Third post today? Yeah, no life, I get it...

There's probably such a thing as too much to say about one's self. There's also probably such a thing as too much free time, too sad an existence to come up with something interesting to do, and a plethora of other excesses to which I will no doubt go. But as long as I'm at a computer and have something to say, I might as well write it down.

Also, I took some pictures of my ankle because people kept asking if it were bruised or swollen, and I didn't really know how to answer because it doesn't look that different to me:

 

I included smaller versions of my left foot because I always compare the two sides to each other when I don't know what I'm supposed to be looking for. I guess there's minor discoloration and a bit of swelling, but it doesn't feel any worse than any other time I've done it, so I'm definitely playing handball on it tomorrow. I'll think about taking it easy at frisbee on Sunday though (yeah, who am I kidding?).

One other thing that's been on my mind recently is that Sarah can't stand my blog! It's weird. She says it doesn't sound like me writing. She also said it sounded like I didn't respect Rebecca enough as an individual person, which I was a bit surprised to hear, but makes sense. I think I always defined her in terms of our relationship together, and I probably didn't ever give her enough credit as a person of her own. I think I do that with most people I've been around a long time, and I'd be surprised if other people didn't, to be honest. I know kids almost universally, think of their parents as "means to an end," whether that end is a new toy, their favorite food, or staying up later. Rarely do they think "I wonder what my mom would like in her life as a person of her own," or "I wonder what it means to my dad for me to take this action." I guess I saw Rebecca as a "means to avoid loneliness" or a "means to a great girlfriend" rather than as an entire separate entity. Or maybe I'm grasping at straws and just saying things that sound right even though I probably wouldn't have said them unless I was put into that frame of mind. I know I see Brian currently as a "means to a challenging handball game." I know he has a fiance, and that he's probably busy and stuff, but it's not like I'm going to actually think about these people outside the contexts with which I'm familiar. I'm not going to sit here theorizing about what people's lives mean outside of me unless it's relevant. It's too much work, to be honest. I'll keep track of the facts. I'll know what they are doing, and I'll know some things about them, but I can't keep track of people as their own entities. It's just not possible to think of very many people that way, if any. We can say we want the best for people, but half the time what it sounds like we mean is "I would be unhappy to see you unhappy, so please be happy so I don't have to be unhappy." Is that the same thing as actually contemplating them as another person? I doubt it. So I doubt I think of other people as people very often. It's possible my readers do and that I'm alienating my audience, but deep down inside I'm not sure that's how people work. And I know I've tried with all of my close friends to know them as entities at one point or another, but because they just aren't me, I always came up short. So I guess that's my excuse? I don't know where I was going with this. I genuinely don't think I was only using Rebecca, but as many perspectives as I can get are helpful. Each one adds a bit to the overall perspective I'm trying to develop.

Sarah said she liked reading my blog when I biked across the country, though. I guess maybe it's because I had more events to talk about, which lends itself to more humorous anecdotes than my typical introspection and recounting of my day-to-day life. She says the only times she sees the "me" she knows is in the parenthetical asides in this blog. I think that's interesting. Because the parentheses are where I provide "color commentary." But that's just one side of me, and to think she doesn't even recognize the analytic side of me is a bit disconcerting. And if she didn't like my blog before I put her in it this prominently, I can only imagine her reaction to this post, but as I've said, this isn't really for anyone but me at this point. I'm happy if people want to read it, and I hope it's not incredibly boring, but it can't be more interesting than my life.

I revised a few poems for my other blog. I still like the poem "Obstacle" too much to change, though I did switch one word.

Here's one that's been in the works for a while. I just pulled it off my phone and completed it, so it needs some work before it makes its way to the other blog, but I figured I'd get it out anyway. Otherwise it will just sit there staring at me accusingly every time I scroll past is on my way to jot another note down to blog about later.

When they clone us, and our perfect versions run the world
we will tell ourselves from them by our blemishes
our scars heralding the blunders
turned either epic
or tragic.
The stitched arm somehow still attached
after being dragged out the broken window
of the upside-down van
skating the half-pipe of the ditch,
one axel perpendicular to the other
and a shoe worming its way up under dashboard
a place seldom explored by footwear
except when culverts flip things on their heads,
and hurl laptops, still playing "Lost"
into the snow, its screen glowing, uncracked
out of the thing layer of icy particles
a halo left behind in the wake of an epic story.

His clone would never have that scar,
the stitches holding together the arm
that flung blood further than the damning beer
into the woods, so when the cops showed up
all they cared about was the Centrum for Men.
The blemishes on our hips from every diving catch
(and only noticed after every diving drop),
those won't be there when you leave this world behind.
Your soul won't have that mark
though it might bear the one I left
when you left.

It's an imperfect analogy, the perfect clone
to the all-to-human soul.
They walk around blameless
and our souls, too, can have no evidence against.
No fingerprints to tie them to the scene
where they fell asleep and swerved
into the semi,
but the scars left behind
on faces, foreheads, hips
mean something more than "I did this thing."
They mean you lived this thing
this life that gives you badges
for every bad decision.
Their strengthened ankles only mean
they never sprinted, heedless of terrain
never stopped too suddenly, never changed
directions without knowing the consequences.
But even when we're careful, we can misstep
so better to run than walk, better to not look back
at the clones we leave behind
as we rush toward our next injury
our next soul-sculptor
and leave them to their perfection.

That whole poem started from this line in my phone: When (not if) they clone me i will tell myself apart from him by the scars, pockmarks, imperfections. And it somehow became about the car accidents I've known people in, the difference between the body and who we actually are, the difference between our experiences and ourselves, and I don't know what to do with it, which direction to take it. That's the problem with my style of writing. I just go line by line and put one thing after another. Making it tie together can get tricky. So I'll just put this up here and wait a while to see if some time crystallizes anything for me. In the meantime, I'm hungry, and I have some fish in my freezer a mile away calling my name. Thanks for reading!