The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing. Isolated, neurotic, caffeine-addled, crippled by procrastination and consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing and soul-crushing inadequacy. And that’s on a good day.
I’ve been thinking a lot about shorthand lately. About how we take approximately five seconds to sum up someone or something. How we do this over and over and over every day. How this leads to our own little individual worlds where everything fits into 12 to 15 boxes. How we then deal with those people or things in one of 12 to 15 ways—whichever way we deal with the rest of that type of thing. Because it’s easier for us to handle our lives by doing that. Because we’re overloaded with inputs.
Simultaneously, however, we feel negated by other people. We feel less than. And that makes us frustrated and angry and hurt. It makes us feel like we’re not an individual. It makes us feel like everyone we meet is putting us into one of 12 to 15 boxes and dealing with us as a thing, as opposed to a person made of thousands of specifics and millions of nuances.
Maybe we should all get this printed on small handouts the size of business cards to remind other people (and ourselves) that we’re individuals and not one of a dozen or so types.
Or maybe we print them on airplane-sized bottles of vodka. That way, we could hand them to whoever was using shorthand to deal with us and tell them to stop being a dismissive dick and chill the fuck out.
There have been a few sightings of my brother (far left in this picture) since he went missing. We’re still trying to gauge the legitimacy of them but we’ve put together a map of them so far. Again, if you know of anyone in south England, especially Hants/Hampshire, please do let them know to keep an eye out for him. Thanks.
After several days, my friend Ryan’s brother is still missing. Please keep his image circulating by reblogging or otherwise sharing with friends, especially if you have friends in the Hants/Hampshire area of south England - but even if you don’t. Your friends have friends, who have friends, and so on. You never know who might see your post and put two and two together. Thanks.
It’s 5:30. We’re three hours into a cross-country conference call. We are less than halfway through the deck. A very kind person just brought me a beer. It didn’t keep me from quietly noting my frustration.
Perhaps the genius of ultrarunning is its supreme lack of utility. It makes no sense in a world of spaceships and supercomputers to run vast distances on foot. There is no money in it and no fame, frequently not even the approval of peers.
But as poets, apostles and philosophers have insisted from the dawn of time, there is more to life than logic and common sense. The ultrarunners know this instinctively.
And they know something else that is lost on the sedentary. They understand–perhaps better than anyone–that the doors to the spirit will swing open with physical effort. In running such long and taxing distances, they answer a call from the deepest realms of their being–a call that asks who they are.