I wouldn’t blame you for thinking we’ve transitioned to a once-a-month update schedule, and it would probably be as such, were it not for an ulterior motive that brought me here tonight. I cherish the English language, yes, but there was no joy in logging into WordPress and beholding the great, white void. But I’ve got to fill this void all the same, because I’ve noticed my copy at work has been getting softer, and I need to whip myself back into writing shape.
Some blame may be accorded to the tryptophan-induced haze from Thanksgiving, to be sure. Really, though, it’s my absence from here that’s the culprit. When you write regularly, there are some pretty sweet skills that avail themselves to you. You have an innate spell-check, for one thing, along with an eye for grammatical pratfalls. You also catch word repetition before it has a chance to embarrass. Most importantly? The time between “great, white void” and “motherfuckin’ words on the page” is dramatically shortened.
These skills have dulled somewhat, and that’s why I’m here, ensuring the cogs of industry at Secondhand Rants grind to life again. As for how long the cogs will continue to turn, we shall see, but at the moment, let’s go with “as often enough to keep the mental flab at bay.” And on that note, I need to get my beauty sleep. I’m meeting the Leviathan next week, finally. We’ve been talking every day, and the banter is spectacular. But it’s still just text, end of the day, and I’ve got to see the man behind the curtain, with the express hope that she isn’t actually a man.
By all rights, activity on this site should’ve increased lately, especially with the unseasonably cold weather we’ve been having. I haven’t played tennis in ages, mainly because I find frostbite disagreeable, which has effectively freed up nine hours per week. Clearly this bounty hasn’t been invested in writing, at least not here. Television has accounted for some of this time. I’ve dusted off the PS4. Work has taken its fair share of hours, too.
Lightning’s also struck, apparently, for a fifth time. If you live within a 10-mile radius of me, you’ve likely gotten the full scoop. She’s Leviathan-class–the most Leviathan yet, if that can even be an adjective. All-American, smart, hazel eyes. Conversation is effortless, energizing. And in terms of looks, I’m punching way the fuck above my weight class.
As much input as I’ve received from others, it’s the internal monologue I’ve been trying to reconcile. I’m awash in questions. What will the in-person chemistry be like? Why me? Is this actual progress, perhaps the culmination of all the effort spent on the portals? Or is it simply a confluence of little accidents? I’d never voice these questions aloud, of course. I just see them materializing on my mental notepad.
And so I’ve been trying to quiet myself, savor each interaction, and heed the good sense of my betters: leave your expectations at the door, said Love Yoda; remember how it all began, said the Professor; and follow your heart, said Cheshire. I’ve never been one to insist on experiencing everything firsthand, particularly if someone else has already navigated the crucible. If there’s genuine wisdom, just sitting there for the taking? Then be still, listen, and the secrets of the universe will confess themselves to you.
Three Sundays ago, on a cool, historic fall evening, I ran the most I’ve ever run, packing away 3.5 miles in preparation for the half-marathon. I felt fantastic, too, breeze against my face, clear Texan sky alight with stars, and the knowledge that I haven’t been in such physical condition since college. But then a great sickness took hold, and brutal as the actual virus may have been, it’s the aftermath that’s been the real doozy.
I lost my tennis racquet last week. I wish I could tell you I misplaced it, or some street urchin stole it, but no–I lost my grip on it. Flew right out of my hand, mid-swing, and I was aghast. Never, even in my poorest moments of tennis prowess, have I ever let go. I’ve been feeling markedly weaker, though, and stamina’s been all but spent after the first set. How could I go from an effortless 3.5-mile run to lacking the wherewithal to hold onto my racquet? I’m not sure.
The regression goes beyond physicality, too. My mental fitness has also been questionable. Initially, I thought I had rediscovered a measure of focus, and I did. Problem was, I didn’t have much aside from that, and if focus is your sole currency, then you’re kind of an idiot savant, right? Prior to getting sick, thinking felt like jazz–thoughts flowed freely, and there was a pleasure to be had from riffing and stitching them together. After getting sick? Thinking’s been more a one-note affair. Less Coltrane, more “Chopsticks.”
Things have improved, fortunately. The Professor explained how the physical regression isn’t viral, so much as a consequence of not exercising on a daily basis. Decreased resilience is more a function of aging, he said. I don’t know why, but I found this comforting. The fix here simply calls for getting back on the horse. Still working on how to repair my brain, however, and I don’t have any easy answers. All I can do is record my progress, here in my clearinghouse for thoughts. And even though there may not be a pill to pop, perhaps attendance alone can be therapeutic.