Life

Did you know that the echidna is one of only two types of egg-laying mammals (known as monotremes) in the entire world? The other is the duck-billed platypus, well-known for its oddities. The echidna is a burrowing animal with quills like a porcupine. Between its nocturnal nature and its digging habits, it is rarely spotted in the wild.

(who am I?)

I've reinvented myself. I haven't done this since the seventh grade, and even then that was a spark compared to the blaze I feel now. I feel different. I feel alive. I haven't felt this way in...ever.

I'm using the computer much less. I'm spending much less time on the Internet. I'm using this time in other ways. Talking to people. Going out. Spending time on campus. Signing up for clubs (maybe). Being social. Learning new things. (who am I?) Being outgoing, and not spending my life sitting in front of a glowing screen.

I'll still use the computer, still play video games, still do all the nerdly things I've always done. But less. Much less. I want to make them part of my life, as opposed to...my life. They were my life. I would literally spend an entire day not leaving my building, barely leaving my room. Never again. Never again. Unless I'm sick or something. Never again by choice.

(who...)

I had a talk with my friend Henry one week ago today. Just about one week ago by time, because I met him at 1:00 a.m. and it's 3:30 a.m. now. No...six days ago, it was a Saturday night. This is a Friday night. (...am I?)

He told me about his philosophy of life. He seeks what he calls "firework moments," moments of intense emotion that flood his whole system with adrenaline, moments (hours, days, weeks) that make him truly feel glad to be alive. Up, down, emotional turmoil, going both ways, he wants them both. He wants everything. He wants to feel alive.

He met a girl. Fell in love with her instantly. Began a whirlwind romance. Dated her for...I don't know how long, a month, maybe two. Had a lot of fun. A lot of sex. Started to have problems. She had personal issues. Their style couldn't last forever. They drifted apart. Henry brooded, and sunk back down. He felt as down as he had felt up. He showed me what he had written on the subject. Called her his drug. (who am I?)

And yet even down, he was doing better than me. I dismissed that claim. Said that high emotions, peaks and valleys, weren't all that. Started to cite times in my life when I had similarly peaked and valleyed. (Valleyed? Whatever.) Thought. Realized...I had none. I've drifted through life. I've never blazed. I've lived life as though a slow-burning fuse, maybe with a few sparks, nothing dangerous, nothing exciting, nothing dramatic, nothing that other people didn't bring to me.

Oh, I've had fun. Lots of fun. I've traveled the world. Had friends. Did things. Met people. Went out. Went to theme parks and been on roller coasters and seen exotic sights. I've had lots of fun. I can't deny it. Lots and lots and lots of fun. I'll never deny that.

But what could I have done? What could I have been doing? (who am I?) What opportunities did I miss because I was staring into billions of pixels instead of a real human face?

I joke now that I realized the problem, when it hit me. I realized that all the time I spent playing World of WarCraft, I could have been out having sex with girls. I say this, people laugh, I laugh with them. It's not true. I was an awkward nerd then, I'm an awkward nerd now. Am I? I was. But I could have been dealing with real people instead of virtual avatars. Instead of dwarf warriors and undead priests. Instead of a billion faceless faces, instead of a billion billion people I'll never know exist but for a few lines of text.

(who am I?)

I've been more active. I've sworn to work my body. Been running. I've been able to consistently make it two and a half miles without stopping. My whole body feels like it's on fire. My lungs are heavy. My legs are aching. My torso is cramping. Sweat is pouring down my brow. Stinging my eyes. I wipe it away with one hand. Wipe it on my shirt. It doesn't matter. The shirt's already dripping with sweat. I see the path ahead. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. It's all I can do. My breathing is heavy. My mouth is dry. I swallow. Choke for air. Have to keep my breathing off the rhythm of my footsteps. If I sync them up, I get a wicked cramp in my side. Gotta focus on breaking the rhythm. It's not easy, all those years I spent in marching band, learning to focus my whole body to the rhythm. It's not easy breaking old habits.

I've never, not even once, failed to finish a run I started. I've never fallen halfway and had to walk instead of running. I'm very proud of that. What else can I be proud of? What do I do? I'm very proud of myself. No matter the pain, I keep going. Pain is just weakness leaving the body.

When I see the end, I'm twenty, thirty yards away, I break into a sprint. As much of a sprint as I am capable of. My footfalls land like thunderclaps. My heart is in my throat. Choking me. My breath rushes around it. In and out, in and out. I breathe every time my foot hits the ground. I don't care anymore. Not going to cramp up in the last five seconds. I see my goal. I see my goal. I touch the door. I rebound away and begin walking. Panting. Gasping. Choking. Spitting off to one side, behind a tree so people don't see. Waving to people that walk past. Strike up a conversation with a few girls standing nearby. I'm at the entrance to the gym, that's my endpoint. I can only say one or two words at a time before I have to breathe in. They look at me a little strange, who is this guy, why is he talking to us, (who am I?) who is he? But it becomes clear I'm just trying to be friendly. Smiles break out. We talk. I slowly regain my breath. I go inside to get a drink, I bid them a good evening. They smile and wave as I leave. I feel like I've accomplished something.

I feel alive. My body is burning. I feel alive. I feel like I'm living. I gulp the lukewarm water out of the fountain. Switch to the next fountain. Ah, ice-cold. I gulp water until my throat freezes and my stomach lurches. I wander away. Into the bathroom. I needed to pee for the last half a mile. I relieve myself. Is it relief I feel? What is this new feeling?

My Reporting teacher tells us that nobody likes to write, they just like to have written. He speaks of news writing. Recreational writing, he implies, is its own devil. Writing, he says, is a grueling, difficult process. He likens it to running. Nobody likes to run, he says. Running is hard. Running is painful. But the feeling of I have run, the feeling of exhiliration, that's why people do it, he says. It's like writing. I have to agree. Writing this, I'm feeling better already.

I went to the gym. There are twice-a-week sessions, Group Fitness for Males sessions, that promise Extreme Abs and Core. I need ab work. I don't have any definition on my stomach. Hopefully, the running will reduce the fat. But I need muscle. I was taunted by one of my friends whom I invited to the session, he sneered at the idea of a group fitness for males session, called it "gay." Turns out it's just open to males, not exclusively males. It's me, two other guys, and fifty girls. I talk to one of them. She gives me helpful advice. I set up my mat next to hers, and we talk until it begins.

Holy shit. This is hard work. Exercise. Crunches. Weird things I've never done before. Bicycle kicks. Just holding a certain pose, we're told, is exercise in and of itself. I hold it. I struggle and strain. Some of them, I fall behind. I don't do as well. They give us, maybe, five seconds between workouts. Sometimes we get no break, just crunches for a few seconds while we set up for the next. If anyone had ever told me that doing basic crunches could be considered restful, I would have called them insane. But they're a reprieve, from the other stuff.

Holding a pose. I'm in pain. Lots of pain. My arm hurts, I'm holding myself up. My side hurts, I'm flexing it taut. I see another girl behind me. I meet her eyes. She smiles briefly. I cannot smile, my teeth are bared. I nod quickly. The music is playing in the background. It's "Paralyzer" by Finger Eleven, a weird fast version I've never heard. Probably just for exercising. We're working to the beat. To keep my mind from the pain, I mouth the words to the song. I know it by heart. I love that song.

The twenty minutes are over. It's an hour or two of workouts packed into twenty excruciating minutes. I stagger around, return my mat, return my big red exercise ball. Thank the girl who spoke to me. Express my desire to see her again next week. She expresses the same. Express my awe at the difficulty of the class to the instructor. She frowns slightly. I assure her I'll be back. I want to excel, I say. I want to do as well as I possibly can. The frown dissolves. She smiles. She's glad to hear it.

I go home. I take a shower. I dress up and go downstairs. Anne-Flore, my French foreign exchange roommate, is throwing a party for all her friends in the apartment block. There are twenty or so people here. She's made quiches, five or six of them. Another friend of hers has made banana bread. There's a bowl of chips. Some bottles of wine. The French have a very relaxed attitude about wine. Anne's 24, anyway. Almost all of her friends are overage. The few that aren't aren't drinking. I think. (who am I?)

I converse. I socialize. I meet new people, tell stories, get some laughs. My roommates aren't there. Anne is disappointed, she says she invited them, she doesn't know why they're not here, she wonders why they don't socialize. I call them. One's playing Dungeons & Dragons, and claims he was never told. Maybe not. He hardly ever emerges from his room. Maybe Anne missed him. The other one is hanging posters. I don't know for what. Some organization that I'm not even sure he's a part of, he's doing it with Victoria. All these people are attractive. Men, women, everyone. I'm not attracted to the men, but I can see how attractive they are. I can measure beauty, male or female. One guy walks in with a couple of blonde goddesses flanking him. He looks like he's stepped out of the pages of GQ. He has the perfect hair, the perfect skin, a chiseled jaw that looks like it was carved from marble. How am I supposed to compete with such a man? He's very nice. We are introduced. His name is Michael. He's a very nice person.

Around midnight, we decide that we want to go swimming. We go swimming. There's a pool at the center of our apartment complex. I run, once again, into the Paradox of the Glasses-Wearer. Whenever girls run around in tiny swimsuits, and a man with glasses wishes to join them, it's because they're going swimming, or something. You can't go swimming with glasses on. If I want to join the girls in the water, I have to remove my glasses. Seven or eight girls in bikinis with varying degrees of coverage, and I can't see a blasted blasted thing. I see blobs.

We play water volleyball. Girls vs. guys, originally. Someone who was using the pool before took a rope and tied two water noodles, big foam noodles, across two deck chairs, made a makeshift net. Stretched it across the pool. Someone produces a ball. We hit it back and forth. I keep missing because I can't see.

One guy, a Finnish guy, is in a big floating raft. He effortlessly knocks the ball away. He is chastised by the girls for cheating by being in a big floating raft. I declare that I am claiming the raft in the name of the great United States of America. I wrestle him off the raft and lay my body on it. I too am chastised, but not much because I still can't see enough to hit the ball. Eventually, someone dumps me out of it as well.

Tonight, I went to a bar. 1982. It's the weirdest bar I've ever seen. Four TVs behind the bar, but instead of television channels, they're tuned to video game systems. Bubble Bobble, Donkey Kong Country, Rampage, Sonic 3. The controllers are under the bar. I watch people play. I went to the bar because a musical group called Wait Wait is playing. I ran into a couple of them while they were chalking an ad for their group on the ground outside Weimer Hall. One of them recognizes me. Said we had a class together last semester. I don't recognize him, but I play along. He exhorts me to come. Says his band is very good. I ask what they play. He says that if science-fiction had theme music, his band would be it. That's good enough for me. I accept.

I ask people to come with me. Everyone has an excuse. A lot of my friends are going to a role-playing game session put on by another friend. Some people are going to Tallahassee. Henry wants to come, but has had a sore throat all day. He looked into his throat with a bike light and a mirror. It was a horrible color. He called me and asked where the hospital was. I thought maybe he should call 911. He said that the infirmary was closed for the weekend, and he wanted antibiotics. Thinks it's strep throat. I ask if he's all right. He says he's fine, he just wants to get this cleared up. Says he'll take a few days to (who am I?) rest, maybe the weekend. I wish him good health. Ask him to call me back when something happens. He hasn't yet. I'll call him tomorrow. Later today, technically.

A few other musicians come on the stage. A girl who sits alone and reads guitar music and lyrics from sheet music as she plays. Her voice cracks as it hits high notes. She's still pretty good. I applaud along with the others. I see a cute girl standing next to me. Think of how to initiate conversation. I forget how I did it. Probably a comment about the bar. There's another TV, not behind the bar, with Mario Kart 64 hooked up to it. When I arrived, I saw people playing, and asked to play when they were done. A guy named Chris offered to play against me. He beat me three times in a row. I don't mind. I hadn't played the 64 version in years. He knew exactly what he was doing.

A guy arrives. Stands next to the girl, between me and her. I worry. Is this her boyfriend? The way they interact could mean anything. He doesn't hold her hand. Doesn't put his arm over her shoulders or around her waist. They don't kiss. It could mean anything. We, the three of us, have some small talk. His name is Matthew. Her name is Casey. With a C. I guess that it was a K, I am informed that I guessed wrong. I apologize. She laughs and says it doesn't matter. I tell them that I'm bad with names, but I'll try my very best to remember. She informs me that she'll ask me her name in a couple of hours, to make sure I remember. I commit it to memory, both of them, hers and his. I visualize it in my head. Her name carved out of massive letters of stone. Her name traced in the air before me. Her name, shining bright, spelled out in the stars. Visualization helps. I do not forget. The whole evening, I remember her name, I remember his name.

He's next on stage. She goes to the bathroom. I am about to ask him if the two of them are going out, but he leaves to get his guitar ready. He goes up on stage. Brings another girl with him. They sing a few duets. Casey is watching with rapt attention. This could be bad, I think. This could mean the two of them are an item. I work it into small talk. Ask her between songs. Are you going out with him? I ask. No, no, she says. They're just friends. (who am I?) I breathe a silent sigh of relief. Talk with her some more. When I first started talking to her, she mentioned that she used to be very good at Sonic the Hedgehog. I am suitably impressed. Not many girls played old-school games like that. She's a sophomore. Majoring in speech therapy, I believe, communications disorders. I mention that I'm in another form of communication, in journalism. She nods approvingly. We talk. I offer to buy her something, she questions what I could buy her that's non-alcoholic. I have no answer. She goes and gets a cup of water from a big cooler on the side of the room.

I have realized a fundamental flaw I have in dealing with women. Previously, I paid too much attention. I listened too raptly, complimented too freely. Emoted too much. Showed too much interest. I was like an eager puppy, hanging on their words. It's no wonder. I showed desperation. Or over-eagerness. Either way. I realize that even though that's normally how I act, that's no way to act. I have to ratchet it down. Keep it cool. Henry told me that I would have to seem slightly disinterested, or else I would seem disingenuous. I keep a calm demeanor. A level voice. A level expression. It seems to have worked. I got her phone number. She expressed a desire to meet. Not exactly. I asked her if we could meet up sometime. Told her I would like that. She said that that could be arranged.

The band I've been waiting for comes on. Their first two songs are great. They're rockin'. Their next few songs fail to captivate me. They play on. I think they're good, but not great. They played their best stuff first. Should have saved a silver bullet for the end. They had two encores. Not particularly amazed by either one. The last one is okay. Better than the others have been. (who am I?) I get Casey's phone number. Go down the street. Walk home. Talk to some people. See my first bearded elderly man sleeping in a doorway. Never seen that before. Tonight is full of firsts. Never been to a bar and watched local musicians play. Tonight is full of firsts.

I had a semi-girlfriend. I almost never talk about her. I don't think anyone in Gainesville knew she ever existed. Maybe to Victoria. This was before Victoria. Maybe my parents will remember. They read this blog, after all. I'll ask them if they remember.

I used to volunteer at the hospital. Pediatrics. I encountered a girl named Summer. Summer Thomas, I believe. She had intestinal troubles. Had to have surgery. I enjoyed her company. I did rounds, I came back to see her. We talked for a while. I left for the day. I came back. She was still there. We kept talking. We got to know each other. I kissed her on the cheek. The cheek? The cheek, yes. We became good friends. Kissing? Friends. Was it?

One particular day, I lay in bed next to her and watched a movie. The Lion King 1 1/2. I didn't think it was going to be at all good. It was surprisingly good. I lay in bed next to her. I was maybe fourteen. She was my age. We lay in bed, her under the covers, me above them, and watched the movie. After it was over, I kissed her on the lips. Did I? Was it during? It may have been. The lips? Yes. We did that a few times. I told her that I liked her. Liked. Liked. I did like her. Maybe I was fifteen? I don't remember the timeline. She was my age. We lay in bed together and watched the movie. After it was over, I left.

It was the happiest I've ever been in my entire life.

Writing that sentence hit me like a blow. I paused for several seconds, I panted for breath. Was it true? Yes. I think I loved her. I may have done. She left eventually. Gave me her phone number. I kept forgetting to call. Some months later, she came back. Had changed by then. Was more distant than before. She didn't want to be kissed. We had drifted. I was all right. No, I was upset. I became all right. I had moved on.

The Japanese have a term for the subject. Mono no aware. It means, roughly, the beauty of transient things. I had not heretofore appreciated this beauty. I told Henry, that night, that I didn't see the point in short, furious relationships, because then they were over and you felt terrible. He said that was part of it. Every up comes with a down. Extreme emotion. That's what he said. Extremes. Fireworks. Fireworks. It sizzles, it sparks, it throws off colored lights, what a bang, what a flash! Boom! Pow! Takes three fingers off at the knuckle if you're not careful! But what a show! What a show! And it's over. (who am I?) It's over, but the memory of its beauty remains. Its transient beauty.

He said that I needed to meet a girl, fall madly in love with her, be in a tumultuous relationship with her for maybe three or four weeks, do a lot together, have a lot of sex, break up, and brood about it for a month. He said it was what I needed, to shake me up. I agree with him. Not for the depression, not for the elation, but for the power. The majesty. The...those are the wrong words. For the fury. The fire. The heat. The passion. Even cold embers still hold within them the memory of flame. Even gray ash still flickers in the mind with last night's blaze.

Fire represents passion. No wonder. It's a furious thing. It consumes and consumes, it's hot, it can create cooked food or destroy entire cities. It eats fuel. It burns out. It's a hell of a show.

I may have loved Summer. Maybe. I don't think I loved Victoria. Not ever really loved. I fell in love with an idea. With what she could have been, what I thought she should have been. I fell in love with the idea of falling in love. I fell in love because it seemed like the right time to do so. These words aren't easy to write. But they demand to be written. I'm sorry this is so long. I've had words buzzing around in my head for some time. I'm not done yet. I still have a couple of things left to say.

We dated for two and a half years. Did we? Did we really? We saw each other on and off, once every couple weeks. We talked on the telephone most of the time. I dated a phone. I dated a phone, and every so often managed to meet a person. I was in love with love. I was in love with an idea. Our differences were too great. I told myself how lucky I was to have her while we fought every day. I told myself that she was the best thing that ever happened to me while the sight of her on the caller ID of my cell phone filled me with strange apprehension. What was she mad at me about now? I wondered. What was today's problem? Did I do it? Did she imagine it? Was there a difference? (who am I?)

She told me going in that she was crazy. Her words. You should know what to expect, she said. Maybe I shouldn't be writing this for all the world to see. I don't care. I don't care. Just writing it down isn't enough. The words have been flowing nonstop. I've been writing for an hour, and I've stopped exactly twice. Once when I told you before, and once just now. Never more than a few seconds. My fingers are hurting from the constant typing. Pain is weakness leaving the body.

She said we'd have problems. We did. I said we'd work through them. We didn't. I was in love with a concept. When we finally moved near each other last fall, it did not go well. We couldn't stand each other, most of the time. It dragged on. I was in love with having a relationship. It finally crumbled to pieces. Ended not with a bang, but with a whimper. Faded away, not burned out. We cried a bit. I cried a bit. We went out to dinner that night. Promised to still be friends. Spent the next six months constantly sniping at each other. This semester, she promises things will be different. So far, mostly, they have. I hope they do. I could use another friend. I could use the perspective. I could use the ability to know things that hanging around another person that knows me intimately (knows who I am? how can she, even I don't know that) gives me.

I wore my jeans tonight. They have a button fly. It's a little tricky to get used to. I only own the one pair of jeans. I don't like the way denim feels on my skin. I don't like the tiny pockets. I wore my American Eagle collared shirt. I bought it to go with the jeans. It seems to have worked. Casey gave me her number. When I asked, she laughed a little, and told me. Was it laughing at me? Was it laughing from nerves? Did she just think of something funny? I don't know. She seemed to like me. I'm accentuating the positive. I'm going to go with the best interpretation. I'm going to assume that it was nerves at being asked her number by a guy she clearly had a thing for. It usually works out for me, assuming the best-case scenario. When it doesn't, I don't like to dwell on that. I hope it works out.

...Who am I?

A man is defined by the things that he does, not the person that he is. What do I do? Am I a writer? I hardly write these days. I have writer's block. I wrote a couple of sample pieces for the local newspaper, which weren't accepted. I write for class, which gets me the grades I need. Am I a writer? Not unless I write. I'm writing now. I guess I'm a writer.

What do I do? I sit around and play on the computer. No! I get out, I go out, I do social things, I socialize with people, I talk and try new experiences. Maybe I'll go to New York this semester. Anne said she might be able to make it. I hope she can. She's good company. What do I do? What do I want to do?

What do I want to do?

What do I want to do?

I feel at war with myself. A million fragments of myself all warring for the coveted title of personality. Who will win? What do I want to do? (who am I?) What do I want to become? How can I make myself become that which I am not? I guess I'll have to try. What do I want to do?

I want to help. (I want to hurt.) I want to aid. (I want to destroy.) I want to create. (I want to smash.) I want to heal. (I want to harm.)

I want to give life. (I want to kill.) I want to succeed. (I want to fail.) I want to soar. (I want to sink.) I want to enjoy. (I want to curse.)

I want to hope. (I want to despair.)

I want to live. (I want to die.) I want to live. (I want to die.) I want to live. (I want to die.) I want to live. (I want to die.) I want to live. (I want to die.)

I want to live. (I want to di-)

I want to live. (I want to d...)

I want to live. (I...)

I want to live. (...)

I want to live. (...)

I want to live. (...I want to...)

I want to live. (I want to di-no, dammit! I want to live!)

I want to live. (I want to live)

I want to live.

I want to live.

Not just to survive. Not just to drift through life on a mean, with no highs or lows. Not just to drift along, flatlining at life. I want to have fun, have highs, have lows, be driven to the greatest ecstasy and the darkest sorrow, not just float along on a haze of contentment caused by the Internet.

I want to live...

God help me...

I want to live.

I want to (who am I?) live.

I want to live.

I want to live.

I want to live.

I want to live.