윤

Despite being tired as fuck from another pathetic run earlier in the evening and unable to sleep I think, from the Dew I drank with the wholly unscientific purpose of stimulating my recovery, I woke up an hour and a half before my first meeting after a dream that a tall Black woman and skinny teenager with two handguns had home-invaded us. They weren’t particularly cautious criminals, unmasked and allowing us to move about to bring them their spoils while the former danced and her partner sat with his back to us. There were lamps and things we don’t own that I might’ve taken to his head, but would it have been enough to incapacitate him, or could I take the chance he hadn’t transferred his weapons to her without my knowledge? I continued to consider the possibilities during my transition, when even my strength and will didn’t seem sufficient to go at him with an easily-obtained knife from the kitchen.

Later that evening I’d read the synopsis of Bob Odenkirk’s new film—or did I re-read it, and subconsciously schedule my dream as a preview or reminder?

I remember seeing what was probably an early edition at Thayer Street Books, which looks long gone now, wondering if it’d help me with the mile run at school. Knowing that Fixx himself died on a run might have turned me off this lifetime path that still has me struggling with to beat my time from only a year ago, and risking another injury or worse over the single-file bridges and along the overflow creek where the homeless camp their bicycle chop shops at night.

I wonder what was going on in my father’s head when I was ten years old: in which of the early 20th-century European Bildungsroman he’d next indulge; where he’d meet the adoring student for whom he’d eventually abandon his family and follow across the country; or more charitably, how they’d manage to afford a private middle school for an impressionable lad whose education couldn’t possibly be derailed among those without the same concerns about tuition—but most certainly there wasn’t a thought to peruse the comic books at a local newsstand and familiarize himself with his son’s interests so that they might bond over more mature insights or different perspectives into them.

I strive for the latter, of course, maybe because I’m older than he was and every run could be my last, or quite the opposite and I never grew up. (Fuck, I’m sipping on 2020 VooDew at 1am trying to justify more Lego from the mortgage refinance Mommy arranged, while suffering through the US remake of Utopia.) Hopefully the next generation will find a better balance of parenting and the meaningless pursuits over the course of one’s life, because I wouldn’t otherwise commit to a P2W lootbox grind, even after my disenchantment with Animal Crossing. And while I doubt I’ll ever take the place of the teammates that the new school year displaced, there’s sure to be a moment on the playfield to remember.

For once in my life I’m gunning for the default category, though who am I to fight it, it’s neither the extra bandana wrapped around the bottom half of my face nor the air quality from the fires to the north which remarkably dropped 40 points after I got back, Ser Davos was right, “Nothing fucks you harder than time.”

Used to be this was my primary source of aggravation, the fucking 아줌마 scofflaw who couldn’t take a hint no matter how many times I passed her with a scowl that her animated stride didn’t entitle her to be an obstacle any more than it would on the highway, but the stakes have been raised, weren’t they, in the last six months. They shut the lights off at the track and with gyms closed, the parks seem busier than ever, with no more adherence to road-sharing etiquette. Every so often I’d hop off the sidewalk, despite running on the right side of the street—but I understand, the bigger ones can have gulfs between them and be inefficient to cross—and an approaching couple would continue side-by-side, requiring me to risk my life further out to maintain our distance, just because they’re too god-damned lazy and inconsiderate to go single file for a moment or doing so would jeopardize the sexual liberation they moved to this country to celebrate. Cunts.

So something I kick around in my head while trying to stave off hypoxia is how I’d prioritize us based not only upon our direction of travel, but also the presence of pavement and intended-use signage; for instance, a cyclist following the arrow in his or her bike lane shouldn’t have to accommodate an oncoming pedestrian who could more easily step onto the curb, because spreading out to avoid transmitting the virus shouldn’t subject others to a traffic hazard. And I swear that same lady is now hugging her left to avoid walking along the steep edge of the creek, bitch.

How else to describe my appearance after my fall on the 183rd overpass last night, the brunt of which I took on my hands, so that my lips would only gently meet the pavement? As disappointed as I was in my legs for not doing their usual part and keeping me afloat long enough, if not at all gracefully, to regain my balance, at least my aging adrenal glands did theirs to pull me quickly off the street and back onto the sidewalk. I was just on my way downhill, which may have contributed to the instability—that and my annoyance with the unmasked pedestrian who forced me on the outside of the guard rail—and a car speeding blindly over the hump might have easily finished what gravity could not. Some vestige of survival skill or minor damage assessment must’ve convinced me it wasn’t my time to remain prone and become one with the universe.

Has it really been that long since my last post? So many viable topics that came and went, too, like Pokémon Go representing the last vestige of my interest in videogames, an administration change threatening the absurdity barrier, Iron Fist utterly disappointing, realizing that relying on running as an escape is a race I’m destined not to win, and almost logged in the other day to bitch about tampering with Claudia Cardinale’s perfection, but it’s a dream, as usual, that brings me back. Two attempts to preserve my recollection on the recording app were dreams themselves. It was a first-person flying shooter where the goal of each level was to find the exit tunnel, hindered by the psychedelic lights and color filters, not to mention the two-planed controllers like a Wii’s. The last one led to the player opening his eyes to the crooked sight of an ultramodern white door, and it took several tries to orient my perspective to approach and let it slide open. A hospital corridor stretched outside, and a nurse composed of decent CG, though the obvious product of an in-game engine, smiled as she walked by. Turns out the game had been a simulation of recovery from mental illness [see “Loving the Alien”], and the rousing score transitioned a black screen to credits like the end of a Nolan film. Five of us gathered around a coffee table sat stunned by the revelation; one said he was inspired to run for office.

I don’t care if this idea for a superhero was received without so much as a “meh” from Will & Dayz; I like it, and continue to hone it on my runs, usually before I even reach Shoemaker. A low-brow small-time crook gets the jump on a scientist in his lab, and shoots him in his haste to make off. But before succumbing to the attack, the man unleashes a swarm of nanobots, which take up residence in his killer. There, they begin making improvements, upgrades like in that episode of The Outer Limits, bestowing superhuman strength, durability, healing, the works—catch is, they also make his brain work more efficiently, he grows smarter, and in turn, he understands the nature of his crime, becomes guilt-ridden with remorse, and assumes the mantle of do-gooder to atone. A little reminiscent of 악마를 보았다, too. But is it this the true course of the better person, or is it only the ghost in the machines that’s motivating him? There’s some conflict for ya. Will he use his now-photographic memory and advanced intelligence to recreate the incident and discover that his victim originally intended to inject himself with his inventions, and immediately benefit from them? Almost with minds of their own, they chose the host with more potential. (Or will he instead learn, as in Morrison’s Doom Patrol, that the whole thing was engineered all along, and he was deliberately chosen for the project? Meh.)

Try this next time, preferably after a months-long hiatus from running. If it’s anything like yesterday, I probably won’t be recovering for the “after” shot a week later. If ever at all.

The Sony’s wore like how I imagine clip-on piercings would, and crapped out like the other $20 disposables, and while I was comforted by the thicker gauge of the Apple in-ear buds, their pendulous weight is unavoidable. So if not for this nagging cough, I’d be reporting back on these Sennheisers, whose cost I justify with an unheard-of two-year manufacturer’s warranty. Cords still look flimsy, exposed as they are in a wraparound track that’s twice the size of the Nike design, but I like how its first “section” is just the right length to my upper arm, and I can do without the rest. The question remains: can I even run anymore?