I'll follow you into the dark

Ready for some stream of consciousness? Set go. I caught a cold Sunday night. Add one and a half weeks of being stretched pretty thin plus many much-too-late bedtimes divided by a chilly three hour walk in the rain early Sunday evening. The upside of nasal headaches and running noses is that I always seem to experience a heightened and distorted sense of life during a cold. You know, like listening to someone breathe into a stethoscope. You certainly aren't hearing it "normal." But you hear it from the inside! When I'm sick I'm inside out. Well, I've never paired cold medicine with alcohol before because the label says not to. Except for last night at Peacock with Missy Murphy and Brigid Fitzsimmons - you'd really like her. We bitched about men, reveled in our strong-woman-ness, and toasted gin and tonics (one of Missy's toasts - Aahrg! - was more like a "primordial yawp"). We flirted with the idea of starting a bar fight. It's nice to feel out of control in a constant, dense sort of way. It's like the way your heart beat feels after a short burst of strenuous exercise. It feels out of control. But you know its spasms are all part of a constant rhythm that will continue until you die - which won't happen today or tomorrow or next week but many years from now. I'm also really into Death Cab at the moment. Last Thursday at open mic I was hovering over the sign in sheet when one last name caught my eye: "Patrie." It was attached to the firs name: "Rachel." I looked up at the girl leaning over the counter and asked her "do you know if Rachel Patrie is related to Ben Patrie?" This is the funny part. She said "yes she is." I asked, "do you know if she's here?" "I'm her," Rachel said. Her brother Ben was a friend of mine from high school that I've always regretted loosing touch with. He and his girlfriend of three years are getting married this spring - and Rachel is singing "I will follow you into the dark" in their wedding. That's poetic. I'm always trying to love people poetically, but I think it turns awkward so often. Well, maybe it is poetry but it's definitely slant rhyme. It's like I think I'm being subtle and that everyone else will discover the rhyme too, eventually, but can poetry be subtle? Not according to Austen's Margaret in Sense and Sensibility. I guess that loving awkwardly can be poetic in it's own way - think Ophelia? Gawd, no! Haha, I'll leave you with that! 

Hello, I am the prince of darkness

I used to be amused by those lists of "worst pick-up lines ever." Once I came across a list of "worst Christian pick-up lines ever." A random sampling for your reading enjoyment:

You know Jesus? Me too!

Nice Bible!

Would you like to pray with me?

I think heaven must be missing an angel.

Feel like sharing some loaves and fishes?

What would Jesus date...er...I mean do?

A week ago today I attended a Christian rock concert in New Town with my boyfriend Joe. The bands were Kutlass, Disciple, and Stellar Kart. We were running late - we usually are - and only made it about 20 minutes before the last set, which was Kutlass. I've fell out of touch with Christian rock since high school, but it was a high energy, entertaining concert nonetheless. As we walked in, a guy was on the stage delivering a salvation message to the couple hundred spectators. It was surprisingly relevant and attention getting, I felt. Still, I couldn't help being distracted by the two men standing to my immediate left. As I mentioned, Joe and I walked in late so we were standing near the back taking in all the surroundings before moving to the stage area.

Now I will try my pen at two character sketches. So far the characters involved are me, boyfriend Joe, relevant preacher dude, and about 400-500 spectators. But forget about all of us for a moment. My friends to the left stank of alcohol and cigarettes. Their pungent aroma an immediate clue that they were not of the regular Christian rock crowd. Both were Native American, one with short buzz-cut hair and the other sporting a long pony tail. This one wore dark shades that were a cross between aviators and plastic-rimmed '80s shades. He also wore a floor-length dark trench coat. I am no longer certain it was leather but at the time I thought so. The side-kick (buzz-cut guy) simply wore a faded gray sweat-shirt. I think our anti-hero had enough bad-ass-ness for the two of them together.

Side-kick immediately noticed me sizing them up. "Too late!" I remember thinking to myself as I quickly glanced away. Side-kick moves one side-step closer to me. I cringe as his raunchy breath hisses into my ear, "Heerstuthba prangles drockness." "Sorry, I can't understand you," I said. He repeats himself. I repeat myself. Twice. Finally, "He's the prince of darkness. Yeah, he's been the prince of darkness since 1975."

Oh.

I look at the Prince of Darkness himself. He smiles a sinister smile and I think actually winks at me, though I can't be sure. He was wearing shades, after all. I may have smiled back. I may have waved. I should have gotten his autograph. Who was the prince of darkness in 1974? I should have asked. PD did ask me several questions. One of which was, "why would Jesus want to have his concert at a casino?" And by Jesus, PD meant three Christian rock bands. "Not sure...enjoy the show though," I said and made a bee-line for the restrooms. 

Later I met back up with Joe. I started to ask "hey, did you see--" "The prince of darkness?" Joe finished. "Yeah, I hope those guys just leave. They were pretty drunk," he said. I smiled again when I thought of PD's side kick. Imagine that guy's let-down when he finally figures it out. I kinda feel sorry for him - when this gig is over what will side-kick use as a new pick up line?

"Hello, I am the prince of darkness. Yeah, I've been the prince of darkness since 2010."

resisting the fem-bot ideology

There's a box elder bug lounging on the top of my laptop screen. It's like he thinks he's a cat and my laptop has become a cat's equivalent to a couch back in front of a sunny window. My bug friend reminds me of climbing. A lot of things remind me of climbing. This blog, tabbed in my favorites bar reminds of climbing when I'm sitting at my desk all day.

Climbing, I think, is always associated with "pushing one's limits" or "reaching for one's goals." Naturally, the sport is about perseverance, endurance, and strength. A question now. Is this climbing ideology gender specific? Or rather, does my variety of calm, cool, and collected feminism get morphed into a disgustingly distorted fem-bot ideology in my pursuit of the summit? I don't want to get to the top of this mountain only to find my safety harness isn't clipped in. Because that's not bravery in the face of overwhelming opposition. That's stupidity. I want to retain my calm, cool, and collected feminism and it seems that climbing will allow me to leverage just enough "gutsy" without too much "grotesquery."

Kathrine Schweitzer addresses this concept of the grotesque female athlete in her book, Marathon Woman. My mom gave me this book for Christmas and it has become the single most influential piece of writing in my development as a woman and an athlete. Kathrine explains that during the early days of press coverage of women's running, it was a very real fear of hers that the general public would be shocked and horrified by the pictures taken of women during and after long distances races because of the exhaustion written on these women's faces. This look of exhaustion can likely be found on any man's face too, but then men were expected to be able to endure physical challenges - like marathons. Kathrine was afraid of a public outcry deeming running too difficult for the weaker sex. Among these imagined voices there would be just as many women as men, Schweitzer recalls.

And finally in 1984, the women's marathon becomes an official Olympic event. The first champion, Joan Benoit, wins gold in 2:24:52. That same year, in the men's Olympic marathon, 29 male athletes do not finish. In the women's event, only six do not finish. Paula Radcliffe, Olympic athlete, world record holder, mother, and personal hero of mine, ran a breathtaking (literally) 2:23:09 at the New York Marathon in November of 2007 ten months after giving birth. Is Paula gutsy or grotesque? Or does fame make a person an exception to the "grotesque clause"?

The bug has climbed down to the middle of the screen now. He - or she - doesn't need a harness because nature designed her to climb. So a climbing she will go.

greater than or equal to poverty

I've agreed to live in relative poverty for an entire year. I've agreed to be part of a national service experiment called Americorps VISTA. Considering I didn't have to apply for a visa or learn a foreign language, some days I wonder how heroic my plight actually is. Is it more idiotic? Service is something I strongly agree in. Strongly believe in. Have always promoted.

I'm here in this place right now to see if it's actually, truthfully, real-life possibility: feasible.