honeydunce

My feet are blocks of ice, on the move to unthaw. Slowly but surely. I spent a solid two minutes just peeling off my various layers–sweat and mud and a grin, for sure. Rob and I played some pick up soccer this morning. Thirty degrees and a sharp, constant wind. The field was just amazing–the sound and feel of a giant sponge made of mud and grass blade. So good, so messy. Suction cup replica sound when running. I love kicking the ball around. Scoring a goal, the perfect split pass to assist…things that feel good, and will always feel good. I love attacking, containing, hustling my ass off to block the shot at the very last second. A couple of us were sliding tackling for the hell of it–the ground begged for such behavior. Once you hit the ground the mud would carry you. The falling was pretty damn hilarious too.

In other news, the mouth is on the mend. Wisdom tooth extraction was a success, though the 2 days following were pretty miserable. Painkillers, however, turned me into a sweetiepie mushyhead, and there were a lot of “I love you’s” coming from my mouth. Playing soccer today was kind of my way to dive back into things full force.

I pick up the rental car on Tuesday and head to Ohio. I will be home for a week. Lots of little things to square away before then, but otherwise, I’m ready. Ready to get out of the city for a while. Ready to see the family and mentally/emotionally recharge myself on that exposure to energy. It’s just time to return for a while.

Writing. Writing and writing and writing. Writing to get back on stage. Writing to make sense of it, writing to remember. Flame twitching ready. And it feels so good.

Anthology work continues, and school starts next month. I’m taking one class to get the toes wet before jumping in completely. Excited and nervous. Most of all, this: ready. That word is everywhere at the moment. Some moments feel built purely for preparation, or waiting, or limbo. Some moments are simply about arrival. With everything on your back, in your head, in your chest. I’ve been thinking of particular bundle of lines from Buddy Wakefield’s poem, “Pretend:”

Pretend that you live for a living.
Pretend inside your skin
you’ve got a friend
who’s willing to give you everything you ever wanted
in exchange for all you’ve ever been.
Pretend you’re more obsessed with this moment
less with the way it ends.