Anger

Angered at giving up 17 straight points in racquetball, I reared back and kicked the plexiglass wall as hard as I could. There was an immediate shiver of pain, but I kept playing. Later, swimming, every kick caused a sharp, stiff sliver of pain in my foot, starting where the toes branch from the foot and running almost to my ankle. Later still, at home, the foot stiffened up so much that I could hardly bear to put weight on it, and the thought of walking upstairs was abhorrent to me. I stood in the kitchen feeling it ache, and it seemed to me that the force of the wall in response to my kick was slowly traveling up my foot. Already it had gone from my toes to the top of the foot and nearly into the ankle. I imagined it moving up my whole body, like mercury up a thermometer, till it burst out the top of my head.

Who's Running?

The dog, anticipating my coming into the room, was already curled up on the floor beside the sofa. The cat slithered up onto the sofa through the gap between the armrest and the cushion, mincing close to be petted.

* * *

Walking to the school rec center after class I thought I saw one of my students coming the other way. This made me dip my head and walk faster to avoid the inevitable encounter which, I imagined, would be awkward in this context. But it was not a student of mine; only a girl with the same color hair wearing the same school t-shirt.

* * *

Turn on the TV to the still powerful, awful image of the towers coming down, the billowing gray smoke, so thick it's liquid, the slow crumbling, the sudden collapse; then people in business suits running, glancing back at solid waves of smoky debris chasing them... But I don't want to hear the testimony or the commentary, so I turn it off.

* * *

Who's running? I am running in time. I am running on time. I am running from time. I pass by the brown-haired woman on the track once, twice, three times when she stops to stretch and tie shoes and get a drink from her water bottle. Another woman begins running, and I pass her easily at the sharp turn corner of the track, we are a clock, I have till noon to run when the car needs to be back. I want to pass the brown-haired woman one more time. I gain on her on the straightaways, measure the distance when a turn puts her in profile, do some rude figuring of her stride against mine. Another lap and I'd make it. But I get to the end of the lap and stop.

Two Dreams

#1 Saturday, Sept. 9: T. tells me that Q. wants to go to Yosemite. I feel guilty because there's not enough time left in our vacation to take him there (that's him, to the left of this text). Later Q. points to his right eye as if it's hurting him. I lean in close and hear, as if telepathically, "Yosemite." I have to apologize and explain to him that we're out of time...



#2 Sunday, September 10: I'm typing a letter to explain to the woman in charge how I could help out with marching band if need be, having played the drums in marching band years ago. But at the same time, they're having a meeting about it in a sort of outdoor amphitheater with raised seating, and the keys of the typewriter are also the seats where people are sitting. So I look back over the crowd as I'm typing the letter, and people sitting on the keys are shouting the letters at me: "I think this is 'A' over here," etc., and I have to look at them and think about where the letters are rather than just type with my fingers, and it's loud and slow. Finally I finish the letter and sign with the name "Michael."

Darwin<>TRUTH

At the traffic light on Sessums and LBJ, I'm forced to contemplate the object of my ire: a green Villager minivan that coasted to a stop just in front of me, so that I have to wait for the signal to change to make the right turn into the parking lot. There's a big soccer ball magnet on the left side of the hatch, the surface layer peeling at the edges and starting to come off. On the right, there's a small bumper sticker that advertises "Calvary Baptist Church, San Marcos," bright yellow letters on a friendly blue background. Further down on the right side: a chrome-plated, plastic fish with the word "Darwin" in it, being eaten by a bigger fish filled in with the word "TRUTH". An interesting salvo in the ongoing "ichthys" wars.

SUNDAY: Running back from the Baptist Academy this morning, many cars passed me on the long, hilly, winding road, on their way to the Sunday service. Finally having been conditioned by my rural neighbors, after many years of living in the city, I raised my hand at each oncoming car and made a friendly wave at the driver. Now, where I used to be the one taken by surprise by such gestures, often ignoring them or making some awkward, stammering reply at the last moment, I became strangely invested in whether the drivers returned my wave. Most did, but only in that baffled manner that suggested they never would have acknowledged me with a glance, let alone waved in return, if they had not been prompted by me. Others ignored me or, worse, looked but refused to wave, which struck me as an obscure affront, as if to say "Why are you out here, running, when I'm on my way to church?"

But then there were those who waved with an easy flip of the wrist, affirming somehow as a handshake, or a slap on the back.

* * *

Dinner at Manuel's: A blue t-shirt:
"b -wling
--cks"

-- a black shoulderstrap crinkling the front so you couldn't read whether it says "sucks" or "rocks." The guy wearing it's skinny, somewhat nerdy; hard to tell what his opinion would be, or whether it's supposed to be ironic, or what.