Tuesday, April 27, 2004

Poem. 7.6.01

THIS SPORTING LIFE

So here comes another curveball,
curling across the plate at 72 mph,
and I’m catching them all…it just takes practice.
And I’m good at it, now. But I’m tired.
And we’re at the bottom of the ninth,
they’ve got two outs,
the count is 3 and 2 on this guy
and he’s expecting the damn curve,
so let’s surprise him.
Here’s the signal for the low, inside strike:
C’mon, baby, straight into my glove.

I love that plop, that smack of leather-on-leather.
Or the solid whack of driver on golf ball.
Or the whoosh of basketball into nothin’-but-net.
Nail the landing.
Spike the pigskin.
Cross the finish line.
And feel so much satisfaction…
’cause the competition’s a killer.

Look, I’m running the 4-minute mile
in three-point-two;
I think this is my personal best.
And I want to take a victory lap and
have you drape the garland around my neck,
like a hug.
How am I doing this without your high-five
as I round the bases?
I’ll gladly endure the locker room sting of your
snapped wet towel on my bottom.
Go on, douse my head with a bucket of icy Gatorade!
Spray cheap champagne in my eyes!

See, I want to celebrate with you.
And if there’s defeat to be faced,
I want it to be your chest into which I weep,
your shoulder on which I rest my head.
I want your hand to reach down and lift me up.
Your laugh motivates me.
Your smile inspires me.
And you know I will always make
the same effort for you.
We are each other’s coach,
each other’s cheerleader.

I’m not out on the field alone, y’know,
not by any stretch.
This is a team endeavor, and I’m getting
amazing assists from my ‘mates.
But I miss you, nevertheless…
you are not expendable.

And here is the uncontestable final score:
Because it’s challenging, even when it’s easy;
Because it’s fun, even when it’s tough;
Because it’s rewarding in every way,
even though the rules are hard to follow;
I play life so well when I play it with you.

Friday, April 16, 2004

This guy's dead, isn't he?

"It is better to be unhappy in love, to be sickly in love, to be neurotic, diseased, gruesome, sordid, as long it involves the passions of life. It is better to be all that than to be careful."
- Paddy Chayefsky



Tuesday, April 13, 2004

Rewrite hell.

Or heaven. I'm not going to complain about the process, since it's what I love to do, and want to do for the rest of my life. How many times have I been able to say that before? Um...that'd be none. But it has taken me away from other things I enjoy and need, and wreaked havoc on old routines...my daily yoga practice has fallen off (a 20-story building), I haven't seen my beloved Lulu in what seems like forever (that's changing next week), and my former highly-organized self has left the premises. I don't need her while I'm writing -- in fact, she's detrimental to that process. But I miss her when it's time to go grocery shopping and pay the bills. She makes lists, and takes pride in checking off each item as it's accomplished. I admire her. But I'm in love with the writer. How can I keep both of these women in my life?