barkley - a hastily scrawled book report

I was thrilled when I saw TZ's Facebook post about the Barkley Book Fair. I ran the day run last time he put it on, summer of 2010, and I knew I wanted to run the night run. But 2011 went by with no Barkley, and I never did get around to buying a headlamp, and by the time this year's race came around, I had chickened out all the way.


See, Barkley is a special run. You have to know the right people to even know about the race, let alone run it. It's strictly the cool kids who show up to this one - well, and they let me tag along, so they're not all bad. Anyway, there's a day run and a night run. Both runs have the same basic idea - you run around on Turkey Mountain, looking for books. Every time you find a book, you tear out the page that corresponds to your bib number, taking your torn-out page with you. When you get to the finish, you hand off your pages to a page-counter, then you drink a beer.


The day run's course is marked, and this year's was pretty simple. I seem to remember having more trouble finding books last time.


The night run doesn't have course markings - instead, you get a map and some handwritten clues. Clues like, "The troll left a mess!" or, "Death of many bikers."


The books themselves are one of my favorite things about the run. Ken takes pains to provide books with appropriate titles. Books like Fatal Terrain, The Long Walk and Pathfinder meet their doom at Barkley. I think of it sort of like a Viking's death for a book. Most books don't go out like these - maybe we should actually put their carcasses on some sort of funereal pyre at the end of the next Barkley. Hard to say, though - it's pretty hot for a fire. Oh! I know, maybe LAST year's books should be immolated NEXT year. Or something. I don't know, I'm spitballing.


I ran the day run, which was a lot of fun. Hot and fast, but not too fast. I ran with Chris and Rafael, both of whom I've run with before, and Rachel, a newish face - it's hard to say who's new and who I just haven't met yet, so I don't want to call anybody new. There were others whose names I can't recall - the girl in Vibrams, I think was the one Rafael called Hardcore Girl. It seems like I'm missing one or two. Anyway, it was fun. Rafael fell down, claiming a twisted ankle, but our jeers and taunts motivated him to get back up to speed  - just kidding. We all stopped to walk with him and nobody ran on without him. It's really not that kind of race. He walked a bit, but quickly found that he could run after all - the big faker just wanted a breather so he could smoke us all at the finish. It's that kind of race.


I had a beer at the finish and hung out for a bit, sweaty and happy, and people I hadn't seen in a while started showing up. Delighted to see Wilma and Channing and John and Kathy and Troy and Roman and I don't even remember who else, I drank another beer and before I could say, "I'm not that kind of girl," Brian had loaned me a headlamp and I was in for the night run.


I can't tell you much about the night run. I'm afraid it might violate the code. I'm not exactly sure what the code is, so I have to be extra careful so I don't get banned from future Barkleys. I can tell you it was fun. It was scary in places, but since there is no whining allowed and whiners aren't allowed to participate, it was actually pretty lovely. I think that's all I'm allowed to say. I'll have to check with TZ.


We crossed the finish line, without all the books, without all of our original crew, way past midnight.


We ended the night at IHOP, where I devoured chicken fried steak and eggs until exhaustion crept in. I drove home half dreaming already and went directly to the shower. I watched dirty water sluice between my toes on its way to the drain. After running trails, watching all the dirt run down the shower drain is my favorite part.


I put in a Rita Hayworth movie, flopped on the futon and was asleep before the opening credits finished rolling. Loki woke me up this morning, meowing in my face, demanding water from the bathroom faucet immediately or else. I dutifully complied, then padded back to the futon where I slept until noon with no further disturbances or demands.


It's a pretty good life, you know?


Also! Not one single tick. Was I doing it wrong?


Also! I bought a headlamp today.

Roses are RED, motherfucker.

Normally, I hate the Blue Rose for playing obnoxious music half the fucking night, more than I hate, um...

People who say "then" when they mean "than"

People who say "supposably" when they mean "supposedly"

People who can't differentiate between "your" and "you're"

People who don't punctuate (fuck you I come by my self-loathing honestly) and expect you to sort out their idiotic incoherent sentences

People who pronounce the "t" in "often"

People who shop at Wal-Mart, buy dogs from breeders, eat a bunch of processed food and bitch about how there's NOTHING TO DO in Tulsa oh and also they're scared of downtown, then they look at me like I'm some kind of freak for knowing when the farmers' markets are. Or for running a marathon. Or for not having cable so I can't talk about dancing with the biggest singing loser survivors around the fucking water cooler every goddamned day.

People who answer my, "Good! How are you?" with, "Well. I'm doing well." as if they're fucking trying to fucking correct me when all I was doing was trying my best to be down-home and fucking SOCIABLE to some sort of ASSHOLE who is PISSING ME OFF and HARSHING MY FUCKING MELLOW by TALKING TO ME.

I've had a little sugar.

Hell is other people. I'm really glad I live alone.

Oh, but you? I love you.

Anyway, normally, I hate the Blue Rose. And I especially hate the music they play all the goddamned time. But right now? This bluesy guitarsy thing they've got going on? It's pretty nice actually.

Read a damn book

Kurt Vonnegut made me cry today. I was getting ready to walk to yoga in the park, listening to Armageddon in Retrospect in the locker room of my office building, and "Spoils" hit me, hard. It was actually kind of comical. I was jamming my feet into shoes when I cottoned to the rug that was about to be pulled out from under me. I actually looked up and caught my reflection's eye in the mirror, like, "Can you believe this is about to happen to us?" I watched my face crumple. My nose turned red instantly. My eyes spilled over immediately. Nothing to do but wait it out, so I kept listening while I dabbed at my face with a paper towel from the handy dispenser.


The last time Kurt Vonnegut made me cry, it was because he died. The bastard. We were all on Myspace then and a writer I admired posted a blog entry about him, closing with something about him being up in heaven now, meant of course to be a joke. We watched in smug horror as people lined up to agree and offer platitudes. Obviously they didn't know him like we did.


"Spoils" is a cheap trick, a slow build to a clownishly obvious break, a kick in the kidney that happens in slow motion. But I'm sitting here hoping I didn't spoil it for you. I hope you read it. Or let Rip Torn read it to you. He did a pretty awesome job.


"The Unicorn Trap" gives back what "Spoils" takes away, by my reckoning, so I'd recommend taking the two together.


As for me, I'm going to bed. As soon as I finish the book. 26 minutes left of listening, and my sheets are in the dryer. So tired I'm thinking about leaving them there and sleeping without them. 


From the introduction - "Reading and writing are in themselves subversive acts. What they subvert is the notion that things have to be the way they are, that you are alone, that no one has ever felt the way you have. What occurs to people when they read Kurt is that things are much more up for grabs than they thought they were. The world is a slightly different place just because they read a damn book. Imagine that."


Good night, rebels.

West Palm Beach yammerings

He grinned at me over his shoulder as we paddled kayaks across smooth saltwater. His fishing hat flopped around his ears. The water was clear enough to see pairs of horseshoe crabs getting romantic on the bottom. We dragged our kayaks up onto an island and searched for shells. The best shells I found still had tenants. The tide went out while we poked through tide pools. Crabs scuttled away from us to hide under logs.


I get it now, why people decorate their bathrooms in seashells and driftwood. I mean, I don't get why it's always the bathroom, but I get the need to put that stuff somewhere. All those spirals and horns and crisscrossing lattices, all that shocking color fading to pastel as it dries in the sun. 


Kayaking back, the wind was against us. Or maybe it was the current. Anyway, it was hard going. We laughed. We panted. We paddled some more. 


I drank rum from a container that can only be described as a bucket. He threatened to sing the song, but I ordered a pina colada anyway. We ate conch fritters with sweet chili sauce and watched lizards strut across the sand. Eddie narrated the scene from a lizard's point of view.


We hit up the local running store for souvenirs, a tradition I greedily claim credit for starting. See, what with Eddie always going off someplace, I've been to a lot of runs by myself. Some people took to greeting me not with, "Hello," but with, "Where's Eddie?" So I said, bring me a shirt when you come home, so when you go back, I can wear that shirt and people will know where you are without having to ask me.


I don't really mind. But lately I've caught myself avoiding events sometimes because it makes me sad to talk about it. He's been gone a long time this time.


We got smoothies and snuck them into the movie theater to watch The Avengers in 3D, laughing in the very back row with our silly glasses, salty and sweaty, tired and giddy.


We rented scooters and drove to the beach. Alec Baldwin exited the scooter shop as we approached. I didn't recognize him right away. I speculated that we had just seen a Baldwin. I wasn't positive which one until the shopkeeper told us.


Eddie showed me how to ride a scooter, coaching me around the parking lot until I felt brave enough to face the streets. My first left turn was nearly a disaster. I panicked, grabbed the brakes, barked the tires and had to stop on the side of the road, hands all atremble, heart pounding. My right foot came down on the pavement reflexively when I hit the brakes, muscle memory for the wrong task. My toe dragged for just a skip of a step, not even drawing blood. 


Actually, it might have been my second or third left. Anyway, it was a left. Eddie came back to check on me. He squeezed my shaking hands and we went on. 


I bought a copy of Swamplandia! at a local bookstore and read it on the beach between dips in the ocean. The Atlantic made me wish I had gills. I floated on waves, laughing when one dunked me under.


I overheard someone at the park's visitor center saying, "There's nothing worse than saltwater up your nose!" It's one of those things that's going to roll around inside my brain until it causes a stroke, a la Louis Black's theory. I stopped myself from butting in then, but geez, lady. Saltwater is preferable to pretty much any other thing you can put up my nose. If you're keeping a list.


We talked about plans for the summer, if Eddie ever comes home. We agreed that we need to spend as much time on the water as possible. We need to make it a priority.


It was only a weekend. We rushed around doing everything we could think of that sounded fun. We laughed a lot. We talked about important things, like hammocks and Scarlett Johannson, ottomans and alligators. We ate ice cream in bed. We watched dumb television. We rode scooters and kayaks and splashed in the Atlantic Ocean. We ate really delicious food and watched beautiful people walk up and down the streets.


I found souvenir magnets for the girls at work. As we headed back to the hotel that last night, we saw an old man holding a sign on the side of the road. The sign read, "JUST HUNGRY" and my eyes were already welling up before I even saw him hobble toward the line of cars, walking with a limp I fervently hoped was a fake. I turned my head and casually brushed tears off my cheeks, defiantly liberal, bleeding heart and Fight Club quotes (You don't know where I've been, Lou! You don't know where I've been!) Eddie slipped some folded bills to the old man and a sob caught in my throat while I laughed and said thank you. I need things like that.


You can say he probably makes more money than I do, out on that street corner with his pitiful sign and his scraggly beard, shuffling from car to car with a hangdog look. I say fine. Good. Everybody has to make a living somehow. I hope he made a hundred dollars that day off suckers like me.


Because the alternative is horrifying. We sneer about panhandling scams and frauds and hurry past before the idea can sneak up on us - what if this one isn't a scam? What if this guy really is hungry? And you there with your full belly and your jokes, what kind of person are you?


I'm a sucker. I'm okay with that. I want to feed everybody and make sure everybody has a safe place to sleep. If that could be my job, I think I'd do it happily forever. I'm not afraid of being scammed, that doesn't scare me, that happens every time I fall for a commercial. 


Or vote. 


What scares me is NOT being scammed. Walking away from someone who needs help. And when you think about it, who doesn't need help? So most of the time, I give what I can. 


If that makes me a naive simpleton, well, that's okay.


Also it should be noted that I really don't like people all that much, so why I get all weepy when I see an old guy limping, I couldn't tell you. Maybe it's an allergy or something.


So this is my first night home. The cats seem pretty happy to see me. The weather has cooled off a little since last week. I'm trying not to turn my air conditioning on until June, so if this keeps up we'll be fine. I'm drinking wine while Nassim lounges against my bare leg. We are sitting in the growing darkness watching words form on this backlit screen. I want more words; he wants his belly scratched. His purring shakes the couch.


I cooked brown rice and lentils and added broccoli, red bell pepper and pineapple. It's utterly delicious. I'll be eating it for lunch, warmed up or not, for days.


I don't have any more words. Nassim wins.