Category Archives: January ’11

The last beat of my heart

In the beginning it is only the percussion. After the other men bring in the instrumentals, Siouxsie glides onto the stage to the cheers of nearly 100,000 concertgoers at the inaugural Lollapalooza in 1991. Put yourself at the show. Go back to 1991 and imagine you are there witnessing this song. Sure her get up is a little strange but they had just transitioned into the nineties. Give her gypsy attire a break. When she reaches the microphone, she hushes the crown with seductive silence.

“In the sharp gust of love, my memory stirred…”

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Spike strip

I ate my cereal in a seated position for the first time in days. The sloppy mess I made on my first day of trying to hop the bowl over to the table turned me off of that challenge. I had become content to instead simply stand where the meal was prepared, directly above the dishwasher I hovered eating my breakfast every morning.

But today I wanted to sit. So I slid the bowl over to the table inch by inch, went back for my cup of water, and repeated. I am really tired of this. On crutches I have no hands, with no hands I cannot carry anything. Without being able to carry anything, pretty much everything is in the same spot it was the day I sprained my ankle.

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I barely slept last night. I tossed and turned trying to find a position where my ankle was stable. It didn’t happen, even when it was neutral it still throbbed to a delayed pulse of my heart beat. The couple hours I did managed to rest, my dreams spiraled around the pain at the foot of the bed. I dreamed of toeing the starting line of my race on March 5. A friend looks over and questions me if I am really capable of racing with an ankle that swollen.

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The giant of the north

I do not like to be risen by unwelcome noises. The clang of hoof on rock was no different. I half asleep mumbled curses to the wildlife across the pond. When the sounds continue, I finally understand that hoof on rock means a moose. I quickly slip out from my sleeping bag and rip the tent door open. Barefoot in only my underwear, I run to a clearing on the pond where I look across and for the first time in my life spot a real moose, not a head, not a cartoon, a real bull moose.

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Unexpected visitor

A group of two British couples had set up camp on the other side of the Lakes of the Clouds Hut. Earlier I had chatted with them as they slowly trudged down from the summit. They whined about pack weight but reassured themselves that it was right to prepare themselves for their next adventure. One man had 6 liters of water on his back. It was sloppy, it was pitiful. They had no experience, no knowledge of what they were doing. They stumbled down the mountain, tripping on stones, trampling exotic arctic plants that could only be found on this small patch of elevation in this beautiful area in New Hampshire.

Lakes of the Clouds Hut

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