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January 28, 2001
Careless


Black jeans
I would've posted these on the 9th, had they been Levi's. They're still 30x32, of course. wink

They'd been cooling their heels (literally in this case), post-purchase, pre-sharpening, for the past three weeks, so we finally drove out to the ice arena Tuesday night to pick up our new skates, and while there we decided to take advantage of the kids-free hour to break them in.

Owning hockey skates means I'll never trip because of those damn figure-skating tips again. Since I can't execute any fancy jump moves, that's been the tips' sole function in the past, bringing me down. I'd be cruising, and I'd point a foot downward at too great an angle as part of my ill-trained forward step, and it'd be as if someone had cut me off with a ski pole. Feet come to a full stop, body maintains speed, the crack of spine is heard all around the ski rink, and curses echo in the house for the following six weeks.

No more of that. Tuesday night I didn't fall once.

Which, of course, isn't entirely a good thing. Not all falls in ice skating are associated with bumbling the forward motion of a boot tip, and some of the hardest wipeouts that night were demonstrated by excellent skaters. They would take risks and try to improve their form, whereas I would safely plod along at half their speed.

It would be a cop-out to say all the falls of the past have permanently scared me into being timid. I think what I'm afraid of most is the appearance of carelessness, as if that would be hopelessly unhip... or some crap like that.

I've been thinking about this in the context of writing for the past few days. There was a time when I could transfer the zing inside my head onto paper more easily, I could really fly with things on deadline, and put out stuff that could really push buttons, move people into stopping me on the street in that incestuous, "two degrees of separation" college town. Sometimes they'd get so pissed they would call me at home.

I don't want raving lunatics to phone me, no, but I do want those impatient chopper rotor blades back in my brain, not letting me rest until my fingers are numb from typing and my head is tired from thinking.

It's simple, really. You put one foot forward, then the other, and repeat, faster and faster. And when you trip you just get up and move on.

"And kilometers to go before I sleep, And kilometers to go before I sleep." Or something like that, eh?

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