I felt so completely knackered – both emotionally and physically, and I just couldn’t stop the tears from coming.
And honestly, when you’re at that point, why even bother trying to keep them in?
You always feel a heck of a lot better after a good cry. (Or at least I do.)
I have this really bad habit of wanting to do so many things, and do them all perfectly, that I drive myself to exhaustion. And instead of working on keeping this in check, I blithely bop along, operating at warp speed, until I find myself weeping over my chesterfield (or my ottoman.)
Mr. M was pretty darn concerned and suggested we go for a walk around our neighbourhood as a means of getting out of our heads, of letting go of the day.
I was more than happy at the thought of scampering about in the late afternoon sunshine.
Especially because we live in an absolutely stunning area of New West.
Ch-ch-check it:
Garden gate.
Lamp post.
Ducks.
Legs.
Cat.
Tree.
Duck, redux.
And wouldn’t you know, the tears stopped.
Seriously, there is nothing better than the sun and a spring breeze to help you see the forest for the trees.
(The Importance of Being Earnest available on Netflix may have also had something to do with this. And NYT crossword books. And Japanese candy that the beautiful Alissa gifted me from her recent rip to Tokyo.)
How do unwind after a particularly trying day?
Let’s go for a walk and you can tell me all about it.
Last night I watched Werner Herzog’s documentary Into the Abyss.
It is an amazing film, though disturbing. In fact, I went to bed feeling very strange.
Mr. Herzog’s films often leave me feeling profoundly unsettled – their subject matter, his style of direction, his narration, his score – all of these elements combine to create a film that rattles something very deep inside of me.
It’s like something has been jarred loose, and I cannot put it back in place.
And I’m nervous – because I’m not even sure from whence this piece of me came.
If you have ever seen any of his films, you will be familiar with one of his trademark styles – how he purposefully lets his shots linger, long past the point of comfort.
Instead of cutting away, the camera will remain focused on the person, or the scene, and as a viewer, it makes me squirm; I find myself willing for him to move on.
Indeed, the longer he stays with the shot, a feeling of perverse voyeurism begins, and takes root inside of me.
I feel as though I have no right to see these moments, these snapshots of humanity – raw, stripped, debased, terrifying, beautiful, maddening, heart breaking – scenes that in any other film might end up on the cutting room floor.
But it is also these moments that – no matter what my stage of discomfort – envelope me is a perverse majesty, luring me into the film.
In fact, they transform me – from disconnected bystander, to active participant.
No longer a passive observer, disconnected from the film, its subject, and its characters, I am forced to reconcile how my judgments, my reactions, my questions fit into the movie’s narrative.
Where do I fit in this conversation?
Into the Abyss focuses on two inmates: one is on death-row awaiting execution in a Texas penitentiary; the other is serving a life sentence. One crime; two sentences.
The film explores, in a very subtle and yet incredibly powerful way, the question why people, and the state, kill.
Why do people die? Why do people live?
Who decides who dies and who lives? And why?
The film is structured is such a way that we absorb not just the heinous, senseless crime that these two men have committed (for which neither shows any remorse, nor do either of them admit guilt) but also the broader (and yet incredibly insular) world that contributed to the crimes.
A so-called “civilized” society that is unable to tame a chaotic nature driven to seed – one that is reflected in an endless cycle of broken homes, abuse, unemployment, casual street violence – a warped world where two eighteen year old boys would kill three people for a red camero.
Where two young men are convicted of the same crime, but only one is sentenced to death.
Both have killed, but only one is killed.
Although the question is never expressly asked in the film – indeed Herzog never reveals his overall thesis statement – you cannot stop asking yourself, why?
Again and again this question: why do some live, and others die?
Indeed, I find this query arresting.
And it keeps coming back, over, and over again – presented in different incarnations, addressed to different situations, but always the same: no matter what the reasoning behind it – blind rage, capital punishment, war, pre-meditation, revenge – how do you kill someone?
Why do you kill someone?
This system, the institutions we have devised to support life – call it the state, call it society, call it government, call it the law, call it civilization – these are not infallible, impartial machines.
They, like human beings, are susceptible to bias.
Sometimes they are as equally chaotic as the world they are meant to discipline and punish.
They are flawed.
And like human beings, they kill.
And by the end of the film, after conversations with lawmen, a priest, the convicted killers, bereaved family members, and a former prison guard, we can look at this unthinkable crime – these three murders, and their inherent meaningless – and at the bottom of it all, we do not see redemption.
We do not see hope or forgiveness, renewal or compassion, regret or acceptance.
We see only time and emptiness.
Chaos.
There is life.
And there is death.
Two powerful forces – forces that exist with or without us.
Breakfast for dinner is one of my favourite things in the entire world. Especially after a day of racing about like a racing thing.
And today was darn busy.
Beautiful, but busy.
So the only thing I wanted to do when I got home was make French toast, with homemade strawberry coulis, and good lemon yogurt.
Because folks, that combination tastes like a dream.
A dream.
Let’s get started.
Excitement! First time making coulis too.
Monster strawberry.
Mutant berry.
Chop it.
Sugar and lemons.
Squeeze it.
Making it sweet and sour.
Boil it.
Bubble bubble, toil and trouble.
Blend it.
Sir mix a lot.
Break it.
Vanilla eggs.
Cut it.
Who cut the bread.
Dip it.
Dip and bread. I mean, dip the bread.
Ack! I forgot to take a snap of the Fry it. phase.
Ah well, you will have to picture those slices sizzling away in the pan.
For a final result of:
All the noms are belong to us.
As I ate this, I drank a tall glass of chocolate soy milk, which for some reason has grown on me like a bad rash. I used to hate the stuff, and now I cannot get enough of it.
It really is So Good. (Trade mark.)
So there you have it friends.
What’s your favourite thing to eat, when it comes to breakfast as dinner?
So not this past weekend, but the weekend before, forty-nine robbers came knocking at my door.
Um.
No.
That didn’t happen. (But does anyone else remember that rhyme? I did some mean double-dutch to that bad boy all throughout my grade two year – you know, when I wasn’t chowing down on eggos and drinking Labatt Blue that is.)
I asked them what they wanted, and this is what they said – Spanish lady go like this! Spanish lady do the twist! Spanish lady touch the ground! Spanish lady turn around! Spanish lady jump once more! Spanish lady out the door! [at this point you had to run out of the rope circle. This was always the hardest part of double-dutch. It’s crazy difficult to run in or out of the circle with two ropes going! Also, why Spanish lady? I HAVE NO CLUE.]
But I digress.
Two weekends ago, I over did it a little bit with the training. M and I ran a long run, filled with hills and sprints, before ending up at the circuit track at Queen’s park. The monkey bars were slick with rain, and as I worked my was across I slipped halfway and twinged something in my right bicep.
Of course, because I cannot ever leave well enough alone, the next day I ran a seven kilometer “recovery” run.
By the endI was completely and utterly knackered.
This is my “I am exhausted face”. Separate incidents though.
Things hurt. Things that don’t normally ever hurt, HURT A LOT.
I was done.
So for the next five days I didn’t do anything – no running, training, weight lifting, or core work.
I even went for a 30 minute massage on Monday after work.
And it was pretty awesome. I got to come home, cook food, write, read, watch Damages (if you are not watching this show YOU MUST SERIOUSLY START NOW), and hang out with Ms. Nymeria and Mr. M.
Date night. Yowza!
In all honesty, it was actually a little shocking how much extra time I had in the evenings, not lugging myself to the gym two or three nights after work – especially on the days when I would usually be rushing to the gym, rushing back home, rushing into the shower, and then rushing out the door for my volunteer commitments.
I’m certainly not going to give up my regular scheduled program (because at the root of it, I really like it) – but it’s good to know that when push comes to shove, and my body is telling me to rest up, I can, and I will.
And I did.
After five days however, I was revved up, ready to run.
This past Saturday I was practically giddy as I got ready to get out of the door and out into the sunshine.
And let me tell you, that week of rest did my body a world of good.
I had an absolutely stellar run, and I killed it on the circuit.
The loop at Queen’s park is about 2.5 km, and very hilly. I ran it three times. In between each lap I would head to the circuit where I would do one set of monkey bars (I felt like I really was a monkey – I made it across each time no problem. I could not believe it!), twenty push-ups, and ten box jumps.
At the end of my run, I did three sets of sprints – 1 minute as fast as I could.
And as I made my way home, I felt as though I was flying.
Over the last few hundred meters back to my house, a couple of tears leaked out of the far corner of my left eye.
Not from exhaustion, but from exhilaration.
I was on fire.
(Maybe that’s why I was crying – to put out the flames.)
I do, however, have some pretty brutal blisters on my hands from those accursed monkey bars. Check it:
Oucherama.
Urg.
Just in case you needed a second look.
But even sore hands couldn’t keep me still for long.
The next day, Sunday, I set out once more, and my legs propelled me through another absolutely smashing run. The sun’s rays burned bright, but not too hot – the green of the park’s trees, so lush and ethereal, while the sky burned a white opal, sapphire blue.
It’s moments like that were I truly believe that my body is capable of anything.
As long as I listen to it, it will tell me when it’s ready.
And goodness knows, beware to anyone standing in our way.
…
Post script – I just received one of the most hilarious and completely incoherent spam comments of all time. It reads: Good afternoon fellow , probably fire a torpedo from grace is increasingly cumbersome due to the restricted set of telephone operators.
“Firing a torpedo from grace” is now what I’m calling my tough mudder training. Boo yeah.
I hope your Saturday and Sunday were lemon scented, and awash in sunshine.
Here are a few snaps from the boogie-fest that has been underway in our neck of the woods:
Dinner.
Spinach salad with fresh chèvre, blackberries, red onion, satsuma, and chopped walnuts. Vinaigrette.
Hail storm.
Hail the size of pennies. Thunder and lightening just off of our porch.
Cat.
Staring contest + pine mustache.
Super moon.
Normally in our household, “super moon” means something else.
Dog friends.
Rosie and Frank.
Adventure:
Stepping into the unknown. Or my courtyard. (One and the same.)
Cat, redux.
Dragon cat.
Weekends just seem to fly by! But seeing as though I seemed to have blinked somewhere in mid-February and here we are the start of May, this doesn’t seem to be an isolated phenomenon.
The next month is going to be absolute madness in terms of work and other commitments, but as soon as we get into the meat of June, Mr. M and I can look forward to some adventuring of our own.
We have some pretty nifty ideas for both July and August – it’s just a matter of finding the time to sit down and plan things out.
I am so, so excited.
What did you all get up to this weekend? Any travel plans on the table?
Rant and Roll 