Base Miles

If only to close my eyes,

If only for a moment to at last escape this bitter trap and find a sweeter peace.

For laying awake leaves me bare before my own self hatred yet sleep brings strange terrors that I fail to comprehend.

I crave the darkness.

I fear the darkness.

I must rest.

But somehow I find myself trapped between a body that craves sleep and a brain that fears it.

Perhaps I am going mad.

Perhaps I already have.

I traded cars with my dad so mine could get emissions inspected in Maryland.

He got my cool little hatchback with blinky lights on the side view mirrors.

I got a mommy van.

A beige mommy van.

With a sticker for my little sister’s school on it.

I was all bummed out about it until I remembered how easy it is to fit bikes in the back of the van.

Half an hour later I was clipping into my pedals at the blue hills parking lot and sprinting out of the saddle towards the trail head.

Left at the police station onto the fire roads.

Then I remembered I’d forgotten to switch to off-road gearing.

Too late now.

I stand up again and disappear into the trees in a shower of loose gravel and fallen leaves.

I’d almost forgot what it’s like to ride off road, with no sounds save the buzzing of the freewheel and the occasional staccato crack of the shifter followed by an industrial sounding clunk as the chain falls into place.

Flying past hikers and joggers I feel the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

Galloping out of a corner I startle a small group of birds.

I am faster than all of them.

They scatter in confusion as I go tearing by.

I was flying.

Like a dog chasing whatever it is that dogs chase after when you let them off their leash.

But then there was a new sound.

A crunching, snapping noise.

Then my pedals stopped.

Then I stopped.

There was a stick in my wheel.

My derailleur was broken.

My tools were in the car.

Looking at it more there was no way for me to fix it here anyway.

I bent it out of the way,

Turned around,

And rode on the street back to the car.

There were new noises now.

Strange ratchet-y noises like the sound a box of bolts make when you push your hand through it.

It was the derailleur trying to change gears.

I hobbled my way up the hill, then back down the other side to the car.

Lifting the bike back into the car I apologized in my head for breaking it.

I bump the rear wheel and the freewheel ticks happily back as if to say:

“Don’t worry about it. Happens to the best of us.”

I smile a bit, and get into the mommy van to drive home.

It was a nice ride.

joobaloobledoobiepuff:

I was at open fencing and I won a bout against someone who was at least in high school.  It was awesome.  He beat me two weeks ago without me even touching him once.  This time he only got one point.  I’m very proud of myself.

Because she kicks ass.

(Source: theenemysgateisdown)

I really enjoy my sneezes.

Like, for realsies.

I used to hate them though, once upon a middle school.

I used to envy the girls who all sat together in biology because they could sneeze quietly.

We’d be sitting quietly, taking a quiz, and I’d hear from somewhere in the room a tidy little “tchew” and in my head I’d be like “ok, that didn’t sound so difficult. I bet I can sneeze quietly like that.”

But inevitably when I’d sneeze it would sound like a viking stubbing his toe on the side of the bathtub. Then everyone would sit up all surprised and turn around just in time for the inevitable follow up sneeze.

So that kind of sucked.

But then I realized one day that if I tried really hard I could sneeze louder than anyone in my family.

Then I was louder than my friends.

Then I was louder than anyone.

Right about then I decided that I would enjoy my sneezes.

And now I find that I’m proud of my sneezes.

No normal, mild, gentle sneezes for me.

Mine are the kind that sound like a freight train having a head on collision with    Mr. T with a noise so loud that wise old men in the next county suddenly sit up and softly say with concern in their voices “something’s happened…” and go to fetch their battle axe and chain-mail.

Yeah…something like that.

Her flight was Delayed.

And Delayed.

And Delayed.

I left and came back to the airport later.

And again it was Delayed.

I bought a car magazine from the news stand and sat by the gate with my iPod that has a little ‘i’ but a big ‘P’ and I never understood why.

I hate waiting for things.

I realized I’d read the same sentence half a dozen times when Depression crawled out my left nostril.

All the other emotions are at least polite and wait for a sneeze or something.

He stands in front of me, looking like a caricature of what I was like the year after Israel. Wearing all black with long messy hair. Depression wears guyliner. I never wore guyliner. He doesn’t smile. Ever. And his eyes always look so far away.

He says hello. I say nothing.

He asks if the seat next to me is taken. I say nothing and politely move my backpack to the floor. He sits on the table on my other side just to be irritating. He does that sometimes.

He asks how I’ve been and I shrug. Somewhere along the way I must have turned off my iPod with a little ‘i’ and a big ‘P’

He starts talking about the same old things as always. Crappy weather and that weight that sits in his chest - our chest - a sort of deep but dull depression like a tired old dog that doesn’t want to leave it’s bed but you don’t really notice it unless you stand up too fast or are already kind of tired.

I nod politely and go back to my magazine. Corvettes and Mustangs are much more interesting than the latest high school drama to me. He drones on, I ignore him but occasionally nod or offer some sort of sympathetic uttering like “oh man that sucks.” He’s too self centered to notice that I’m doing my best impression of a dad in a 70s sitcom, sitting in his La-Z-Boy chair while his kid plays on the floor, reading the paper while he ignores him, occasionally saying things like “that’s nice junior” and “oh how nice” so the kid feels like they’re the center of attention and the dad can attend to his paper.

I have to be careful that Depression doesn’t realize I’m ignoring him. If he does he’ll make a scene and that’s no fun. He throws tantrums and digs his folding knife into his arm melodramatically. He says he’ll kill himself but he doesn’t realize that cutting across the arm won’t kill you. Honestly I don’t feel like correcting him.

He’s at the part of the speech where he starts wondering if the world would be better off without him when my little sister comes through the gate.

He can’t see her because he’s looking right through me to the wall behind. He doesn’t actually care who he’s talking to just as long as they pay attention to him.

She sees me and her eyes light up like they always do. I smile real big and jump up to give her a hug.

Depression is caught by surprise and the weight disappears from my chest like if you yanked the bed out from under the dog. But since the dog is old it takes a little while for it to remember where he left his bed. Maybe I’ll move the bed. A little fun never hurt anyone.

I look over my shoulder and see Depression scowling at me. He hates being ignored.

As my little sister and I leave the airport I stifle a sneeze. Happiness pops out and skips alongside us.

He says hello. I ask what took him so long.

He says sorry, his flight was Delayed.

I bought a new set of kitchen knives last week.

They are exquisitely sharp.

Heavier than my old set.

And my hand never shakes when my fingers curl around their riveted handles.

So why don’t you set your troubles down by the door.

Come stand here with me and pick something from the knife block by the fridge.

I like the Santoku but maybe a paring knife is more your style.

I won’t tell you what we’re making but maybe that’s because I haven’t decided yet.

So just slice this pepper for me while I go to work on some carrots.

Then how about you saute the onions while I season some chicken.

Tell me how you’ve been but not before you mince that garlic.

And somewhere between the subtle stroke of a blade through some cilantro and my arms around your shoulders you can feel a little lighter.

And we can make something beautiful in a pan with some olive oil.

With a little serenity on the side, and garnished with lime zest.

For the stains on these aprons got there the same way as the stains on your heart.

And they’ll come out with enough patience too.

And the scars on this cutting board hurt just as much as the ones you’ve been trying to hide.

But all scars fade with time, be it with some sandpaper and oil or yet another discussion over red pepper julienne.

Trust me.

So pick up some sweet potatoes on your way over, and lets make a night of it.

I’ll sharpen the knives.