I have a million things I should be doing: exercise, work, laundry, apartment hunting, online dating profile perusing. Instead I’ve been sitting on my couch for the past two hours doing a number of other things, including but not limited to: searching my guide to see if The Hurt Locker is playing on any channels I get any time soon, catching up on blog/article reading, reading recaps to remind myself how True Blood ended last year, and becoming distracted for the 14th time in the past twelve hours by a Google search for “Jeremy Renner arms.” (Find me another man out there right now who looks sexier holding a gun or a bow, and I will buy you a drink. Seriously.)
So, for no reason other than I started to write and I can’t stop now, a few random thoughts on a cloudy Saturday.
I’ve had dreams that I can’t shake two nights in a row. I don’t usually remember my dreams – not vividly at least. I’ll remember fragments – I was in this place, or with this person, or something sort of happened. Two nights ago, I had a crazy dream right before my alarm was set to go off. I’m talking Inception level insanity here – there was an alligator chasing me, I was in Greece, I encountered a gaggle of about seven bridal parties, and I have no idea how any of it fit together. When my alarm went off, I hit snooze and promptly re-entered the dream. And then again. And when I finally realized, shit, if I don’t get up now, I’m missing my train, and dragged myself out of bed, the dream was still there, as vividly as it had been in my subconscious.
Last night’s dream wasn’t as vivid or bizarre, but had one similarity to the epic one from the night before – the same person appearing in both. I don’t want to dream about this person. My mind is a much happier place when he’s not in there. And yet there’s a part of me that wants another dream tonight, because while it’s infuriating and frustrating, it’s a little better than the reality.
I love really well-written articles about sports. This morning, I read two particularly good ones:
An ode to hockey’s details: “To love hockey deep and long, as a spectator, you have to care more about processes than results. You have to be in it for the details, the geometric dominance of a well-constructed power play unit, the crackling sychronicity of a clicking forward line. The gymnastic artistry of a goalie building a shut-out, the desperate forward lunges of a trailing team. This 0-0 game is the result of a thousand tiny miracles, excellent plays executed smooth as glass and fast as mercury, but the scoreboard is a victim of the teams’ success. It is scoreless exactly because it’s been played so well, which is often the way with hockey. Badly played games are full of goals; perfectly played games are bereft of them.”
I don’t always like Bill Simmons, but I will give him this much: he is the rare sportswriter who also gets what it means to be a fan. Too often, sportswriters become so detached, so impartial, that they forget that the best thing about sports is its impartiality. He loses me, as he usually does, when he veers into NBA territory, but the first half of the article in which he describes his daughter falling in love with the LA Kings and the game of hockey is brilliance. And the descriptions, whether for hockey or basketball, of why we put up with this crazy, infuriating, rarely joyful and often depressing thing called sports are spot on: “It’s not about watching your team win the Cup as much as that moment when you wake up thinking, In 12 hours, I might watch my team win the Cup. It’s about sitting in the same chair for Game 5 because that chair worked for you in Game 3 and Game 4, and somehow, this has to mean something. It’s about using a urinal between periods, realizing that you’re peeing on a Devils card, then eventually realizing that some evil genius placed Devils cards in every single urinal. It’s about leaning out of a window to yell at people wearing the same jersey as you, and it’s about noticing an airport security guy staring at your Celtics jersey and knowing he’ll say, “You think they win tonight?” before he does. It’s about being an NBA fan but avoiding this year’s Western Conference finals because you still can’t believe they ripped your team away, and it’s about crying after that same series because you can’t believe your little unassuming city might win the title. It’s about posing for pictures before a Stanley Cup clincher, then regretting after the fact that you did. It’s about two strangers watching you cry at a stoplight. It’s black and white, but it’s not.”
I’m going to learn archery, and I have a variety of reasons why. We saw The Avengers last night (hence the Jeremy Renner Googling), and this is just one movie out of many in which archery plays a prominent role this year. It all started, of course, with Katniss Everdeen, and the Monday after The Hunger Games was released, I bought a voucher for archery lessons. Katniss is incredibly badass, I thought, and this looks cool. I want to try it. Next month we’re going to trek out to Queens to attempt to channel our inner Katniss. I’m really excited to do this… and at the same time, a little bit sad, because my ex loved archery. He loved all kinds of hunting stuff that I just didn’t understand, and maybe he tried to get me to learn to use a bow and arrow, or maybe he didn’t. I don’t think either of us ever really tried that hard. I know I dismissed hunting as a weird, boring thing that he did that I just put up with. There may be a part of me right now that is thinking, “Ok, fuck you. I’m still angry. So you know where I’m going to hit you the hardest? I’m going to learn archery. Because maybe you’ll see a photo on Facebook, or maybe you’ve discovered this blog, and you’re going to think, why could I never get her to do that?” It’s the little things that I hold on to. When you’re not fully over someone or what they did, then you try to have tiny victories that are only significant to yourself. Back before I blocked him on all social media, I saw him post a picture from New York, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. This is my city, I thought. You shouldn’t be here. I want him to have that feeling.
And if that doesn’t make me feel better, I can always use his face for target practice.