The backs of my legs, sticking to the pleather . . .
I awoke this morning . . . though I suppose "awoke" is much too strident of a term, perhaps "inverse collapsed" would have more aptly described it . . . with the lights in my apartment still on, my skin slightly redolent of insect repellent and various parts of my body itching and welted from what turned out to be a losing all-night duel with an especially peckish mosquito. Alas there was no chance to sleep in. We had to get ourselves on a Queens-bound 7 Train. Millets Point/Shea Stadium. Yes, we’ve seen this movie before. To wit:
I’ve learned not to underestiminate the vector value of a little bit of desperation; it’s gotten me up earlier than I need be on so many Saturday mornings like this. And today, it propelled me clear across Queens to Shea Stadium, around the Unisphere, and all-the-way to Homeplate at a pace of 6:10 per mile. It’s been like this for awhile, as you know, and it’s alot of desperation, anger, sorrow, and love to effectively revive, engage, and dispose of before most people have even gotten up in the morning. If I’ve been able to do that, then I know I can do this November and if I can do this November, I have no doubt that I can do anything and I won’t need the Board of Law Examiners to tell me otherwise.
-"Correr es mi destino", 7/30/2005
I’m not in the habit of self-referencing my own posts, but this one, perhaps more than any other I’ve written here in Rogue’s Town, bears revisiting. Last year’s Run to Home Plate marked the beginning of a new stage in my life-much as I deplore the division of life into "stages"-I had tentatively titled the "Time of Legends". All that stood in the way between me and a three forty-five finish in the Marathon was my own vaunted sense of self-sabotage. At which point, I would expect my no less-vaunted and ever-vectorial sense of desperation to kick in and carry me along to that still nebulous and ever-elusive place called "my goals in life".
We haven’t gotten there yet, suffice it to say. But we’re making good time.
Those of you keeping score ’round these parts know what followed from this post. My mother’s diagnosis. Her "last months". Her subsequent seeming recovery. My protracted job search. Her panic attacks. My Marathon. My 3:28 finish time. The wall I hit somewhere crossing the Queensboro. Her panic attacks. My failing the bar on the first try. The fact that, in spite of everything, she said the right things. "You can do it, you just need to hustle". Her son, however, does not hustle, he runs. For long distances at that. Oftentimes not very elegantly, but he finishes what he starts. Sometimes faster than he thinks. Sometimes unawares as to why or how. Sometimes In under three and a half hours. When he was supposed to finish in 3:45. The vector value of a little desperation. And the three months that followed. Bar exam, winter edition and all the psychosis it entailed. A passing performance (to be revealed at another time), and a good ten-pound weight gain for good measure. It matters if you run. Really, it does.
And then another diagnosis. And an emergency hospitalization. And my Dad unable to tell me on the phone through his own tears. And forms that needed to be signed. Wills. Partnership agreements. Corporations. A matter of months. "I want to die" she said repeatedly one night. Jeff said I would do the right thing at the right time. He said he would check in with me on Monday. He was hit by an intoxicated Corvette driver later that night. He is on Roosevelt Island now, where he will stay until he can leave.
Life provides no textbook on precisely how and when to love, nor are their internships or work-study programs to teach the tools of the craft. One need only ride that endless vector of desperation to find out. Some, it turns out, need to stay on board longer than others do. It doesn’t speak to any personal shortcoming on their part. Just a matter of perspective and will, each of which come at a very steep price. And, quite frankly, it really doesn’t matter at the end of the day if you passed the bar exam in three jurisdictions.
I know it. Because I did.
Though, frankly, it does matter in New York that you score an 85 on the MPRE. And we still have that prove. However, unsinister the Professional Responsiblity wing of the National Conference of Bar exams may seem at first blush. Iowans, they all are. Loose Meat and Magic Mountains, you betcha. I’d be lying if I said I knew what to do now, that I felt completely within my depth. But I do know that I’ve become old hat at revival, engagement, and disposition. Even on just a few hours of sleep, with the lights still on and my skin still itchy.
I finished that race today in 6:34. Around Shea Stadium, the Unisphere, and back to Homeplate. I’ve still got a little while to go. But I’ve earned me a spot in the 2007 NYC Marathon. This is indeed the Time of Legends and I’m still here. We’re still here. Yes, you and I. And I’m happy to have the company, though quite frankly I’d appreciate if you’d pick up the pace. I’m still riding that vector, and I’m learning it doesn’t slow down for anybody.
