May 12, 2016 § 7 Comments
So I have been running. A little. The actual frequency is between how often I SAY I run and zero. Although I am usually good at conning myself or making excuses to stay in bed in the morning, I still sometimes get up and run. The motivation is not to lose weight (although I am large, i contain multitudes of banana chips (ok ok I want to lose a little weight)) but to get to know my own body.
For my whole life, other than a golden interlude in the early 2000s, my body has felt like a sack of meat that I drag around. It has felt like the betaal to my vikram. It has felt like a soft, useless obstacle between my SELF (lolzzzz) and my dreams of being a grounded, sexy human bean in TOUCH with myself. It has felt useless because it effectively has been useless. I can’t open jars that are screwed on tight, I can’t carry my own suitcases very far, I can’t climb a tree, I can’t jump into a pool and swim like I mean it, I can’t dance, I can’t run. I can’t even run. So a few weeks ago I went running on purpose and prepared myself to hate it. This was good, because I did hate it. But god, did I love to hate it. Didn’t I just look forward to the shortness of breath and the lung burn. Didn’t it just make me feel like the sack of shit that I am. Didn’t it just find the G-spot of my masochistic brain and stroke it without mercy, saying “you fool, you didn’t last five minutes. You fool, do you even HAVE leg muscles????” Endorphins? Fuck endorphins. This was pure self-hate driven motivational tomfoolery, my exact comfort zone. (thoo)
That is why I went on my second run. And then I went on my third. I’m not really in the business of holding myself to standards (#selflove) but I suspect that I will be going on my next run soonish.
I guess I could measure around my butt as well for another ‘success metric’, but so far I haven’t really wanted to. Maybe this is a win or something #accidentalfeminism (OR) I know better than to set myself up for failure.
Here’s another thing – I am convinced that really feeling one with one’s body (vom) is a quick cure for nihilism. I have been passively transforming into a nihilist because it’s easier to float away with those thoughts if you have never been anchored to the ground by the blood pulsing angrily through you after a run. Frankly, if the thought of whether-reality-is-an-illusion-and-what-mankind’s-role-is-on earth-and-what-the-earth’s-role-is-in-space-and-what-even-is-space-for never strikes me again, it will be too soon for me. It’s becoming a real quality of life issue, brah. If I make it six months without existential doubt, I will break a coconut for the gods I still believe in.
I have been thinking about physicality a lot these days.
Physical physical bodymeatlard bloodandbones smellandskinandweight fart. How remarkable we find all this meat-and-gristle sexy. How remarkable. But how much more remarkable than that, even, is fecundity.
I have always found the idea of pregnancy profoundly disturbing. Not of motherhood, you fool, just of pregnancy. A pregnant stomach is a… reproductive sac. A pregnant stomach is so blatantly, one-note-ly biological; there’s no metaphor to hide behind. Just… there it is. So lacking in cleverness, so disappointing and Xtina circa 2002 in its boring, on-the-nose vulgarity. I would be terribly weirded out if my body were to demonstrate its own fecundity; I think I like to picture myself as a sexless, disembodied ‘curiosity’ floating through the ether of life. just look at that word – ‘sac’ – wet. globulous. Febrile.
It bothers me that the maturity of my brain has not caught up with the maturity of my body. What is the motivation to have sex? the same as the motivation to pick at my fingernails or my nose I guess. Perhaps it’s a little more, but I don’t really want to think about that.
Maybe I should be used to my body betraying me; sprouting onward and outward since 2003 with unrelenting enthusiasm, while my brain and maturity have been idling like two Enfields in the sun, just waiting to chugga-chugga-chugga away from adulthood and towards Leh.
listen. listen to the King.
It’s hard to write without paranoia and with honesty; without shrouding everything in metaphors and alluding to things instead of just saying them. I feel exposed and a bit defensive. I guess it’s a good thing no one reads here anymore.
Let the record state that I wrote this post on MS Word, not in Notepad. All songwriters know it makes a difference.