Prayer to Love

An End to the Longest March



There are a million beautiful things in the world, but I think the greatest is untroubled love, let free like a dove, unburdened and alive and loose.

It's been odd, really, these past few years: me with all the experience, and yet you taught me most of what I know about love. I admit my naivety, thought I knew plenty before you; as has often been the case with you, I was wrong, and I fell hard and fast. This education wasn't intentional, but it was natural, the only natural course for someone who loves as easily as I do, in love with someone as perfect (yes, perfect) as you. Even now, we both know I'll always love you (even if it drives me mad, I'd say), but so it goes. We'll make our peace with this knowledge in time.

I understand that's a big part, if not the all, of why you broke it off. When you care deeply about someone, and don't want to hurt them, and yet don't know quite what it is that you want, that's a lot of pressure: being perfect, being loved, allowing yourself to be worthy of a lifetime of love when you have so many doubts about all of it. I don't blame you for any of it; in your place, I imagine I probably would have done the same. and once, in fact, did just that.

I could say 'karma's a bitch,' but more than anything, I try to think of her now as a quiet teacher, that of patient experience, for which there is no substitute, no book on tape, no cheat sheet. Someday, perhaps, you'll know what it is that you're looking for, what it is that you want. And I'll be more patient than a thousand monks, if that's what it takes.

I'll admit to dreams, the hope that someday you'll decide what you want most is me; I'd be a liar if I said otherwise, and besides, you know it just as well. More than anything, though, what I want most is for you to be happy, and more than happy, satisfied and content and at peace with the world. As long as you had doubts and fears, that wasn't going to happen with me. That alone was reason to break things off; I never could have made you completely happy with as many doubts and uncertainties as you had.

And that's why I can't say enough how glad I am we had our conversation yesterday, hard as I'm sure it was on you. Your sister tried to help me understand your reasons, and you'd tried a bit too, but yesterday was the first time I felt like I really understood why you felt the need to break things off. I needed that, in order to accept this, in order to see it for what it is. It's hard to get a perspective when you haven't had a clear sight line; yesterday you gave me those eyes. Thank you. And please, don't ever think I hate you. You ought to know by now that I simply can't.

Another thing: through and through, you've handled yourself with the utmost respect, class, and decorum; I can't stress enough how much I've admired that, especially as I've come close to unhinged on a couple of occasions. I know this is just as hard, if not harder, for you, and yet you've shown a resilience I doubted. If possible, I admire you all the more for it.

And the future? You'll always be my best friend, or at least I certainly hope you will; I can't imagine (and don't want to) a future in which we don't bounce ideas off each other, a future in which we don't cook for each other (at least occasionally), a future in which we don't spur each other on to new adventures. I've known very few pairs of people who fit together so well as we have; I can't adequately say how grateful I am to have had you in my life these past few years.

It'll take us time to figure things out, find our boundaries, time to become comfortable with this new/old relationship, from friends to lovers to friends. And realistically, some of that tension will probably always be there; you're too wonderful and beautiful a woman for it not to be. Still, as free-spirited and immature as we can each be, we also both have the discipline to make this work, and we will. We probably won't go camping in Decorah this summer, probably won't road trip to the Dells and Circus World Museum, and we probably won't hike the mountains of Idaho or backpack Europe together anytime soon. But in time perhaps we will, and in the stead I can only hope we'll still have plenty of smaller adventures.

My life is good, more than blessed, and you're one of the biggest reasons why. Again, thank you. Advice you don't need: don't ever lose that beautiful childish curiosity and sense of adventure; don't ever let yourself become unkind; don't ever part with your gentleness or compassion. You're a beautiful, beautiful woman, in every imaginable way, and I know of more than a few lives that are better for having had you in them.

I'm realistic, and know I'll probably love again – I love too easily not to – but I also know I'll never love with the passion, recklessness, and intensity with which I've loved you. Some loves really are one of a kind, not meant to be replaced or imitated, a type of greatness that can only live once, and then forever immortal. Without this love there would be no poetry; inside it, everything is poetry. You've given me new eyes through which to see the world, and I thank you for that.

I also know that someday you will date again. Hopefully your dates will be good to you. And if they're not, I'll learn how to break kneecaps and elbows, and I'll hold you when you need a shoulder to cry on. You deserve nothing but the very best, and someday you'll find that best, even if right now you still don't know quite what you want to call best, quite what it is that you want, quite what it is that you crave out of life.
Things have a way of working themselves out with time, and this will be no different.

Oh, time: and if ten years pass and we're both single, I remember the promise we made in your kitchen, neither of our tears quiet yet dried. Neither of us ready to be over the other, neither of us willing to ever say goodbye. Hopefully you'll remember the promise too. Because if by chance we are both single in ten years, I hope to keep that promise. A decade isn't so long for love.

Te quiero mas, Katie Colleen, forever and always, te quiero mas. Amen and amen.

Eyes and Ears

I.
(Oh Seven)

Say Goodbye, Dave Matthews Band
Cannonball, Damien Rice
Easy as Lovers Go, Dashboard Confessional
Apertura, Gustavo Santaolalla
One You Love, Mason Jennings
Come Away With Me, Norah Jones
Now Touch the Air Softly, Peter Mayer
Holy Now, Peter Mayer
Holding Up the Wall, Paul Christenson
Walking to Hawaii, Tom McRae
With You Here, Storyhill
Two Coins, Dispatch

Air pure oxygen, we float, as sunlight sparkles across fields of winter diamonds, rises pink and purple in an early morning ski; we bob, as sunlight blazes across the roaring spring flood waters, plays an eager puppet across the bows of these delightful kayaks; we sweat, as a fierce sun lights the summer with radiant intensity; we laugh, heavenly beams dancing across radiant fall leaves, catching us even as we stress with these newly adult lives. There is a heaven, marching ever forward even as we race towards it, even as we chase each other around the couches of the familiar lounge.

{two shooting stars}

II.
(Pages and Pages, and Such White Margins)

Ken Follet, Pillars of the Earth. Anthony McCarten, Spinners. Alex Haley, Autobiography of Malcolm X (re). David Shields, The Thing About Life is that One Day You’ll be Dead. Oscar Wilde, Picture of Dorian Gray (re). Michael Crichton, Next. Barack Obama, Audacity of Hope (re). Cormac McCarthy, The Road. EL Voynich, The Gadfly (re). Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (re). Norton Juster, Phantom Tollbooth (re). Carl Hiassen, Striptease. Nicole Krauss, History of Love. Ayn Rand, Anthem (re). O Henry, Four Million (re). Douglas Coupland, Generation X. Nicole Krauss, Man Walks into a Room (re). Barbara Kingsolver, Small Wonder (re). Tom Robbins, Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas. Ken Follet, World Without End. Douglas Coupland, Microserfs. Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (re).

The couches always shift familiarly under this weight, ever comfortable with my body, a drink, and a book, but the scenes are always shifting. The old house, a cool (and admittedly shoddy) interior, but a quiet nook to hide in, recovery after our springtime adventures. Later, in the lounge, there was our choice of three, so often the two of us, wrapped in a blanket, legs propped and tangled in front of us. More recently, by the big bay window, or sinking into the old comfy chair, large enough to fit our two small frames easily; despite aged promises, we never did read by the fireplace. Words leap out, dance at memories, strings tied always to you. Ever connected, dancing through these dreams, you overshadow any fiction, ever the greatest story I could wish for.
Someday perhaps I'll find the words to give such a tale voice.

{the hum of interstate traffic a mile away}

III.
(The Longest March Forward)

Don’t Panic, String Quartet
Half Dead, Mountain Goats
Blowers Daughter, Damien Rice
Parallel Lives, Storyhill
These Days, Nico
In the Hidden Places, Moutain Goats
The One That Got Away, Actual Tigers
Streetlight, Tom McRae
Fa Fa, Guster
Pocketful of Money, Jens Lekman
Love is Easily (The Hardest Thing to Hold), GB Leigton
Say Goodbye, Dave Matthews Band
Out Loud, Wookie Foot

Some tales never find quite close, and somehow I think those are the ones I find most satisfactory; I cannot forget you, pass you by, say farewell. I ask of you this gift: forever course in my veins, swim in my dreams, never give up the memories.
Shadows dancing across so many odysseys of fact and fiction:

I give you the book, cannot help but pass this beauty forward. An inscription: Ever my Caris.

Choking back tears, you cry out: Something is wrong with me. It’s not you. Even falling apart, half-broken, you are remarkably beautiful, an angel’s face even streaked with saline diamonds.

You come to me in my sleep, gently waking me to crawl beside, soft and pale and perfectly fitting beside me, warm. We say nothing in the predawn light, bodies quietly held, and it is right.

Dreams and shadows do not (for most) make daily bread the same as fact (or perchance, in strange cases, even fiction); of this I am well aware. Still, hopes and dreams are what love subsists on, and love, in turn, what feeds me. I march on, even as I run through yet another night; the third in three weeks. Daily living will forever be what we make it, make of it.
Pausing on a dark corner, I take in a deep breath, then turn and continue the run. Morning will come in due time, and as the sun rises, all will be okay.

{the promise of a sunrise, pink hinting at the tattered hem of night}

Resurrection and Insurrection; of Language and Hearts and Time

A year ago, sunlight serenely filtered through the dusty slats of those cool green blinds, the air outside blessed by brilliantly blossoming hepatica; winter gave way to spring, let go of the cold and embraced dashing and darting flickers, persistently noisy spring peepers. Green grew wild, ran free; we felt the coming warmth in our very marrow, permeating tired but content souls.

Four am and the alarm rings weary, another long sleepless night come to a close. Later, a mother's care etched across her face, she faces me and asks how many hours; I evade, but eventually answer: two and a half, the new standard. The morning’s miles are cold, and though sidewalks are cleared after yesterday's abundant sun, winter still hangs hard, biting. Under a starless and grey sky, I find no grace in the mostly veiled moon, barely hinted at in the cool, damp mist. Another long day looms ahead.

*******

A year ago, we dove into a life of delicious irresponsibility, ignoring the coming months and years, lost in the present. Rather than accepting the goodbyes to come, we continued with hellos. Inspiration hid in the richness of moments, the beauty of the earth surrounding and embracing us, late nights binding our lives irrevocably.

Now, these words tired and alone: I cannot forget you. I cannot let you go. A life seemingly nearly perfected now flounders for lack of direction. Even the sunrise service is absent celebration: cold seats and sedated hymns the norm here, I question the congregation’s pulse.

*******

A year ago, we woke with mimosas; merriment untouched by the sunrise that didn't come, we broke bread and bathed in good spirits and laughter, focused on the feast. Brunch of vegan blueberry pancakes, potatoes, eggs; dinner of summer pasta, yams, acorn squash; sangria celebrating the earth's resurrection into spring, an eternal cycle of moments overlapping, touching the next. A year ago, all was good.

Here, always cold, always skinnier, always tired, so little hope trickles from this body increasing insurgent. The weeks pile on, and sleep does not come. The miles mount, and there is no epiphany. Words pile up, but they are only words; I fear the dreams (always the dreams) may always haunt these weary nights.

*******

I've hidden my phone again; your family wouldn't approve of my call, so I simply do not allow myself a chance to make it. I may long to, but isn’t this what growing up is all about, anyways?

Instead I lose myself in these thoughts, hours of good memories. There are so many things I miss: the warm and soft familiarity of those gentle lips; tracing the feather-soft skin of your sides and lining the backs of your upper arms; wrestling like sweaty teenagers; playing around and chasing each other like four-, five-, six-, seven- year old fools; your twinkling and amused mischievous green diamond eyes, so frequently up to something. But more than anything, I miss our hours of easy conversation.
Your perfect voice: not just the 'sweet dreams, goodnight, I love you,' gently cooed and you cozily wrapped in my arms, not just the softly-whispered 'good morning,' half-open sleepy eyes of love, but the mundane, the routine. What I miss most is hearing which kid poked which, stories of lessons gone well and lessons gone poorly, run-ins with parents. What I miss most is hearing about special classes and science lessons and developing curriculum, frustrations laced with joys, days running into weeks running into months, and the year flying by. I miss hearing your tiredness after a long day, and I miss hearing your exuberance after a good one. I miss sentences punctuated by a sweet and tender kindness, littered with compassion and full of concern, knowing how your face would be drawn in love even as I devoured each lovely word. I miss hearing your heart in your words, melting into your big eyes with each soft syllable.

Now, we stay detached, cool and professional, or at least try to, even as we try to be friends. I don’t tell you I love you, that I always will. You don't tell me that you're not strong enough for this. But eyes -- eyes don't lie. We know each other better than this, and so we keep all this space between us, space we've never known, space we'd neither ever hope for. It's tearing us both apart; I see it on your face even as you see it on mine, hear it in your voice even as you hear it in mine.

You can't be the dreamer, the risk-taker, the passion-driven lover I am: I know this. I can't be the pessimist, the straight-shooter, the cool and calculated logician you sometimes are: you know this. And so we slide further and further from that center line we once came so close to, drifting. Fittingly, I see it is snowing again outside, spring still held at a long arm's length.

*******

A year ago, you were the first one back, the first traveler to return to our small Easter feast. You joined our Easter hunt, the candy hidden in the halls, all the while running around and leaping like a second-grader on Christmas morning, the expression on your face, sheer exuberant joy, now a memory forever engraved, and one of my favorites. You helped finish what little sangria was left, we played a few games (oh, sardines! And the joy of hiding in an elevator), and then retired back to a quiet evening by ourselves back in our shared suite.
This year, though we swap emails, we do not speak. I can’t think of many sadder transformations.

*******

Ann Beattie, then:

"I want to know if you're coming or going."
He takes a deep breath, lets it out, continues to lie very still.
"Everything you've done is commendable," he says. "You did the right thing to go back to school. You tried to do the right thing by finding a normal friend... let me tell you something. All men – if they're crazy like Tucker, or if they're gay as the Queen of Mary, like Reddy Fox, or if they're just six years old – I'm going to tell you something about them. Men, they're Spider-Man and Buck Rogers and Superman. You know what we all feel inside that you don't? That we're going to the stars."
He takes her hand. "I'm looking down on all this from space," he whispers. "I'm already gone."

I've forgotten how to aim at a star. It may well be, however, that I've already left, lost in space, a trajectory as of yet unknown.

*******

Everything we look at is dependent on the eyes through which we view it. Today is Easter; my family and I differ in our definitions of resurrection. That is all well and good.

Normally, I'd call any multitude of things a resurrection. Lately, though, there is only this, a resurrection of uncertainties.
But, I also know: stones do move, whether rolled away, split in two, or simply worn down over time. There will always be change. And tomorrow will always be another day.

Maybe that's all the resurrection I can ask for, each day starting anew. It could be worse.

A Taste for Wild

Jack nodded, enchanted... but he was not sure whether proportion was the heart of beauty. He had a taste for wild, spreading, disorderly things: high mountains, aged oaks, and Aliena's hair.

I am the me I am still meeting becomes a difficult maxim when your soul splits to shale, chunks of self vanishing into the mysteries of night and the uncomfortably uncompromising unknown. Where once was granite, now I find cardboard; where once salt seasoned, I find only bitter anise (licorice never my choice), chasing down dreams, a kite sucked up in a tornado.

There is no here but now, no place but how, and the good in dark Fridays settles into somber black and the quiet reflection that some souls have already had too much of. There will be no change of the past, but what of when the past swallows the future? Creeds are all well and good, but what of practice? Theories, untested, have no value; once broken, even less.

Hours pass where each breath is a gasp, a familiar recollection that drives through and through, hard and fast. Ribs are not meant for this hard prominence, but then neither have hearts hoped for a stripping so bare, this beyond vulnerability, the cruel depantsing of the last prepubescent boy.

Maturity is so hard, lacking in the fine particulars when that’s what I feel most. The edge of each snowflake falling lazily outside may be distinct, but even in their beauty they carry jagged glass. Shoveling it is like shaving a furry dog, the sidewalk and drives gradually appearing, lean and hard, but the body underneath contains no warmth, and afterwards there is only a dark beer (thank God for that) and a cramping right hand.

These are desperate pieces, flitting wildly from barmaid to barmaid, each forgetting what were already poor table manners. Elbows on the table, they compete for attention – I love like a lion, like a thunderstorm, like a helpless rage; I think we need to break up; There is no one here like you, and I must hike it alone – and the attention, invariably, is awkward and raw and desperately stinky, like goose poop fresh on your shoulder. Every matter of life, every matter of death; they run into each, colors bleeding from bright to drab grey, and we all would sometimes do better to jump off, in love, off the clerestory... fact and fiction running together too, and the pillars are soft and the earth so hard, and these dreams, these dreams, how they haunt me so.

Days run together even dragging on forever, a heavy sled of malcontents, and the rest of a life will never come, or worse: perhaps, it already. In better moments, a kind of quiet acceptance drift through the fog intermittently, but always fleeting; I do my best to write then (rather than now, mired so), with the prayer that hope might yet keep a life drifting away afloat. But some rivers are so strong, and some currents so fast, and connecting dots, I think if you were a river in the mountains tall, the rumble of your water would be my call; a deck of card collapses, this body faltering in a sweltering cloud of grey against too many abuses; beaten and drained, it falls soft against the muffling monotony of these everyday actions, working through the motions, no longer conscious. All this waiting: waiting for food to taste, and still it does not come; waiting for hunger, and still it does not come; waiting for reasons to press on, but still, they only come haphazard. I gorge myself when I find the will, but still, my cheeks grow hollow, and the bones of my torso look larger by the day. Push-ups and sit-ups are disciplined distraction, miles an exercise in proud and pained determination; yet I cannot escape the writhing orb, the ache ever present in my chest and atop these bony shoulders.

I am broken, half-whole, but still refuse to go down, even as my body insists I consider it. Hair continues to fall out; albeit it a lesser pace, the time has come to concede the point, and I'll most likely chop it this weekend.
The match, though damn near perfected, hangs ever more precariously, and so the days each come at least as difficult as the day before, each raising their own new plagues.

And yet... I'll bear it for however long I must. The times I spend with you, the quiet syllables you still occasionally allow me – they may yet crush me, but this weight of love, a heart exploding (literally, figuratively), is the only way I can imagine going. We all dream of our chance at greatness, and I cannot pass mine by. Dreamer and romantic, I readily confess; no such confession can do me any more harm than life itself, and I surrender myself to it fully.

Broken as I am, these collections of slivers remind me of life even as they dig deep, irritate mightily. I will not remove them, for they are all I have. I cling to the littlest mementos.

Guilt sometimes comes swinging down, a small devil realization that I once inflicted such pain myself, and not so many years ago. Karma is a bitch, and guilt overbearing, hardpressing. She survived, I've heard, but I cannot forget that hard edge, the jaded ache I know she wore for so many months, and it makes me hurt for your guilt at this divide all the more, a guilt I know is likely to ride you as long as you let me linger. I suffer, we both know, but even the worst suffering I can accept, resign myself to. Worse yet is watching you suffer on account of the pain you've caused me. Still, I cannot ask you to let go; we both know better, and why.
Some days that alone is what gets me through, this terrible knowledge that if I didn't press on, I would only succeed in causing you more pain than this rift has already caused. I cannot do it, not for lack of courage, but rather for a lack of forgetfulness, always remembering those bottles and instant regrets, then the pain and the doubts and the long, long road, a road on which I still crawl forward. I am too weak to walk the road again if I were to fail; besides, some risks are now beyond me.

A friend asks me to get help; another asks me to consider it. But time has taught me there is no help but words and miles and time and a knowledge of self, and I have the first three before me even as I guess blindly towards the fourth. These words, though weak, must do. These miles are more than plenty; any more (over four hundred in three weeks) no doubt would destroy me. And time? Time stretches infinitely, both for better and for worse. I am the me I am still meeting, indeed.

I cannot give you answers, nor you me. But this never was about answers. There are no answers, and I'll say it again. Only choices, there are only choices. And choices – looming out like so many strands of a monstrous spider, sticky silks each one – we make them because we must, and then we go on. There isn't any other way. Never has been, and never will be.

For better or worse, I've chosen this. And you? Why you've done the same.

So if you wanna burn yourself, remember that I love you
And if you wanna cut yourself, remember that I love you
And if you wanna kill yourself, remember that I love you
Call me up before your dead, we can make some plans instead
Send me an IM, I’ll be your friend

Creed

I believe in love. I believe in the hope love creates, the life love sustains, and the dreams it propels forward. I believe in love that is eternal, nameless, and ever-persevering, afloat in every raging sea. Only this can save us from ourselves, this love from which springs fresh compassion and sweet kindness, warm gentleness and tender understanding. Without love, there is nothing; in love, our eyes are opened and we see everything that is pure and good and right.

I believe in the divine experience, under any dressing and by any name: Buddhist or Jain, Christian or Taoist. I believe in the sacred outdoors, the sanctity of simple living, and the redemptive grace of each passing season, in the resurrection of spring and action of summer, the meditation of fall and restoration of winter. I believe in the mercies of forest and field and in the miracle of every weather. In every life, I believe there is holiness, from birth to death and at every point in between. I believe in mother Gaia, in trees and mountains and deserts and fields, in raptors and cows and rabbits and cougars. I believe in puddles and in mud. I believe in leave no trace and the laughter of children playing. I believe in sunshine and in rain, and love both for what they offer.

I believe in pilgrimage, by whatever form and name it calls us; I believe in destinations without end, and the intersection of paths we continuously choose. I believe in the trials of miles and the miles of trials, in all night runs, in hard miles under a scorching sun and hills in the pouring rain. I believe every challenge creates its own reward, no matter how veiled, and that every suffering, no matter how painful, contains at least some trace of salvation. I believe in an aching, bruising active life, and I believe in the whole body: strong mind, strong body, full soul. I believe in risks, in choices, and in (at least occasionally) throwing caution out the door, loving and living recklessly, in full abandon. Experience and love, I believe, are the only safety nets we need.

I believe in a heaven on earth, in the here and now: perfection sought both in the life we choose and the lives we surround ourselves with. I believe we are the reality we create, that there is no future but the present and no past but that which informs the future; I believe in a Zen at the apex of attitude and choice. I believe there are no universal answers outside of love, only choices and degrees, ideas and theories.

I believe in community informed by the experience of solitude, and I believe in the peace of complete emptiness. I believe we are not whole until we have first been broken, and that we are only whole when we live vulnerably, without fear of hurt or loss. In love, I believe vulnerability is our greatest asset, compassion and understanding the fruits of our losses, and perspective the consequence of every choice. In living, we love; in loving, we live. This is community: in community, we grieve as one; in community, we rejoice as one; in community, we love as one, without exception; and in community our brokenness makes each other whole. We are the universal stopgap when we love.

I believe we are the revolution we create and the change we sow, the hope we foster and the love we share. I believe we are more than the sum of our actions, even as those actions define us. I believe we are ever changing: there exists no moment ever able to contain our fullness, nor will we ever fully grasp the enormous breadth of even a single moment. I believe we are the action we inspire in others, the healing hand we reach out with, the gifts we offer without thought of repayment.

But above all, it is love I believe in. Every action informed by love, shaped by love, guided by love – that is perfection: unselfish, pure and right. This is what I believe; this is my creed. It is good; it is right; it is true; it is love.

What do you believe in?

Crescent Moon

Tuesday night I did not sleep. Though insomnia might have made for an easy culprit, she was no more than a merry accomplice, the brunt of the act resting firmly upon these weary legs. This most recent foolishness began simply enough: basking in the glow of forty-nine degree sunshine (after a seeming lifetime of trying negatives), I naturally wanted to run – and not just run, but run and run and run. The greater the consideration, the greater the urge; the greater the urge, the farther the aim; the farther the aim, the more expansive the notion, until finally brilliance had struck: finish work, sprint home, set up a pack, and then – the evening just begun – run to Stillwater (to Wisconsin!, I think) and back, lose myself in miles and the tantalizing night.
If all goes well with these long miles, I will have just enough time to shower in the morning before biking back to work; immediately, the plan firms up, and action springs forth. The twelve hour workday complete (after a three am wakeup, no less), I pause at home only long enough to through a few things (money, water, some espresso beans and a couple of gels) in a camelback and am off. With neither the time nor strength for the full ninety-mile loop, I catch a bus into town; this drops the run intended to a mere sixty-miler. And thus begins the adventure.

It is still early yet as I set into the miles yet to come – only seven – and the air is still laced with the seductive promise of spring. Though I carry tights and a light jacket, I begin in no more than shorts and a long sleeve. A bank’s temperature sign tells me it is thirty-seven degrees.
Off the bus and through downtown Minneapolis I run, across the river and past the U, winding my way towards the suburbs. Dusk comes on quickly if unevenly, though traffic remains brisk. Fighting ice and cold snowmelt puddles, I slide and splash my way through every few strides, but find the exercises in futility enjoyable nonetheless – or perhaps as a result. I fall three times.
Ever so gradually, traffic lets up and apartment lights dim. The sky is a deep and royal blue, fading towards a crayola midnight, laced with silvery purple clouds. There is no moment but the stride at hand, and I happily navigate ice in search of unimpeded, horizon-filling views of the sky. Moving yet further east, I find better and better views; in occasional glimpse I catch memories of the western mountain night, of summers longer close past and yet never closer to the soul. Clouds shimmer in waves across a perfect sea of sky, and stars sink in and out of a sacred consciousness, a shared memory of carbon beginnings.
Even in the outlying city, I remember anew that there may be secret trapdoors to other worlds where we least expect them, coat closets to Narnia in the ugliest of neighborhoods. In quiet solitude I disappear into a small grove of trees; tuning out the white city noise, I lay on the sidewalk and dirt and lose myself in the sky above: orange and silver crescent moon, frosted clouds; winking stars and cold blue air. Lying here, at peace, I listen to snow melt and ice crack, hear the occasional scamper of bunnies, chipmunks and squirrels. Lying here, my life made small and insignificant on a deep and wide canvas, there’s little choice but to accept the inevitabilities of life: we live, we love, we ache, we die. Acceptance is its own sort of peace; we all meet the same quiet end. From dust to dust, indeed.

Even as I sometimes doubt, I know there’s no reason not love, love being at the very center of our every fiber, wound in our sinew and carved in our DNA. And so on, ad infinitum. There’s only choice, making the most of what we have (be it given or created), continuing each day on the advances (or hopes) of previous days. There are only the realities etched out before us by belief, confirmations of what we hold dearest – hopes and fears alike. This is our sky: some nights she lays dark, moonless; others, she hides among the clouds; others yet she shines oh so brightly, illuminating our lives with brightly burning balls of flame and passion. Our sky is full of promise, yet carries no obligation to us; she is cool and collected, yet soothing in her ever watching gaze.

A particular Zen finds me in this peace, the quiet perfection of hours spent in the simplest of motions, and I wish the same for you, be your escape kitting or reading, gardening or running. There is a completion and wholeness in the total isolation of stride after stride after stride, and here, lost in hours and hours of night, I re-realize (as I forever will) just how enjoyable this solitude can be. It is not the divine inspiration of a twenty-miler atop mountain ridges, under the warm Idaho sun, nor the jaw-dropping awe of thirty in slot canyons a mile below where you once began, but it is a warm and filling feeling nonetheless, a calm contentment, laced with that slightest of sustainer joys. The paradox, of course: I am awash in an astute awareness of the interconnectedness of all that which surrounds us and envelops us, holding us dear (woods and sky and quiet night, I call you home), even as it runs parallel to a complete and total disconnect with the world around us (oh, silly people, so busy and yet so lost).
In these lonely miles, wildlife echoes so many familiar sentiments; less concerned with human intrusion here in the anonymity of the dark, they invite me into their worlds. Startling a coyote, I see his is fresh from a kill – and I far more taken aback than he. In absolute simplicity, as if commonplace, we stand across from each other, drinking in details. The smell of blood still hangs in the hair, and small tuft of white fur clings to his panting muzzle. In the quiet encounter we find an understood equality: in this late winter nighttime we are simply fellow survivors, doing that which keeps us alive and moving. He gazes at me, and I at him, and then the moment has passed; we turn and part ways.
A few miles later I see what I at first can only imagine is a cat; darting across the trail quickly, soundlessly, it’s bushy tail trails behind, before it stops, watching me. Approaching closer, I come to a halt; we examine each other only a few feet apart. Drinking in yet more details, I see it is a red fox kit. We too have our moment of quiet respect before passing on our ways.

The night is long and full, as it always has been and always must be. She gives her secrets only as they are earned, puzzles to be unwrapped in the quiet and patient pursuit of understanding, insight and wisdom, savored like strong dark chocolate, melting on our tongues both bitter and sweet. There are no intangibles to replace experience; without the night there is no day. I loop back, return home without incident and with just enough time for that shower. Though I do not cover the originally intended sixty, I still put a solid forty-eight on a new pair of shoes, and they are properly broken in.
I am sore, of course, but no more than expected, given context; life isn’t made to be lived without aches and pains, bumps and bruises. In twenty-four hours, I run sixty-four miles (a new high) and sleep not an hour; in three days (Monday to Wednesday), the totals are ninety-one and eight, respectively. What does not break us can only make us stronger, or perhaps leave us crippled. As we age, I imagine it’s most likely a mixture of both, simultaneously broken and whole. There is time ahead of me, and time alone will tell; I know this, and the night nods her agreement.

In the stead, I run. For the night, I run. And in love, I also run. Miles of trials, trials of miles: run on.

Dylan Thomas

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

There is comfort in repetition, an uneven tenderness in the slap-slap-slap of feet on pavement and the creaking familiarity of tired spokes turning over, the re-invention of the wheel. Except I remember running along the lake passing old men and old women, they cheerily peddling slow, and you pushed to exhaustion on those blades of dimes. The sweat running heavy in oppressive Midwestern heat, sleeping with the fan on and no sheets – we didn’t spoon when it was so warm, just lay waiting for the cooler morning, quiet talk drifting lazily through the humid night.

There is comfort in the kitchen, in cooking, making something beautiful of nothing, an art of creation and sustenance. Except I remember that dirty kitchen that we always cleaned together, and I remember that big kitchen we always raided together, and I remember that perfect kitchen where you still cook and your roommate still bakes and I remember trading recipes, inspirations, eyes growing wide and mouths sighing sexually, pleasured. Orgasmic breadsticks, we laughed – and that wasn’t even our best work.

There is comfort in lounging on the couch, except that was my weekend respite with you; I’m not much of one for television normally. No more school, we’d say, disappearing into the infinite expanse of that old, cushy chair, lost in old Superman cartoons or a Family Guy or maybe The Office, memories of another long work so easily forgotten. And now, I find, even How I Met Your Mother has lost its draw; it may have always been my show, but it is lost, those easy Fridays eating our dinners together on the couch, you laughing and I laughing with you, lost in the moment; and that moment, stretching on forever, like so many of the moments before it. We caught eternity in the present, and this a fairy tale no more.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinew give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up, they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

You asked me about heaven once; namely, if I believed in it. I picked my words carefully, but the short answer was this: I’ve already found it, and it’s here with you, having this conversation; it’s here with you, and your laughter sparkling on salt diamonds on a sunny winter freeway; it’s here with you, and you’ve melted my heart into a river that rushes wild from the mountains, untamed, a force to be reckoned with, love reckless and large; it’s here with you, and you’ve set me free. But you couldn’t see that heaven, or saw it but chose to define it with different words. Life floats in peculiar currents, and I can only hope to avoid the backwash.

I hide my phone now, to avoid the temptation of calling you; it’s worth the missed calls. You ask for space; space you shall receive. But – and this is important – I cannot give you something I am not. I cannot be someone who does not love you. What I can do: I can choose not to kiss you, inviting as your lips may be; I can choose not to hold you close, soft as your skin may be, delightful as your scent may be (French and sourdough, with a hint of soap); I can choose to leave words unsaid – te quiero mas gone silent – but I cannot stop loving you. To stop loving you would be to stop the world, to grind it to a halt. Already the rhythm is lacking, the bass a half note off, and the high hat gone missing.

Nor can I shake the knowledge that you love me as well. Kisses do not lie, nor do your eyes. If it is fear, so be it; I understand fear. If it is doubt, so be it; I know doubt perhaps too well. If it is the pace at which this moved forward, so be it; I admit I am too frank for some. Tell me you want to just be friends; I can accept this – I will not let you simply slide out of my life – but be honest about your reasons. Offer that small respect; it means everything.

You chose to believe only what you see, after you’d already chosen to see it; and this but the most impossible thing to prove definitively. I tried to balance, opposite you, choosing to see that which I already believed in, but no one can ever make two one, save two choosing to make one. We did not make the same choice. Algebra has always been a good subject for me, but life is no such simple math, and there are no balances for these equations, only more variables: time, place, perspective, experience.

I tried to find the rhythm of the world where I used to live. I followed the current. I was silent, attentive; I made a conscious effort to smile, nod, stand, and perform the millions of gestures that constitute life on earth. I studied these postures until they became reflexes again.

A couple of spills forcing me into the later service on Sunday, I thought perhaps our paths might cross, but evidently you either slept in or hid well. Perhaps it was for the better. Still, John Updike: “We contain chords someone else must strike.” I could not strike the chords you would not let me see; I realize this now, but neither do you realize the depths of the chords you struck, sunlight plucked from the dawn. Eugene O’Neil: “What is beyond there? What is beyond?” The answer, of course: “There is only life.”

I know, as you do, that we will both step forward, into new and strange paths. I hope those paths continue to cross, but I also know that if they do not, your reflection leaves shadows in each step I take, and I will always see you in the smallest things. A butterfly fluttering next to melting snow, an eagle struggling against a headwind, a cricket in the classroom, a coyote fresh from a kill, a red fox kit – mostly small things, really, but still, I nearly call you or email you several times a day. These are things that bring me back to you, even as you are gone. Even as you are gone, you are here, and I will not say goodbye. I refuse.

There are no answers. Only choices. And I? I choose you. Make of it what you will, but I will not leave you behind. I cannot and will not, even as you move past.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

Abyss

Life is defined just as much by the challenges we face as the ones we back away from.

Natural selection is as much about those poor souls who don't make the cut as it is about the changes and adaptations necessary for continued survival. Sometimes you stay the course, only to find the race has changed, the turns reset. I think I missed some flags; others I snapped, both childish (for better and worse) and careless.

I raced a couple of my college teammates in high school; one of them consistently beat me. The other was right behind me at a big meet when I snapped a flag with my shoulder. He took it to the face, then not long later sprained his ankle on a sprinkler head (the race was on a muddy golf course). It was not his day.

Maybe this is karma.

Sometimes the ends are the means. Other times the ends are just mean. I'm not sure any of this is ever quite justified. Actually, I really doubt it.

The cold is still hanging on, slightly less hard-edged and slightly less violent; though not malicious, it numbs just as it always has. It's nothing personal, I know; the weather can't be expected to cooperate. As coach always said, "there will be weather." what matters is what we make of it. I haven't raced in two years, so who knows what that counts for. And more numbing is hardly what I need.

A couple of weeks ago, visiting friends and unable to sleep in any longer, I went for a run. It was a bitterly cold Sunday morning, still early; no one else was brave enough for the -51 wind chill. Nursing a mild hangover from the night before, I ran about a mile warm-up, then – using a route I'd mapped a couple of days previous – ran a mile all-out. It was an assault on every part of my body; the second half of the run was into the wind and largely unprotected. Hoping to break five, I ran a 5:17.

It's rare I don't get the things I want. I am stubborn, persistent, not easily deterred. When I know what needs to be done, I do it. Challenges and risks are what I live for.

Saturday morning, despite 156 miles last week and 110 plus already this week, despite a recent diet that at best could be called shit and consistent insomnia, I ran a 4:58. I just had to remind myself how much running fast was supposed to feel like death.

Maybe that's the trick to getting the things you want – suffering. I ought to be in good shape. Raskolnikov found his salvation. Of course, he also went crazy, so I suppose I can't say I'm not aware of the risks.

There isn't any real point in abusing myself so – I know this – but I do it because I can. And because it proves I'm still alive, no matter how questionable that conclusion may sometimes seem. And yes, road rash on ice is not fun.

It's been a rough week, and I know the weeks ahead will likely only get rougher. But there is no accomplishment in backing away, only in stepping forward and pushing ahead.

On I go.

Leap Year

Upper Case, lower case

“Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good; that honor, courage, and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power mean nothing; that good always triumphs over evil; and I want you to remember this, that love... true love never dies. You remember that, boy. You remember that. Doesn't matter if it's true or not. You see, a man should believe in those things, because those are the things worth believing in.”

love is something you wake up to every morning, both petrified and exhilarated by the incredible risk and rush of its giddy head, drawn in by the sweet soft whispers and storming fury alike. it is equally terrifying as it is edifying, and it is anything but certain.
i first met katie just more than two years ago; our friendship was a thing of fierce beauty, wild like a tiger and playful like a puppy. almost immediately, we were drawn to spending as much time with each other as possible, intoxicated by the joy we found in each others' company and our many adventures. wrestling in fields and living rooms, running through prairies, climbing bluffs, water towers, and rock walls, we were drunk with each other.
and we both thought we were just friends. at graduation, the hardest parting was with katie. we'd barely gotten to know each other, it seemed, and the possibilities for our adventures together seemed limitless. she was off to her chicago suburb, where she planned to spend the summer continuing to look for teaching positions. i was to spend the summer in decorah, working whatever job i found to pass the time until my "real job" as a naturalist began in the fall, running as many miles as i could and just generally enjoying one last summer of responsibility-free life.
i thought of her frequently, and sent her a few emails and more IMs. she admitted that she missed me too, and together we hatched a plan: she and her sister would come visit us in decorah, and a whole group of us would spend the weekend camping, kayaking, and canoing. it was perfect.
as the weekend approached, it was nearly all i talked of; several of my coworkers asked me repeatedly to stop. i couldn't help it – i was just too excited. the weekend itself was everything we could have hoped for – good weather, good friends, and all in all, a great time. floating down the river, we told jokes and waged water wars. everyone but katie and i got a little annoyed with all of it, but we were oblivious.
back at camp that night, we played frisbee and drank and wrestled and chased each other through the field and down the road. that night, we spooned. at the time, it just felt right. i didn't even think about the fact that i had a girlfriend, and neither, i think, did katie. after all, we were just really good friends.
that weekend i convinced katie to apply for the same naturalist position i had already accepted. when she got home, she did; shortly after, she was offered the job, which she accepted. i was both overjoyed and petrified: we were going to be roommates.
at the same time, things with my girlfriend were continuing to rapidly decay. one of my best friends had just disappeared in the mountains, and i wasn't taking it well; i'd never (at least until katie) felt so alive or had so much fun with anyone, and losing him and that vibrant personality put a real damper on the rest of the summer. things with kirstyn only continued to get worse.
at the tail end of the summer, kirstyn and i took two weeks to visit some friends and climb some mountains out west. it was a rocky trip; twice she offered to pull over on the side of the interstate and let me hitch a ride home.

the fall came quickly, and with it, the move to the environmental education center where katie and i would spend the year. she got their first, and had already chosen a suite for us. though i was a little apprehensive about rooming with a girl, kirstyn urged me ahead. besides, she said, i already knew katie and i would get along.

the fall blazed ahead, with late social nights and early morning miles. every couple of weeks i ran the forty-five miles on friday night or saturday morning to visit kirstyn; she gave me a ride back on sunday. nearly four years together, things were unraveling worse and worse.
at the same time, katie and i were having the adventures of our lives. we wrestled and rock climbed and spent hours on the high rope treetop courses. we went for long hikes and built fires. we spooned on a regular basis, every time we drank, really -- but still saw each other as friends, and didn't see anything strange about this. our eyes still unopened, the beginning of a fairytale was lost on us; we were not yet aware of the magic building before us. everyone else saw it -- nearly every day someone would ask me what was going on between katie and i. people just saw us and assumed.

kirstyn and i broke up. it was messy and awkward and something i didn't do particularly well. one night, laying in her bed and chatting lazily, in that perfectly comfortable space where two bodies fit just as they should, i kissed katie. she kissed back. we were both in shock, and spent the rest of the night wide awake.
we talked into the wee hours and then picked up the conversation the next day. friends with benefits we decided – it didn't make sense to do something stupid and jeopardize this wonderful friendship. and so, for a while, that's how we left it. we told no one, but even our families were beginning to ask what the real story was between us.
somewhere in the course of those magical weeks, things shifted. we both knew we couldn't continue pretending to just be friends. i fell hard. the magic of our time together was just so intoxicating, so powerful. as winter developed and moved towards spring, we began making plans for the next year. whereas once i had planned on returning to my love of the west, losing myself back in mountains and the infinite sky, i knew that i had to be with katie. to pass on this sort of magic, to not take the chance and let it develop as it might – that would be wrong, and something i'd have to regret the rest of my life. love, i decided, was always worth the risk.
i'd already applied a few places out west; i turned down a naturalist position in california and a backpacking/naturalist position in oregon. i didn't know what the future held, but i knew katie would be a part of it.

winter melted into spring, slowly and not without a few parting shots (a major storm at the end of february, some serious cold). sap collection began, and somehow it seemed katie and i were always the ones assigned it. between that and developing an orienteering course, we spent long hours – whole days even – tramping through the woods together on our snowshoes, atop several feet of snow. i introduced her to a longtime favorite sport, the knocking over of dead trees; we had snowball fights and made out under lightly dusted branches.
she began looking for teaching jobs; i began looking for anything i was qualified for. in february, she had a girls weekend with some friends in the cities; one of her best friends was looking for a roommate. now she had a place to stay.
spring got busy, and as summer approached, we were still both jobless. i crashed in my brother's dorm room; she went home for a while, and then on vacation with her family. after a couple of weeks, i found a place near hers that wasn't too pricey, and moved in.
she moved up the end of june, and the magic picked up all over again, despite the fact that neither of us had jobs. we went for bike rides, ran and roller-bladed around the lakes, lost ourselves in farmers market after farmers market. we made great meals, and even joined a cooking club.
katie interviewed for several teaching positions. they all went well to varying degrees, but she struggled to find a job she was happy with. i interviewed for everything imaginable: food service, food prep, library page, copywriting, community organization, tutoring and mentoring. at the end of july, i accepted at my current position, working in an alternative high school in one of the suburbs. not long after, katie accepted a position as a long-term sub (the entire year) for a second grade classroom in another suburb. i found a new place to live, not wanting to commute eighteen miles each way on bike or foot everyday.
the school year started, and both of us were busy and stressed. still, we saw each other at least once or twice during the week, catching dinner, maybe a little bit of tv and some hard z's. weekends were slightly more restful. life was wearing, but with other, it was still just as rejuvenating as that first spring. i began to see a wonderful future.

sometime in november, i think katie began to realize i was serious about wanting to marry her someday; it freaked her out. still, we talked about meeting the rest of each others' relatives at christmas, and began to discuss getting an apartment together when our current leases ran out in june. we were in this for the long haul, waiting to see where it would take us.
christmas plans fell through. katie told me it just wasn't practical this year, but i knew that more than anything, that really meant she wasn't ready for this to be that serious. we talked about this, discussed the future. ever the seven-year old (for better and for worse), she nearly broke up with me, scared by something so adult. we talked more, and as january came through, i made serious efforts to back off, let things develop in a way that was less frightening to her. the magic still shone, and she relaxed, opened back up.
i made plans towards my teaching license and driving license and all those sorts of big adult decisions. we continued to discuss getting an apartment together, though, not wanting to frighten her, i let her guide those conversations as much as possible.
we still (neither one of us) had much in the way of job security for this summer and into next year, but we began to look at apartment listings based on where we hoped to be. we found several nice listings that sounded like they would work for both of us; exactly a week ago katie called and made several appointments – we were going to go looking over the weekend.

thursday night i fell asleep before my customary goodnight conversation with katie; she called twice before i woke. still mostly asleep, we had a short conversation; i fell asleep midsentence, as i occasionally did (i wear myself pretty ragged sometimes). friday morning, i called her early, on my way into work. she kept the conversation brief, and sounded upset about something. i figured we'd talk about it that evening, when we met to start the weekend.
friday was a pretty normal day; school came and went. i started a load of laundry and got some after school miles in before katie came over. she was early – very early even for a rough week – and she was crying a little when she got to my place. i imagined it had been a rough day at school, and asked her about it.
"matt," she said, "i think we need to break up and just be friends." we talked for a little while, but it was clear she had already decided and there wasn't going to be much of a conversation; she packed up everything of hers at my place and drove off.
out on a run, i stopped by her place saturday morning; we talked for a little while before she asked me to leave. since then i've done as she requested and given her her space; i'll hear from her when she decides she's ready.

until then, it's a waiting game. i know what i want: her. it's not a hard equation for me. love is about taking that risk, and i chose long ago that the risk was always worth it; no matter how pain it may cause, real love is always worth the trouble. if we fall, we fall; i know i am strong, and will get back up.
i also know katie. odds aren't good that we'll get back together. she's not much of a risk-taker, and she'd prefer to stay as much a kid as possible. this relationship isn't good for either of those desires. i'm realistic.

one person can never love enough to carry two, and i'm not foolish enough to try. but neither am i foolish enough to let the best thing that's ever happened to me slip out of my life. with kirstyn, i made some big mistakes, and it cost me a great friend and several good ones. i will not repeat those mistakes with katie.

things are likely to be awkward for sometime, regardless of what happens from here. i'm aware of that likelihood. and i know that for every step forward, there will likely be a corresponding step back. but i refuse to lose track of the moment. the future isn't here yet, and the past is long gone; there is only now. i can only control my choices, my actions. so i choose to love.

several of you have been a great help these past few days; you know you are, and you are wise, kind souls. the world is a better place for each of you, and i thank you for that. it's wednesday, hump day. life goes on.

Off the Margins

All around me are familiar faces
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

I am proud of the life I've lived thus far. It hasn't been particularly long – this is true – and by no means have all of my decisions been wise, but those choices have shaped and informed who I am today, helped me become a person whose company I very much enjoy, something which wasn't always the case.

Worn out places, worn out faces
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

I've lived my life thus far always looking forward, informed and shaped by the past, but molded for the moment; though anticipatory of and ready for the future, I've only rarely been eager for it. I am fully grounded in the moment, for which I am glad, and I am proud to say that I have only three regrets in my nearly twenty five years.

Bright and early for their daily races
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

The first two regrets are both from my freshman year of college. First, I wish I had tried out for the school choir. My voice isn't particularly good – anyone who's heard me sing (family not included, as everyone knows they aren't objective) can attest – but I enjoy singing, and I think I would have enjoyed pushing myself in that direction. Second, I wish I had more cojones at the end of the year when it came to relationships. Rather than taking the chance on something that had the potential to be great (because it also had equal potential to go very badly), I fell into a relationship of convenience, and ended up taking advantage of a girl in ways I'm not proud of.

Going nowhere, going nowhere
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

The third regret is the way I ended a particular four-year relationship. I didn't handle things with as much care or consideration as I might have, and it cost me several good friends.

And their tears are filling up their glasses
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

Still, I am with only those few exceptions proud of who I am, proud of the journey I've taken, proudest of the love I have given and am yet offering. Without love, there is nothing.

No expression, no expression
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

Hemispheres are collapsing right now in my life, and there may be major changes afoot. At the very least, there are changes, some of which I can talk about more openly than others, for various reasons. But what I know for certain is this: I will make choices boldly, based not on risk or possible damage, but on possible return, on the merits of love, and love alone. I will not be afraid to fail, knowing that failure is only temporary, knowing that no matter how broken I may be, I will rise again. Love is not a victory march, but it is a broken hallelujah – of this I am painfully aware. My heart is my guide, and I am a lover, a seeker.

No tomorrow, no tomorrow
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

The rest will fall in line in time, as only it can see fit. I have no idea what the future will bring, for which I am glad; prophesy (be it wishful or despairing) and over-analyzing the future only detracts from the present. I will not let go of the moment.

And I find it kind of funny
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

I do not have many regular readers here, perhaps a dozen or two in my small nook of smaller words. But you few are strong and kind folk, good people with big hearts, and I thank you for your many generosities. You spoil me, which I hope to never tire of nor take for granted. Thank you for your love.

I find it kind of sad
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

There are no great things, only simple things done with great love. I believe this. I know this. Many of you have helped prove this.

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad