Sunday, March 27, 2011


I've been writing bits and pieces for this site for a few months now but have been too apathetic to cut/paste/publish. So what we have here is a clusterfuck of partially formed thoughts, rants, and reflections. Good luck trying to find the common thread:

This site should be more than a training log. Honestly, the training isn't even training anymore. There are no races, no goals, no set mileage. I've been running half as far as I've wanted to, and then turning around and running back. Simple. There are technical things that have changed. I got orthotics and am running pain free. For now. Other than that there really isn't much to write about from a running perspective other than to say that it's much more enjoyable than it has been in a while. Having said that, this site should incorporate ALL of my lives. I'm well aware that I have less than a handful of readers and am basically writing to myself (which is apparently my favorite topic) but fuck it, who cares. I write, I play music, I work in the medical field, and I've stuck my retarded head into the even more retarded world of online dating (more on that later). After being inspired by a few blogs that I follow ( DIRTSURFING: , EVAN HONE: ) I've decided that I can do better job than I've done in the past. I wish to christ I knew how to make one of those hotlink things rather than having you cut and paste the link to those two great sites, I really do.

This winter was difficult. Outside matched in and what that meant is that for two months I shut down. It snowed and I retreated from things that I cared greatly for. I became sick and didn't have the desire or will to fight it, so I laid in bed for over a month. This is nothing new, but it is new to my world since I've started running through the woods. I knew it would end but I didn't know how long I would be held under. That's a huge change from the past, where I was never sure if the feeling of going under would have an end.

So... I'm a writer. Not of the often smart ass and sarcastic shit I write here but something that I hope is of substance. My book of prose, entitled "Pulling Scars From The Night Time Sky" ends where it began, on a park bench in Weehawken, New Jersey, overlooking the Hudson River; looking out upon the Manhattan skyline, which author Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. once referred to as Skyscraper National Park. I started writing it in early 2000 and wrote the last page on December 1, 2010. It is the story of, in the simplest terms, a broken boy and his journey through mental illness, homelessness, and abject failure; the loss of anything and everything that ever mattered to him, and the attempt to put those shattered pieces back together again. It stands at over 400 pages and will probably never be published. It does not matter. What matters is that the boy that started writing the book at the onset of the new millennium lived long enough to write that final entry. There was very little likelihood that that would happen.

I suppose there should be stories on this blog. Stories of insane nights and equally as insane actions with hopelessly insane friends. There are none. I spend my non work hours alone. Alone. I split from work, lace up, and head into the woods to my temple. Alone. I rarely see anyone back there and when I do, a nod or a quick hello speaks volumes. We understand implicitly. I live in a pretty small town and work for a pretty large hospital. Unlike the welcomed anonymity of Manhattan, I tend to run into my patients up here far more often than I'd like. It's nothing personal, it's just that the hours I spend outside of work are my own. I try to do my food shopping at odd hours; on Sundays when people are home watching sports, early in the morning when most sane people are asleep, and when I do have to wade into Stop & Shop during peak hours, I wear a hoodie, hat, and iPod to keep a low profile. It feels sometimes like tiptoeing through a minefield. This, I'm sure, says more about me than it does humanity, or does it? It frightens me sometimes thinking about the routine of my life. Work, run, drive to Philly to rehearse, and repeat until completely numb. There are so many reasons for not craving mental illness; the hospitalizations, the weeks (months?) of not feeling safe leaving the house, the liver toxicity from certain medications. The one upside, and it pulls at me like a junkie to dope, is that you never live the same day twice. The days may be horrifying or bless you with the intoxicating ease of mania, but they are NEVER the same. I sometimes long for that.

I guess the bottom line is that I'm going to try to write about something more than miles, weather, and gear...

As an aside, I could not bring myself to discuss my foray into online dating. Let's just say that it reminds me of window shopping for hookers in the Red Light District in Amsterdam. That will have to do for now.

Sunday, March 13, 2011