There was this man standing on the street, swaying. He wasn’t in the middle of the street, and it wasn’t a busy street, although it was right off of one of the busiest streets in Portland, and it was about seven on a Sunday morning with very little traffic, so he was relatively out of harm’s way. He just stood there, awake, softly swinging back and forth, with something in his hand which at first I assumed to be a beer can, but as I got closer I realized it wasn’t. I actually don’t remember if I forgot what it was or if I never really knew. But he was holding something, and if I had to guess even though I can’t recall with any vividness what the hell it was except for that it was skinny, I would guess it might have something to do with drugs.
I didn’t stop to ask him what was going on even though I’m pretty just he gave me a weird look. Granted I’m pretty sure before I walked by he had been giving the side of the Dominoes a weird look for a good while as well, so I don’t necessarily think he had anything against me. I don’t particularly like strangers, especially ones who don’t look homeless but rather like their home has been good to them. Oh, also I try to stay away from people swaying in the street at seven in the morning on a cold, wet day. But most importantly I was listening to a The Rocket Summer song that had me in a good mood and I didn’t want to pause it. So I went on my way.
This story isn’t about that man though. In fact this story isn’t about anything other than keeping my fingers moving and my mind off topics I’d rather not think about (originally the idea was to have this be completely about that weird guy, but nothing interesting happened). I got to my old high school track, which is about a six minute walk from my house. I want to run on the weekends (ah, finally getting healthy, thank Christ) nope, I just really want to look physically appealing for once in my life – I’m thinking about writing an entire post about my appearance and the possible ways I’ve developed such low self esteem, when in reality I don’t look that bad, I just don’t look anywhere near good.
I had run the day before and it went terribly. I didn’t even get to a mile before I stopped. I did a couple sprints, as I enjoy to do because they get me tired faster, and then I came extremely close to puking. All in all it was a good time, better than today in fact. Today (Sunday) there were these two guys practicing, oh crap, not shot put, but the one that uses the discus (discus) ah yes, discus. And then also this old guy got there about the same time as me and ran about 2/5s of the way behind me, which I hate. I really hate being around people when I do anything, which really sucks considering this planet happens to be full of people. There were three people other than me there and I felt uncomfortable. Not as much as I would have in the past, but still it wasn’t ideal. I had much preferred to have ran in the nude alone – that’s a joke of course, I couldn’t run in the nude for many reasons, one of which is the awkward flapping, or lack thereof flapping…it takes a certain number of inches for actual flapping to occur.
So I did a mile, then I felt like crap and stopped and stretched and ran a couple sprints without feeling like puking and then I walked home and on my way home that swaying fellow was still there. I don’t know why I was shocked, in fact I wasn’t shocked, so I don’t know why I said ‘I don’t know why I was shocked.’ I imagine he had no place better to be. I like to think that’s what he was thinking, “Oh boy, I’ve been swaying here for a long time, and it’s getting mighty cold, but I’ve got no other place to be.”
For some reason it made me think of a blogger whose blogs I used to read. I’d still read her blog if she ever posted any new blogs. It’s been almost four months, not that I’m keeping track…except on my calendar, and palm pilot, and I have a guy at a prison carve a mark in the wall of his cell with the edge of a plastic spoon every day she still hasn’t posted another blog piece. Actually I wouldn’t have any idea how long it’s been, and I’d probably guess way longer than four months, except that the thing I use to follow people’s blogs says how long ago the posts were.
I don’t want to end on that note, because it seems an odd place to end. So instead I’ll go pee, come back and think of a nicer sentence to end with. Or I’ll come up with nothing and this shall be the lackluster finish. By the way, I have no intention of really coming back with anything better. From the start of this paragraph the idea was to end with me claiming I might come back with something after I pee, but I won’t, unless this is it (it isn’t).