written inaction

Sundays is the day of rest for atheists and believers alike.  Of all the religious rules obeyed by non-religious folks, saving Sunday as the day of rest seems most popular.  Even I came to Jesus today.

Waking at 9 I got up and puttered around the house while my oatmeal was cooking.  I wrote some emails, made some phone calls, and folded my laundry.  Even though I needed to run, the lousy weather made me feel like starting that new book was more important, so I did.  Two chapters into “Twinkie, Deconstructed”, I look at the clock and think that I should get going.  Then I realize that it’s the Lord’s day, so I relax and read another chapter. 

On my run I get cocky.  Though I haven’t really run in about 4 months now, my mind still remembers all the tricks of the marathon runner and seems to think that knowledge is equal to conditioning, which it isn’t.  The first three miles go swimmingly, but the last 4 don’t.  I’m running the outer track, which is not paved and has less foot traffic.  One would think that this would mean less human interference, but it does not.  People still pass me, distract me, and apologize for cutting me off.  That’s not a problem.  It’s the Under Armored, high-kicking Jockocracy that displeases me. 

These are the people that come out to do 1, 2, maybe 3 miles at a fast clip, flip their hair, and smirk at the runners they’ve just blown past.  Impressive.  One guy passes me and gives me a look up and down and I, being petty, mock stumbling into him.  He nimbly jumps to the far side of the trail and into a puddle, which leaves a muddy mark as the only indicator that his shoes have been worn outdoors.  He trots away at a pace that I can’t dream of matching, and I console myself with the knowledge that he’s going to head back to his car, drive to Starbucks, and get himself a reward for knocking out a big 2-mile day. 

When I get of the shower at home Tuppence calls and reminds me that we’re watching a rugby game at the Kangaroo and Kiwi this afternoon.  My muscles are not pleased as I start them on the 1.5 mile walk to the bar, but the stretch out is good.  I find Sape and Tuppence at the bar, and order a Boddingtons.  The match is between England and Ireland, and with Tuppence being Manx, I don’t know who to root for.  “England!” he shouts when I ask. 

When the game wraps up I get a surprise visit from Mack, who had mentioned he’d try to stop by the bar.  Mack and I met on a trip to the Grand Canyon last year, an outing organized by our mutual friend Midge.  We’d hit it off pretty well but hadn’t really spoken until he gave me a call the other day and mentioned he’d be through Seattle.  In the random-road trip lifestyle that encompasses most of my circle of friends, Mack has decided to quit his job, pack up his things, and spend a few months traveling, scouting new places to settle.  After getting back from an ambitious tour of Europe, he started from Lake Tahoe, made his way through Oregon, and finally came to Seattle.  “I’m heading up to Vancouver next, then to Helena and maybe Bozeman,” he tells me.  Maybe, I ask?  “Well, you never know.  Something else might look good.”

I miss this life.  I can’t have ever claimed to really live it in any other facet of my life beyond New Zealand, but it was so addicting there that it stayed with me.  In my regular life as a guy in the states, my two personalities are constantly at war.  One side is a meticulous planner who likes a clean living space and organization that borders on OCD.  The other side is the chance-taker who decides to move across the country to a home he’s never seen in a city he’s never been to because he’s bored with his life.  But in the simplicity of New Zealand, that wasn’t an issue. I couldn’t plan or keep things neat, so I embraced the lifestyle of the other side.  It was the greatest time of my life.

I envy Mack for his ability to do this now.  But living in a place I love will have to do for now. 

When we finish our game of darts we decide that pizza from Wallingford House of Pizza and a few shows of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” are in order.  Few things could thrill me more.  I’ve been doing my best not to eat out, but tonight it’s warranted.  And I need a movie night.  I know I had one the other night, but in reality, I haven’t had a relaxed weekend since I got here.  There’s always been something to do, which has been wonderful, but my body doesn’t seem able to take it.  I’ve run 7 miles today, Tuppence’s raced 3.5, Mack has been traveling, and Sape is hung over.  Yes, a movie night it will be.

The pizza will take 20 minutes, so in the spirit of the holiday, we go next door to Murphy’s pub and order a pint.  My head is pounding, so I stick to water and get a glare from the bartender.  Happy St. Patty’s day, I say to him.  He drops the plastic cup of water onto the bar and turns to the other customers.  “This bar is fake,” observes Sape.  “Yeah,” agrees Tuppence “look at all the shit on the walls.”  I find this observation interesting.  Not only do we constantly patronize dive bars for the cheap beer, we do so for the authenticity.  I suppose it makes sense.  In a group that appreciates irony and self-mockery, it would seem hypocritical to expect anything less from its bar.  The dive bars are dumps and we know they’re dumps and that’s why we like them.  The beer is cheap because we know it’s cheap and that’s why we like it.  There’s no pretension here.

Before long the pizza is ready and we drive back to Sape’s house.  His dogs, Siri and Kaya, nearly bowl Mack over even though I’m the one holding the pizzas.  The main objective for everyone is to get some pizza, get some couch, and zone out for a few hours, which is an unspoken mutual agreement.  The pizza is as good as Sape had said, and the tv show speaks for itself.  After a few episodes we throw in Beowulf and watch one of the most horrifying digitized monsters I’ve ever seen tear through bodies as though they were wet Kleenex.  During one particularly intense sea monster-sequence, the girls—Cor, HD, Eche—come in and grill Mack, the new guy.  As the Beowulf train is derailed and beers are opened, Tuppence, Cor, Mack, and I decide to call it a night.  Our eyes are barely open as we say our goodbyes. 

As she drives me home, Cor asks about my weekend and I tell her it was low-key.  Hers was spent going a paper.  It’s been a tough week and a quiet weekend all-round, I say.  “Yeah, store it up for next weekend.”  She says.  Pulling up to my place, with new CFL light blaring, Cor asks where the condemned building is.  There, I say, pointing over her shoulder.  The lights are out.  Are they gone?

As I open the door to my apartment, I study the dark windows of the building.  Are they really all gone?  As I hear the lock click back as I step inside, I can’t help but feel a little sad at the loss.