I've been racing myself down to the bottom of a highball glass for the better part of the new year, and seem to be holding my own; first place finishes become tame after you've broken the tape a few times over, and my record remains pretty strongly in the green. Every so often, I get out the door, to see a familiar face at another race, to eat bad Mexican food, and go for a run, just to feel a hurried, deep burning in the chest. Around a mile in, it feels like a shot of Wild Turkey followed up with a sharp slap from a wordy broad that can't take a compliment.
In the Mission the other night, I stepped out from a horrible taqueria, finding my equilibrium hidden behind a swallow of vomit, and lazily stared out at the drunk hipsters littering the sidewalk. Just a few blocks over, near five years ago, you waved me away, your form bent over into the entry of Andalu. My urge to care for your drunkenly ill state fought the knowledge in my head that you wanted your dignity more than my hand holding back your hair. So I turned, and took a few steps towards the streets, and did the right thing.
Years of, poignant, although sporadic, interaction has led to a number of warm and fuzzy shared moments, but probably none as crudely banal as that night. Don't get me wrong, that night, is one of the most memorable of our interactions, despite the blood alcohol level of the both of us - and that's what silhouettes it among my history with you.
Transfixed gazes of longing and heavy words pounding behind walls of respect and morality - that's us most of the time. In the end, these words held that night, and I said goodnight, leaving you with your sweet, vomit laced breath, your undershirt still clinging to your chest, my hands struggling to stay at your back.
That's the battle, the fight. It's easy to indulge, to follow desire down a well of booze, sex, and full abandon. You'll hit bottom, breaking the taut surface of pleasure and pain, and relish in the floating epidural of euphoria, and for a bit, you'll be content.
Eventually, you'll begin to drown. Emotions and self-worth will fill your lungs, and your mind will strain against panic as it searched for meaning in the darkness. You're blind, and you've brought yourself here, to the bottom of this pit.
I'm a sprinter - I've no spirit or stamina for the long haul. That's why you and I have lasted as long as we have; our temporary lapses, the bending without breaking, it's held us together and kept us apart. We're smarter than we lead on, and stupid as shit.
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Jeff Buckley - Lover, You Should've Come Over
Ending Note: I used to swim the 50m Free and Breast.
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