Have rain, will muse

Most people don't get up at 8:00 in the morning on a Sunday--at least, not if they can help it.  Especially teenagers.  Go on Facebook before noon and odds are it'll be deserted, nobody foolish enough to log on that early to chat. 

Most people also don't get up at 8:00 in the morning on Sunday in the pouring rain to run.  Especially teenagers. 

Which only goes to show the exhaustively-proven point that I'm not most people.  Or most teenagers. 

Yes, I admit it, I did get up at 8:13 (had to hit "Snooze" on the alarm clock twice), pull on a long-sleeved synthetic shirt and shorts, and slip out the door for a drizzling run.  Nothing much, just a short warm-up jog followed by maybe ten hill repeats and another short jog back home.  It was cold; the wind would pick up every minute or so and blast my drenched body, making me wonder if an air-breathing shirt was really a good idea that morning.  Water beaded down my face and streamed down my neck, occassionally forcing me to blink and shake my head.  I swear a quart of water would fly out of my hair every time I did this.  But I noticed more than anything the serenity of the moment: the empty streets (only three cars on a normally busy nearby thoroughfare), the light harmony of the raindrops, the comforting shades of gray (always wondered, is it "gray" or "grey"?) in the sky...  I loved it, soaking-wet and all. 

Ironically, I hate running in the cold.  My friends taunt me when it's seventy degrees, asking my opinion on the "really great weather" we're having at practice.  They roll their eyes when I stand my ground and firmly declare my preference for warmer temperatures, ninety degrees with a slight breeze if possible, thank you very much.  They laugh when I run stiff-legged, bemoaning the infernally cold (70-degree) chill that stiffens my muscles and prevents my legs from fully extending. 

But last week I had my revenge. 

It was Friday, the last period at school.  Northern California was throughly socked in with thunderheads, with snow as low as several hundred feet above sea-level (I used to live in the foothills, and friends who still live up there are celebrating snow-days from school, lucky them).  I faced the approaching dismissal with growing apprehension, for then I'd be out in the cold for about an hour, running in the rain and hopefully retaining the biological capability to have children.  As the classrooms emptied and people streamed to their lockers, I changed in the bathroom and walked outside.  As I went to put my stuff away, I passed a fellow cross-country team runner (the season had ended a few weeks ago, but I knew he was still training for the upcoming track season in spring).  He took one look at my attire--laced New Balances, synthetic long-sleeved shirt I'd bought at at the high school Cross-Country State Finals in Fresno, and Cal-logo athletic shorts--and whistled softly.  "You going out today?" he asked.  I nodded and asked if he was.  "Hell no, man!  It's too cold!" he replied.  Shaking his head in wonderment, he left waving goodbye.  Despite the cold, I laughed; here I was, the guy who hated running in the cold, being told by this other guy, our team leader no less, who'd run in far worse conditions than this paltry rain, had just told me it was too cold.  Grinnig and shaking my own head, I turned and left for the trail. 

Why do I bring any of this up?  Oddly enough, poetry.  And before those of you who read the last post flinch and groan in despair, hear me out.  Personally, I think the weather is to blame.  I haven't written a word of creative writing since, what, last summer?  And now--BAM--twice in one month.  Anyway, I was standing in the rain yesterday, having helped my mother put up holdiay lights (isicles and sasssenach--does anyone know how to spell that?), and my mind went into spiritual hyperdrive.  There's something about the peace and solitude of a good rain, it just has a calming aura, a soothing essence.  I can't really describe it, though not for lack of trying, as evidenced in "There's Something About Rain", below:

There's Somthing About Rain

There's something about rain:

The soft pitter of leaves,

The constant patter on concrete,

The concentric impacts in the puddles...

Heaven's floodgates readily lend

Themselves to quiet

Contemplation. 

It's not much, but hey, I just ran at 8:00 in the morning on Sunday in the pouring rain. 

Depressed mental wanderings

Poetry has always been my downfall; I can never write what I feel to be "good" poetry without feeling soiled, as though I'm shoving meaning artificially into each stanza.  My English teachers tell me I'm crazy, so maybe I was doing it right to start out with, but eventually I wrote a poem I finally felt good about.  It was for my mother's birthday, and I just through inhibitions to the winds and tried not so much to write as to flow, letting the words pass naturally from brain to hand to pencil to paper and, eventually, to Microsoft Office 2003 Word.  I was so proud of myself; it'd felt good, I hadn't so much as capitalized a single motif or emphasized a single theme, and I felt refreshed.  Finally, I'd written poetry.  Or so I thought. 

When my mother finally read it, she sat me down and said, "It's a beautifully written poem..."  I was prepared to offer my ever-modest denials, prepared to mutter how it wasn't anything at all and I hoped she'd had a really enjoyable birthday, when she dropped the bombshell: "But what does it mean?" 

I can't remember giving her a coherent answer.  I was stunned, speechless, incredulous.  Mean?  It had to mean something?  My writing philosophy, already messed up before, was thrown into even greater turmoil.  I couldn't believe it.  Here I had fought to write a completely natural-feeling poem without strenuously laboring to forcibly inject meaning into a poem, and I was asked, "But what does it mean?" 

A year later, I'm still recovering, much to the detriment of my AP English classwork.  Back in elementary and middle school, I'd had it all figured out.  But, just as many high schoolers seemed to find their written voice, I'd lost mine.  I'm still reevaluating how I analyze literature and poetry, and still haven't figured out how to write them to my satisfaction (teachers still tell me I write well, which is something). 

Anyway, this all comes up because I wrote a poem tonight.  I'm not sure why, I have tons of homework I could--make that should--be doing.  Maybe it was hormones.  Maybe it was the depressing yet inspiring tones of Rob Dougan pumping out of my computer speakers.  I don't know, but I feel it encompasses, well, how I feel.  About life.  About how it happens.  About how it happens to me. 

Call me depressed, disturbed, whatever.  I've found I'm always attracted to darker, more melodic tunes, especially movie and video game soundtracks by the like of Hans Zimmer, James Newton Howard, and Clint Mansell.  And as I've progressed through teenage puberty, depression (or hormones or whatever it is) is increasingly becoming a major part of my life.  That sounds ominous, and it shouldn't; I just mean that, more and more, I'm stopping before I fall asleep to contemplate how little I've done, how little I can do, and the chances of being able to achieve even that.  Being a novice at relationships probably doesn't help, and I've been forced at times to suppress this "depression" in favor of buckling down to schoolwork, which I'm sure makes me more irritable.  Anyway, enough psychoanalyzing; here's "Alone" (I couldn't come up with a better title):

Alone


Yell down the hall

And 'cross the glade,

Yet the anguish within

Refuses to fade.

‘Tis my lot to cry,

My lot to die

In the pouring rain, alone.

What humanity is this, that

Holds the scissors, though

The line is young and ripe?

Through man’s eyes the child saw

And could not comprehend,

His whimpers lost in the wind.

 - ManEatingBadger -