’s layer. As we came to accept our new existence, it appeared that we were going to make it. Or so we thought.

Halfway through the year, we were both accepted into a program that would send us to the Nations capital for a semester of work and classes. Accompanying us would be a small group of like minded degenerates.

Once in D.C., I fell in with my roommate and a shy, diminutive young genius—we did not know it then, but this would be the foundation of a lifelong friendship. We were almost immediately joined by a loud, pudgy, constantly drunk graduate from our college who I had befriended years before. The four of us quickly realized that we had three very important things in common: (1) our love of woman, (2) an abundance of free time, and (3) our love of the bottle. The thought of a healthy relationship was comical.

As our boozing reached epic proportions, we fell in with a crowd of lively, attractive and desperate co-eds. While the devil was a constant at all functions, I really do not remember her presence all the vividly. I know there were fights, excuses, and sneaking around. The fact of the matter is that I clicked, became comfortable in my skin, and mastered my now infamous ability to detach myself from any situation, regardless of its chaotic nature. This would serve me well as I blocked the devil out, bedded her friends and ran amuck. Why she stayed with me, believed my absurd excuses and blanket denials, I will never know; but I suspect it is because she had actually fallen in love with me.

Unfortunately, like all good things, the school year and summer came to an end, taking with it my freedom—we were home bound—the devil, myself, and my begrudging acceptance that I needed to put the craziness behind me and give “us” another try.

And she's back

Her name appears in my inbox, and my heart skips. I know better than to dream, but I can not help but wonder if this will be the time she apologizes for the years of neglect, the hurtful silence, the lost childhood. But as I eagerly scan the page for any sign of remorse, I am disappointed; left, once more, to slowly exhale the desperate breath held within. Predictably, there are excuses; short clips of joyous days spent in my absence; and dreams of new beginnings. They are cookie cutter -- seemingly written in days past, stored, only to be sent when she senses me letting go of the pain. I want to delete it, cut ties, and walk away – but I fear such an action will eliminate any possibility that this will some day change, giving her an excuse to blame this ridiculousness on me. For in the end, I want nothing more than for her to realize that she needs to love me as much as I need to be loved.

Silence at last

Nine hours, forty-two minutes and fifteen seconds is all it took to silence the defeatist voice that has been present since childhood – if I had only known, I would have pushed myself to the brink years ago.

One foot in front of the other

My first ultra-marathon is on Saturday. As I write this, I am sitting in the airport waiting for the second leg of my journey to get underway. Upon my arrival, I will meet up with my wife, good friend, and, a bit later, my sister and her new boy toy. For the next four days (as it has been for the five or so days before this moment), the conversation will center almost entirely on me. We will discuss my running needs – hydration, calories, band aids, sunglasses, etc. – my ridiculous desire to push myself to the breaking point, my next goal, and hopefully, about what a great experience this all has been. And while I love the attention (I am not shy about saying that), there are a few things I want to say before I get too focused to care about the details:

To those who have stood by me for the past five months and dealt with my incessant chatter about weight loss, running shoes, food consumption, nipple chaffing, heat stroke, etc., without so much as a grumble, a slap to the head, or an eye roll, I thank you. Without your unwavering support, good natured ribbing, and ability to put this all in perspective, I would have come to resent this journey. You have all made it possible – as such, this race is as much yours as it is mine, we are a team, and I only hope I do not let you down.

If I do not finish – for any reason – I will be okay. I have come to grips with this possibility, and know that the chances are real. If it happens, do not be afraid to talk with me about it. While I hate to fail, I can think of nothing worse that failing without an outlet.

I know some of you look at me and wonder what the hell am I going through that would cause me trade in everything I love for long, lonely runs. I am not crazy, but I have no better explanation for you than this – I do it because I can, and one day, for whatever reason, this will no longer be possible. It is not sexy, inspiring, or even well thought out. I am young, strong, energetic, a borderline insomniac, and have an abundance of free time; hence, I run.

With that, I am off.

Lucky man

After a lifetime of unreturned phone calls, forgotten birthdays, and missed moments, I struggled to quell my constant fear of abandonment. When I sensed it rising to the surface, eagerly anticipating yet another destroyed day, I brushed it off with a joke and a smile, but I knew I was fucked; for no matter how bad I wanted them – anyone really – to reach out an comfort me, it never seemed to occur (at least not in my mind), and my sense of self-worth and confidence died just a little more.

Nowadays, however, I understand that I need them less than they need me, which, as you can imagine, is not much. I am not going to spend the rest of my days wondering how long it would take for someone to find my body in the event something ever happens to me (a real life long fear). After spending a weekend surrounded by those that truly seem to love and support me, it is clear that everything is going to be okay, and that I have no reason to allow the failings of others to consume my everyday.

Darkness is not my friend

My entire building has been without power since Sunday. I thought it was because of the storms – which have been violent here for the past couple of days – but grew suspicious when I noticed others in the surrounding buildings enjoying their gloriously illuminated apartments. I attempted to corner a building security guard in an effort to question him about the problem, but he proved to be more evasive than I had assumed a man of his size could be. Finally, yesterday evening at 9:15p.m., a handwritten sign appeared at the buildings entrance which states the following:

An electric break down in the primary cable to the main switch of the condominium has left us without electricity until at least April 30.

Mr. X electric expert is current absent, but will be working on the repairs upon his return.

Sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

I am not feeling confident that our power will be back on by the 30^th, are you? Besides my uneasiness about this explanation, there are a number of things that are bothering me: (1) what the hell is a “break down in the primary cable”, is that a fancy way of saying the damn cable broke? Don’t sugarcoat it, if it broke it broke; (2) is Mr. X seriously the only man of the whole fucking island who can fix the “break down”? I know it is a small place, but this if absurd; and (3) I love how they assume this whole incident may or may not be an inconvenience – sure, besides the fact that everything in my freezer has now spoiled (my fridge stopped working long ago, so no need to fret about that), I can not cook, have no hot water, can not see a damn thing, and am now living in a hot box, everything is peachy, no problems here!

All that being said, I realize that the building is not trying to be without power, so I am not blaming them per se, but still, this is ridiculous for so many reasons.

Tic-Toc

He can taste freedom in the salt laden air, but remains bound by obligation. Each and every weekday he pulls his exertion ready body out of bed only to plant it firmly behind a sea of paper and computers. He watches the hours tick by, and wonders -- often aloud -- how it came to this. How does a man who spends every waking hour contemplating different ways to physically exert himself end up motionlessly locked behind a desk? The simple act of rising for coffee is an exciting experience – at least movement is a component. It kills him to wish his days away, but Monday through Friday is a chore, and he wants nothing more than to see them pass. To most, a year consists of 365 days; he sees only 104 – the days he can break free and enjoy life the only way he knows how.

What more can you ask for?

I strongly question my ability to be unhappy, angry, depressed, or lonely when I can wake up, walk onto my patio and meet this sight head on. This right here is all I ever dreamed about as a child, yet I let it go largely unnoticed. Having spent the last two days hunkered down out here, just watching and listening, I have resolved to not let this be another thing I sought, but failed to appreciate once obtained.

Now if I could only convince my wife, the girls, best friend and a few other hanger-ons to move here, life would be perfect.

One bite at a time...

While not sexy, I thought I would share with you my food consumption between Saturday morning at 3:45 a.m. and Sunday night at 9:23 p.m. – the official start and end to my weekend.

Before launching in, I believe a foundation is necessary (otherwise the below just seems weird). I run a lot. For example, I have run roughly 840 miles so far this year – not an incredible amount, but enough to keep me hungry. More specifically, this weekend, between my Saturday and Sunday morning runs, I logged 55 miles; as you can imagine, I am a walking stomach. Now that you understand where I am coming from, below is what I can remember from my eating frenzy:

4 – pieces of cinnamon raisin toast (“CRT”);

5 – peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches on CRT;

1 – medium size-jar of crunchy peanut butter (this includes the PBJ’s, but finished the remaining off with a spoon);

2 – packages of swiss-cheese eaten with multigrain crackers;

9 – Quaker chewy granola bars (6 of which were eaten while running);

3 – power-gels (all of which were taken while running);

3 – Annie’s vegetarian burritos (rice and beans; rice, beans, and cheese; beans and vegetable);

1 – three servings of rice, one bunch of bok choy and a block of extra firm tofu;

1 – brunch buffet consisting of two helping of scrambled eggs, toast with nutella, three fruit bowls, third of a ring of brie, a cup of three-bean medley, and four glasses of orange juice;

1 – bowl of ice cream;

1 – can of tomato soup with spaghetti noodles and grilled cheese sandwich;

1 – Snickers bar;

1 – dove dark chocolate bar;

1 – bag of pretzel ropes;

1 – bag of sugar-coated vanilla wafers;

1 – bag trail mix;

1 – Nestle chocolate milk;

1 – trip to Costco during sample hour;

2 – protein drinks;

4 – Gatorades;

4 – Vitamin Waters;

1 – 20oz Pepsi (drank while running);

2 – beers;

? – cups of coffee;

? – gallons of water.

Notwithstanding, I am two pound lighter today that I was on Saturday morning.

Hi mom!

The communications have once again ceased. Last time, I actually questioned the reason for the silence, and racked my brain for anything I may have said or done that would have offended them into muteness. This time, however, I can safely aver that they are just too lazy to pick up the phone and check on their son.

I am all blocked up

I have a vicious case of writer’s block, so am going to just scribble a few things out, sorry.

Yesterday, as I crested a tortuous hill during the first half of my run, I came face to face with a sunrise that was just beginning to peak through the clouds, and over an old military fort on the Island. That sight, coupled with the song The End from the Man on Fire soundtrack, brought me to tears. It was the closest thing to a spiritual moment I have had in years; I hope that moment never leaves me.

She is forty, but is a social child. Every time I talk with her, I regret it. Either she makes a sexually suggestive comment about me in front of others, or questions my every word. If it were socially acceptable, I would tie her to a pole and throw tacks at her throughout the day.

We added two new members to our family this weekend – the boys (http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/01/confessions.html), as you can imagine, are beside themselves with excitement.

My fateful bowl of Raisin Bran Crunch (see post below) not only cost me $700 in dental bills, but will rob me of two hours of my life ever Friday for the next three weeks. That being said, I feel compelled to admit that I have forgiven RBC – and am once again enjoying its crunchy, yet sweet, delightfulness.

I find that I am an “honest” writer when I am too tired to self-edit – If I am cognizant of my words, I fear that I will hurt others, and therefore refrain. Is there a fix, or am I doomed to sleepless nights?