My mental circus, inside and out.

books and bones

There's something poignant about discovering that my first book is now in Powell's Catacombs Warehouse.  I suppose that means it's officially dead, but still open for a public viewing.  I've been in the catacombs in Paris, as my daughter will remember.  Like lots of teenagers, she was attracted to images of death, a benefit of youth. So we went down into the gloomy maze of bones.  I seem to remember torches, but I'm probably adding ambience.  I was surprised at how many skulls there were.  Anonymous skulls, now only meaningful in relationship to other skulls in the sheer weight of many deaths.  Too many to count as individuals.  No Yoricks. 

Posted by: EmmaPele at July 26, 2005 20:20 | link | comments (1)

My race

Third 5K Race:  35:06, 20 seconds faster than last race.

Next Goal: Autumn 8k.

Posted by: EmmaPele at July 26, 2005 07:18 | link | comments (1)

the race

The weather for the race this morning was absolutely wretched.   Thunder.  Lightning.  The runners sat in their cars on the parking field waiting for it to blow over, but made a dash across the sodden grass to the school gym when it was close to race time.  They delayed it.   We couldn't outrun lightning.   My shoes were soaked. My headband seemed superfluous.  Finally, the rain stopped, and hundreds of us poured from the gym and down the street, gathered in a big crowd at the starting line.  This time, I put myself in the middle so that I wouldn't get trapped behind the walkers. We bounced. We twisted.  We stretched.  And off we went.   I was running as hard as I could, my heartrate monitor beeping like code red! code red!, but I always find that i'm in a middle pace where the crowd thins out, lots of people faster, lots of people slower.  I run alone in the peaceful middle,  like being in the eye of a hurricane.  Coming around the last quarter mile, I speed up, seeing what I think is the finish line in the distance.  I am cranking at my fastest pace, maybe an 8 minute mile, someone yells, "good pace!" Then one of the team comes out and starts running with me.  Some tall long-legged man.  I am running too hard to speak, we run past the finish but No.  That is not the real finish.  "50 yards to go," he says.  I say, "What??" "Keep going, keep going!"  I'm dead.  I'm busting a gut. I slow down.  He looks disappointed.  Someone snaps my picture. I try to speed up as fast as I can.  I cross the finish.  Now I'm waiting for the chip results.  I think of Lance, who won his race today.

Posted by: EmmaPele at July 25, 2005 02:31 | link | comments

Ode to Runners

I love runners.  Flowing with endorphins, they're calm, happy, contented and good-natured, unless something has prevented them from running.   On the trail, they wave back at you, plugging along at your novice pace, and yell, "Good job!"  And they mean it.  As you make your burst towards the finish line of your first race, after hundreds of people have already passed you, they yell, "Good finish!"  And they mean it.  All that matters is the love of the sport. They have no need to drag you down with withering judgments and toxic putdowns disguised as concern for your betterment. After all, no matter how fast or competitive you are, someone will always be ahead of you, a lithe Nigerian OIympian or that dad who carries his handicapper son on his back while competing in a triathalon, or the guy who runs the London marathon balancing a bottle of wine and two glasses on a tray.  So you can compete with the few people running near you, but ultimately it doesn't matter.  The thing is to always love what you do, pass it to others, aim for your personal best, and have complete joy in the doing of it.   Runners have not only cheered me on, but given me that late lesson in life.

First 5K race: 36:02, 2nd in age class; Second 5K race: 35:26, 7th in age class.

Posted by: EmmaPele at July 22, 2005 08:58 | link | comments

death

Emma is too skeptical to believe in astrology, but she thinks Maud's star sign is wholly appropriate:  Taurus, the Bull.  In a nearly vegetative state, Maud is too stubborn for death.  Her forehead deeply scarred as if she's had a head to head slamming match with Death.   Emma wonders if Death looks worse for wear and is now avoiding Maud.  Propped in her special chair, Maud receives those who love her.  They kiss her hands, anonymous courtiers whom Maud no longer recognizes.  We wait and wait.

Posted by: EmmaPele at July 15, 2005 21:16 | link | comments