Fear Callibration

Of all the things that I do during the day, the one that scares me the most is putting up a new roll of paper seamless. The ladders are rickety and the floor is never flat, and I know that the drive system we use is not rated for the weight we're putting on it. Somehow, we've still failed to find a drive system that takes the weight we're putting on it. It seems strange that seamelss would come in rolls so big that no commercially available mounts can handle them.

It only takes one movement out of balance for the roll to tip out of line, for the ladder to lean too far to one side and throw both of us to the ground with the core on top of us. Somehow, it never happens. I spent yesterday morning passing ropes and links and cords and webbing around knots that have been proven to hold, between trees rooted deep into the rock, and was willing to put myself and my friends on the line, but lifting fifty pounds of paper wrapped around a tube onto a metal bracket once a month gives me a cold sweat every time.

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07 April 2014 20:11

Equinox Waxing

The longer the days grow, the harder it is to talk about doing things when instead I am just doing things.

I am waging a constant battle between healing my fingerskin and shredding it again, and slowly, with each pass of the rope over my palms, more blood and sweat builds into the fibers and it becomes mine. I am playing an endless game of chicken to see if I can pedal harder than my nerves can handle, because I know my nerves will fail before my brakes. Every time my shoes lose their traction in the mud, I experience an infinite span of time in the moment it takes for my ankles to respond and recover my balance. Each sunset that rolls away from me, I breathe in the sky and know I am alive.

The mornings when I don't wake up sore from head to toe, I know I slacked off the day before. I can't stand to sleep or wait or rest because there never seems to be enough time in the day to pummel my way through everything I want to do. I don't feel like there's anything I need to do, and that's a luxury I know I should never take for granted.

I can't wait for the next day, but I'm never in a rush to get there.

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06 April 2014 18:25

Still the Cruellest Month

The tips of my shoes pull in water even when it's not raining, from moisture wicked up from the pavement, from puddles that I cannot resist wading through. I squish when I walk. They are light and will dry out fast, it is okay.

I'm reveling in the fact that I can walk around in a t-shirt and get drenched and not feel cold. It is the moment before the worms have thawed out enough to crawl for the surface, so I can stride across the sidewalk without having to look for them. Millions of green specks are needling out of the ground, and I don't think they know it will be below freezing again soon.

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04 April 2014 13:53

Stubborn

I tie my key into my shoelaces so I don't have to carry it in my pocket; I've lost things through pockets before, especially small, dense objects that sit against a seam until it gives way. I can trust my ability to tie a knot that won't slip. If I couldn't trust my knots, I wouldn't climb on ropes.

Every time the skies open the minute I set foot outside, I laugh; my ego enjoys the feeling that I have been personally singled out by the weather gods and that in spite of everything, I enjoy it.

I press up the hill and my shoes slip on the rocks, and I whisper to myself, this feels meaningless now but it will make you a better person later.

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03 April 2014 14:56

Mud Month

Every day, I pass over the same lines, tracing paths that carve slightly deeper into the hillside. A furrow grows where the grass won't, sketched in when the ground was still frozen, and etched once the dirt turned to mud. Just add water. If I deviate slightly, the wheels wobble and threaten to throw me over the bars, and I don't often dare to breathe on my brakes.

I run through mud that splashes up my calves, knowing that my feet will find purchase somewhere beneath the surface. Rarely are my socks dry.

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02 April 2014 21:59