Wednesday, August 31, 2005
I'm feeling better and not so tired today. I think I need more calories- I crashed and burned yesterday. It wasn't pretty. Unfortunately, Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass section 53 (I think. . .) was the only casualty. Somehow, while reading Plato's Book X of the Republic, however, things were much more clear than ever before. Loonginus' "On the Sublime" wasn't half bad either, the part that I wrangled through anyway. Bizarre, though then again, not really.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
- I've seen two dead pigeons in as many days, just lying there on the sidewalk as if they're sleeping. Not sure why or how.
- We took my dog, Clover, to get groomed on Saturday. She looks great but got an infection in her you-know-where and it's extremely disturbing. She's on antibiotics and has to wear one of those funny collars so she won't lick herself. Poor puppy.
- I haven't had a decent run in weeks and am starting to doubt whether or not I can pull off this marathon. I wonder (this may sound strange. . .) if it has to do with pollution. In a nine mile run, I can only imagine the abount of car exhaust I suck on, especially because I run next to a main throughfare during the early part of rush hour. My brother once told me that running the LA marathon was equivalent to smoking three packs of cigarettes. Consideraing the fact that I've never smoked a cigarette in my life, this is pretty disturbing.
- Eliot threw himself out of the crib onto the floor yesterday. I suppose it was bound to happen, but it's definitely a cause for some major anxiety. He's not hurt or anything and I removed the bumber form the crib (which I surely should have done weeks ago. . .duh) but let's hope it doesn't happen again.
- Eliot has six teeth coming in all at the same time, and he has been kind of a nightmare for a few weeks (can we blame him?). He's going to look really wierd with teeth; I'm actually kind of scare of him having teeth. It seems at that point, he's not really a "baby" anymore. Crazy.
- The once-powerful and spectacular Chicago Women's Poetry Workshop seems to be petering out and losing some steam. I feel bad because I've missed two meetings in a row, but I hope we can regroup and recharge. It would be a bummer to dissolve.
- I saw the same guy twice in the past week in two cpmpletely different places. I know it's the same guy because I had a class with him the first semester I was at UIC. I remember him being a film student or something like that. I saw him in the tunnel at Jackson between the red line and blue line as well as on the LSD bike path this morning, he on his bike, I breathing in polluted air and dying of exhaustion. It's a bit wierd to me.
- I just can't seem to get it together. I always feel tired and like I'm about to self-destruct. I couldn't even say a coherent sentence today when I was teacing about one of my favorite Walt Whitman poems. I feel like I'm losing my mind.
- Our nanny broke our door down a few weeks ago because she accidentally locked Eliot inside and herself out in the hallway (we live in a condo on the 3rd floor). We totally need a new door and lock but just don't even have time to deal with it. Unreal. I can't believe she knocked the door down.
- I'm fitting into a lot of my pre-pregnancy clothes, which will save me some money come fall. Most of then don't fit so well, though, cause my body has changed a lot. A good excuse to shop. . .too bad we're broke.
- I'm constantly tired. I need a vacation and it's only the second week of classes.
- I've done nothing to work on my lists for my exams. I have so much work to do I can barely handle it. I haven't been this stressed out in a really long time. Training for a marathon may not have been the smartest thing I've ever done. . .
Friday, August 26, 2005
dares) that you have given
sound a spine, brought
into stitches of hair,
dust, wool. Clay is red
clay in a river bed awake
and speak. Clouding
lifts my eyelids,
pupils and Saturn
unlike any moon. We carve
ecstasy out of lime
seeds, small yellow
breath-puff, a crystal
city on your breastplate.
as the rain comes. It’s perfection
and collapse, a spitting
wind in a slew
of lightning bolts mistaken
for flashbulbs. Pop. Smoke.
((Another poem from the collaboration.))
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
at least it wasn't. . .
10. vomit. I suppose it's one of the more expected answers, but I'll say it because other's mught not want to insinuate that my poems are bad enough to make someone vomit. . . Also, I've passed back student poems with slight traces of baby vomit on them, but was greatly embarassed and apologized at gret length.
9. pineapple juice. I hate pineapple. I even make a face when something is disguisting to me which my family calls my "pineapple face".
8. Red Ink. That's just obnoxious. :)
7. Snot. Eduardo is right. This is just wrong.
6. Breast milk. Keep it to yourselves, sisters.
5. anthrax. I suppose I should be thankful for an unidentified food smear.
4. spider guts. Though it would make for a more interesting story.
3. blood, urine, feces. The usual suspects.
2. toe jam. Eeew. Maybe that's what it is!?!
1. an apparition. Imagine if the smudge was shaped like the virgin mary? Yikes. But at least then I could sell it on ebay and make some money from it.
Feel free to play along. I know I've forgotten a few goodies. . .
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
To add insult to injury, the Beloit Poetry Journal not only rejected my poems, but sent them back to me caked in some sort of food-type substance. The rejection slip is complete with actual crumbs and an oily finger print- I wish the photo's did the food smear more justice, but you can barely see the juicy goodness. Of course, only the first page has the nasty, stucky film, and I can deduce law-and-order style that the rest of the pages were never even touched.
This is a first for me, I must admit. I like this journal a lot and have been rejected several times, but this is the first one with a gift inside :) Maybe next time, they'll cushion the blow by sending me a whole piece of cake, not just the crumbs. There's definitely a poem in this.
Monday, August 22, 2005
But we're home now and I teach tomorrow morning at 11am, which is just crazy. I'm feeling extremely unprepared and over exhausted. My hubby reminded me that the first day of classes is a blow-off day anyway, so that made me feel a little better, but mostly just like I need one more day to prepare. . .
Thursday, August 18, 2005
inspired by Roy Lichtenstein's "Brushstroke with Spatter," 1966
You blur into drear, stigmatism focus on fake drips,
on fake intermittent light smear, on callous
glamour smear, shaken hand in bountiful sinews.
You give me a filled carcass, a shaken boxcar, a forest guile,
a hidden smile, more guile for the long trip through briar bayou.
Blue briars into you, slick martini eyes. The drag,
the influence of drag, the martini gleam effluvium taking over
squirrel-tooth effluvium. Come in bold, balance, entitled
rails we ride on, entitled something it wears, killer sari button
on the move down. So sorry for your hands.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
List five songs that you are currently digging - it doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. Post these instructions and the five songs (with artist) in your blog. Then tag five people to see what they're listening to.
here's my totally terrible list:
1. "I Can't Make You Love Me" by Bonnie Raitt (it's the song I sing to get Eliot to sleep every night!)
2. "Ghetto Music" by Outkast (cause it makes me run really fast when it comes up on my ipod)
3. "All That We Let In" by the Indigo Girls
4. "Weight of the World" by the Samples
5. "Blackbird" by the Beatles (always one of my faves)
I think maybe only two of those were written in the last ten years. What can I say. . .I don't get out much.
I'm not going to tag people, but if you read this, consider yourself tagged. leave a comment so we know to check out your list.
I had a strange experience yesterday while darting around Chicago, doing various errands, mostly to replace items from the lost/stolen wallet. While I was looking at new wallets, a woman with two teenage sons asked me where a Target is. We started conversing and her son said something about being happy that I was pregnant. I about fell over. "I'm not pregnant!" I said, probably embarassing him more than me at the moment, as he literally ran away and hid among some nearby clothing racks. "I had a baby about a year ago," I explained to the mother, calmly-- I could see the look of horror on her face and wanted to assure her that it was OK. She apologized about ten more times and I said don't worry about it. But, of course, I did. Then on to the DMV, a nightmare on wheels. I had to wait in line to get a number to wait in line to talk to someone to tell me to get in line to pay to get in line to get my license. Unreal. But the lady I actually talked to was really nice and called me "cute". I said thanks- It was better than being mistaken for being pregnant, that's for sure. But we had to "revise" the weight on my license from 110 lbs to 125 lbs because of my pregnancy weight gain. Another blow to the ego. Off to campus I went, feeling cute, pudgy, and pregnant. I saw a professor in the hall who I've been meaning to get in touch with- I'm working on an exam list with her. I said hello and she looked at me like I was a freshman asking for directions. She said, "Remind me of your name. . ." I said "It's me, Mackenzie- we're working on an exam list together. . ." I guess it had been a while since she's actually seen me in person- so much of this stuff happens over email. She remembered me then, but felt it necessary to explain why she didn't recognize me. . ."Oh, you've gained some weight! It's good weight, I mean, but you look so different!" Hmm, there it is. The New Sincerity has claimed another victim.
Apparently I'm a fatass, and people, even complete strangers, aren't afraid to tell me about it. It's been more difficult than I imagined gaining weight with the pregnancy and not being able to lose all of it quickly. A big part of my pre-pregnancy identity had to do with my thinness, my obsession with thinness, hence my bout with an eating disorder in college and some of early grad school. (Most people assure me that I was too thin before, and have gained "good weight," like the professor said, but that's a hard perspective to buy into.) I'm much better now, but it never totally goes away. How does this difference in weight affect me- my image- my images- my writing- my thinking-my parenting? Not only am I having to deal with a new identity as a parent, but also as a physically different person. Along with the 3 inch scar on my abdomen from the c-section, there are 10 pounds that I will just never lose, and it's changed me.
It's a selfish and ridiculous worry, I know. As my husband constantly reminds me, most women would kill to weight 125 lbs shortly after having a baby, being in school, etc. People are starving all over the world and I'm worried cause I have some extra love handles that I can't get rid of. It's ridiculous. But it's my reality, even though I try to keep it supressed inside as much as possible, days like yesterday, when everybody felt the need to comment on my physicality, it bubbles to the surface and makes me nauseousfor the rest of the day.
Monday, August 15, 2005
I've been a busy girl, some good production, some unfortunate occurrences.
I met with my esteemed friend and colleague, Simone Muench, on Thursday evening for margaritas, spinach crepes, and discussion of my manuscript, which she was gracious and kind enough to read and comment on. I got some great and in-depth feedback which I've really been needing, and have been reworking the manuscript ever since. Since the meeting, I've changed and rearranged many of the poems, including the first poem in the manuscript, which was "cata strophe" but is now "Misspell," which I think really works to introduce this collection a lot better. I'm SO happy with the changes- I feel like it's a completely different manuscript and I feel a lot better about sending it out. I think I'm pretty much ready to leave it alone for a while. The new title, you ask?
leave, light, entropy
(the picture above is my brother's (Chris Carignan's) painting. . .I would love to be able to use it as a book cover when it gets published, though I know this may not be my decision to make. He painted this for our grandmother after she died in November, and I feel like the tone fits with a lot of the poems in the collection. . .the first section is called "leave," after all. . .)
I think this title fits the manuscript best, which is what really matters (thanks to Melissa Severin in my poetry group for saying, bluntly, "Which one works best for the BOOK???"). Thanks also to everyone who weighed in a few weeks ago- it really helped to have such a broad palate of perspectives. I'm happy with it, and have titled each of the sections appropriately with one of the words from the title. It all works out quite well, really. Gives a continuity I feel the book was lacking- ties it together nicely, but not too nicely.
The unfortunate outcome of my meeting with Simone is that my wallet got lost/stolen the night of our meeting. It's a weird feeling to exist without identification or plastic- it's a kind of weakness and vulnerability that I'm really enjoying (masochist, who?) though it's not altogether the safest thing with a baby and all not to have any way to access money or tell people who I am! I'll go on Tuesday to get a new license, student ID, etc. Till then, I'm incognito :)
I start school next week, the reality of which is finally starting to sink in. Ugh. I had a small revelation that I will miss my little Eliot very much- I have been spoiled this summer spending all my time with him. As he embarks on walking, I'm sad about the fact that someone else could see his first steps. But the academic awaits- exams are no small feat, especially since I've taken the last three weeks off from reading! I have too much work to do.
I'm not trying to knock other journals, either-I've worked on enough lit mags to know that time is as limited a resource as money- and what most journals lack in "personal attention" to their contributors (unless, of course, you're famous. . .) they make up for in content, layout, distribution, artwork, thoughtful reviews, website design, etc. It was just refreshing to be respected by an editor for a change, based on my POETRY instead of on my list of publications, lack of a published book manuscript, and (for now) lack of a PhD. It'll fuel my fire for a while.
I'm VERY impressed with the journal, the Canary, which I ordered more out of curiosity than anything. I mean, it's the best journal I've seen in a long time- a very ecclectic and lively assortment of voices. It's a lot more experimental than I expected, which I appreciate. In fact, I've yet to read a poem I don't appreciate on some level- and the great thing about it is that I often appreciate the poems on different levels- some intellectual, some because of narrative innovation, some because they relate experience adeptly, some because the language is just rocking. I love the Cole Swensen pieces, though that's not a surprise to most. She's one of my all-time faves (and one of the nicest poets ever to walk the earth, may I add. . .). I love the Dan Beachy-Quick poem, too- "Difference in Triplicate". The way it confuses narrative and perspective is astonishing, doubling/tripling of tree imagery. . .very cool.
I would have liked some sort of editorial preface to the journal, but I'm entering the series at #4, so I'm not sure what the history, mission statement, editorial goal of the journal is, unless there just isn't one, which I doubt. The journal is too intelligent for that.
In response to the comment that my poetry is "too intellectual," I've submitted to the Harvard Review. Mostly as a joke. I think it's funny anyway. I'm sure I'll get my rejection in record time :)
Thursday, August 11, 2005
a red match
bringing me there
hook and eye
stay the white
emptied and gone
sell me fire
you sweat clean
flowers, purple bundles
wants to taste
fabric and taste
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
this poem came out of my collaborative project with Scott Glassman:
Anatomy of a Scream
Cave glass, you take my breath
to go, flung and baited but crisp
isolate the green, bleed it
faces onto you seems
for your sadness, for its delirious
of silver that motor, that curtain,
we can never enter. The sea
asking us to swallow its name.
On the other hand, I would not be the poet I am today without the community I have found here in Chicago. Friends like Simone Muench, Mary Biddinger, Anna Marie Craighead-Kintis, Brandy Homan, Jackie White and new web-friend, Scott Glassman, have inspired me and shaped not only what I write but what I do (where I submit, how I construct syllabi, which book contests might actually read my manuscript before throwing it in the recycle heap). I am amazed on a daily basis by how much people will go out of their way to help me, to guide me, to share with me the difficult lessons they've learned and help me avoid the pain, or just to make the blow less painful when it comes. It is because of this community that I have truly taken ownership of my poetry, come to believe in it, come to actually like the majority of my poems as well as the new direction(s) my poetry is moving. Does this make me arrogant? That it's taken me 15 years of poetry writing to finally believe in myself and believe that I should be being published seems to me an OK place to be. It's the belief that my poetry has something to offer my readers, that I have come here, to this place poetry, to share this.
I feel like I've lost grasp of the "reality" of the situation. Curtis Faville makes a good point in the comments on Ron's blog when he says: "The contest system is designed to provide a means by which, One) Taste can be used to control the structure of literary hierarchies, in their various forms; and Two) Professional discrimination can be made public, enabling literary careers, jobs, and reputations. It is demonstrably NOT about disseminating good writing, or husbanding in avant-garde technique, or furthering "communities" (Ron's favorite pet)". It takes only looking at how boring and mainstream most of the prizewinning books are (aside from a few, of course, like Saturnalia, Alice James, Helicon Nine, Slope Editions)-- nothing innovative or interesting at all going on. Just the same poem, over and over again. No envelope pushing, no paradigm shifting. But where does that leave poets like me and many of my friends (Erika Bernheim comes to mind, an astonishing and amazing poet) who are trying to do something different. . .which more than not is construed as being "too intellectual" even though we're just trying to EXPLORE? Trying to NOT write that same, dry, lyric ego-jacked crap? Any ideas?
"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself." Walt Whitman. At least I can be comforted by that.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
The sting turned into a terrible burn because on Friday, the day Dr Dobbs hit newsstands, I recieved two very strange rejections in the mail. One from a publication who solicited work from me but wrote on the rejection that my poetry was "too intellectual," to which I reply, "good! I must be doing something right!" They asked me to send more poems, but I'm not sure I want to send "dumbed down poems" just so the editors don't have to think too hard. Probably just not the happiest place for my poems to find a home. The other rejection was the most bizarre I've seen so far, as a form letter, nonetheless: "We appreciate the poems you sent to 'X'. Our editorial staff carefully considered and discussed your work. At this time, we could not come to a consensus that allowed us to find a place for your work in our magazine, but we hope you would consider sending us more work in the future." I happened to be having coffee with a friend who used to be an editor/reader for this magazine (what are the chances!?!) and she said this rejection means they liked the poems but couldn't find a place for them in that issue, which I can totally appreciate and find EXTREMELY helpful, both as a specific comment on this poem (I actually only sent one poem. . .it was a themed issue) as well as a comment about the business of journals in general. This is yet another reason why simultaneous submissions seem the only way to go: while three out of ten journals might like my poetry, it doesn't mean they all have a place for them in their current edition. Important lessons learned.
I'm proud of my hubby, of course. But the fragile ego of a poet can only take so much beating in one day.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
I've been lucky enough to have been collaborating with various artists, poets, dancers, musicians, and circus performers (no, I'm serious. . .) for years now. My friends and I in Boulder started a collaborative organization called the fuzion project through which we created, produced, directed and performed in a show which fuzed all sorts of genres in very amazing ways. I think my favorite piece of that show was the finale where I got to dance hip-hop with a large group of dancers and recite an original poem while another performer did gymnastics across the stage. It was amazing. And a lot of fun. My friend, Sarah Leversee, continues the legacy of the fuzion project, Boulder through her collaborative organization, Art As Action, which takes performance to another level by donating theproceeds of each show to a philanthropy. She's been quite successful and really has a great thing going.
Sarah's Sister, Jill Leversee, and I have been close friends for years. Jill is an amazing dancer with a very creative and open sensibility. When she lived in Chicago (now she is in Seattle), we collaborated on another show, which was mostly dance and poetry, but also had musicans, martial arts, and photography as some of the showcase items. Another great time, though also a lot of work. I greatly miss collaborating with artists-- for me it is an essential connecting point in my own art-- there's no denying that this creative world truly is a big web. (As a side note, I have many, many left over chapbooks from this performance, which also served as our program. It features amazing poets such as Cole Swensen, Simone Muench, Garin Cyncholl, and Duriel Harris. I'm happy to send these to people who would like one- just send me an email through my blog link on my profile page with your address and I'll happily send you one!)
So when a fellow blogger and newly-made friend of mine, Scott Glassman, agreed to collaborate with me on, well, we're not really sure what yet, but we're collaborating, I was extatic. Right now it looks like an experiment with language and association: check it out here. It's still in it's early stages of infancy, but hopefully it'll keep building. . .and we'll see what it turns into. In many ways, it doesn't really matter what it turns into. What matters is that it pushes me outside of my personal shroud of poetry and opens me to someone elses voice in a very intimate way. I'm excited about the possibilities of this experiment. We'll see where it goes.
(Bottom picture courtesy of Jonathan Friedman)
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
is this very moment with it’s eyes
open, the man I love escaping,
the twitch of his heartbeat
in the bowl of his throat. His sleep-
That between him and words
is my world- the only place I let things
happen. The petals we used to put in
our drawers, the summer opening.
We searched all night
for gardenia, where the smell
was coming from, what I tasted
in the cake. His eyes
not opening, but when we found the flower,
I took it, brought it with me,
can still smell it now. His hair is miniscule
and strong, his body-the white
of clay. Everyone should die
with questions, leaving that door
open, to remain, to hold the space
and what we want to open.
(Written by me, for my husband, some many years ago. . .)
Today is my husband and I's three year anniversary. Pretty exciting, though the fact that it's Wednesday makes it slightly anticlimactic. But it's definitely a big thing to celebrate, especially because many marriages these days don't see the other side of the three year anniversary. In many ways, it's hard to believe that it's been only three years. We packed a lot into this time: moved from Colorado to Chicago, a PhD program, bought a condo and moved within Chicago, had a baby, suffered the death of three of our grandparents, my parent's divorce and three of the most brutal winters I've ever seen. But in many ways, of course, it seems like only yesterday I was standing next to him, holding my purple flowers, thinking "wow. we're actually married!"
But boy is my Brian a trooper. He's made so many sacrifices for me over the last three years, sacrifices that most men would scoff at and walk away from. But he's still here, and sometimes I even think he might still like me. It will surely be my turn soon to "pay up," but that's OK. That's what it's all about. The give and take.
The poem I posted is very old and different from what I write now, but the lines, "but when we found the flower,/I took it, brought it with me,/can still smell it now" resonates with me today. Love is like a memory: very strong and powerful at first, but it dissipates and settles in, the intensity fades, but it's always there. The stronger the love, the stronger the resonance. Hmm, how sentimantal of me. But true.
I knew it three years ago and I know it more than ever today- I'm am blessed to have Brian as my hubby. He's a keeper.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
What then, the burn?
Maybe the spattering
on the counter
is a way
in strength. Chew
on one, suck
oil until it crumbles
into dust between
Does it taste
Does the squeal
of foreign light
make its way
to you now?
Burn hole in your tongue
Maybe years ago
was clear, the sting
was a yellow puss-flower
on your skin
between your fingers.
What if I am leaving?
What burns then?
The more I think about this approach, the more I realize that I'm not OK with it. Maybe it's the poetry-idealist in me that thinks this art of poetry deserves a serious looking-at, that this is a serious art even if we want to trivialize it as a sort of "statement," aka "I hate Poets, capital 'P.'" I decided a long time ago to dedicate a large portion of my life and energy to this thing that has, in a sense, become my religion (hey, something had to fill the void and I've never been into drugs or heavy drinking. . .). And now, the time I spend with poetry has taken on a whole new meaning-- the time I spend with poetry is time I don't spend with my son, so I can't help but treat it as a serious subject. Maybe I do take it too seriously, but for me, that's the only way to take it. It's the only way I can see myself ever getting some major publications and eventually getting a book out so I can teach somewhere in Colorado close to where we'll be living. So when a poem is put in front of me, I want to take it serioulsy and give it the attention I think it deserves, which is more than 15 seconds.
And by the by, I do think it is possible to give a good response to a poem in 25 minutes or so even if you haven't read it before, but the longer and/or more complicated pieces , in my mind, do require more time.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe nothing any more is sacred in this world of soundbytes and headlines. Maybe the average reader only allots 60 seconds to the reading of a poem. But for me, poetry is a retreat from that quick and flashy synapse-triggering, migrane-inducing clip of the chaotic everyday life. It's a slow-down, a sacred space. And while I prescribe to a lot of post-modern idea(l)s, I hold this as a truth, which may make me a Poet, but I guess I'm OK with that. I'm OK with taking myself and poetry serioulsy, because if I don't take myself seriously, who else is going to take me serioulsy?
Monday, August 01, 2005
I ran 16 miles this weekend, kicking my marathon training into full gear. I found some great girls to run with (one a MA student in Lit, one a chemistry/algebra teacher here in Chicago) and we had a great time. I finally felt like I can do this thing- that actually completing the marathon is not a pie in the sky. I've been running competitively since high school track season of 1990, which puts me well into my 15th year of running. I ran in college to fund my education and since, I've trained for and competed in 4 marathons, qualifying for Boston each time (but never actually running it. . .hmmm). My last marathon was the 2003 Chicago Marathin where I logged a slightly impressive 3:36:36 (though my marathon PR is 3:29 as a younger pup). Then only about 6 weeks later, I got pregnant and the priority to run became a quick second to taking care of myself and resting. I ballooned to a unbelieveable monstrosity of a pregnant lady, even though I continued to run up until about the 6 month mark. Because of the c-section (what a nightmare) I ended up taking about 6 months off of running, total. I started running again (using the term "running" very loosely here. . .) in November and have been working hard ever since. I got the idea to train for Chicago again because I needed an external motivation to continue to run and get in shape- and it's been working! I feel great and even look forward to getting up at 5:30 am to run because I have something to train for. It's been great and really given me something to focus on.
So why am I pissed? Well, I have been a little wishy-washy about whether I REALLY thought I could do the marathon. I mean, it's a grueling experience, both the training and the actual running-of. I've been putting off shelling out the nearly $100 to register for the race. . until last night when I decided I could really do it. I could commit. But guess what? Registration is closed. 40,000 crazy mo fo's already shelled out their $100 and the marathon closed in RECORD time- 1 month earlier than last year and much, much earlier than the year before (when I ran it). I guess I should have committed earlier, taken the gamble and just plunged in. I should have payed closer attention. But I wanted to be sure, and now I'm screwed. I'm pissed for a lot of reasons that are selfish and surely have to do with issues of entitlement- like I've been running for a long time, paid my dues, and this marathon really meant a lot to me while joe blow is trudging his fat never-run-before ass and taking up all the room in the marathon. (I know, I'm a bitch, but I'm mad. . .) I feel like I deserve to run this race, even if I missed the deadline. But there's just no way. So what now?
I think I might run the Portland Marathon, which is the same weekend, so I can maintain my training schedule and still run on the same day (just not in chicago). My best friend is working a contract in Portland and will hopefully still be there on October 9th, so hopefully I can just stay with her and run a smaller, more relaxed, cooler, and less congested race. The Chicago Marathon really is a nightmare. I was forced to walk the first few miles in 2003 and then when we finally could run, it took so much energy dodging people and trying not to trip that it surely affected my time. When all is said and done, I'm probably better off doing something smaller anyway. But I'm still pissed because now I have to race all by myself, which is excruciating for 26.2 miles (especially the last 4.2 miles or so. . .that's when the pain really seeps in.)
I can't wait to move from Chicago, and this just really is the icing on the cake. I've lived in Wrigleyville for 3 years and have only been to one Cubs game because the tickets were given to me at the grocery store. We've tried for years to get tickets but they sell out on the day they go on sale-- for the WHOLE season! Even trying to get tickets the day they go on sale is a nightmare, so we watch them on TV with our windows open and listen to the crowd a mere two blocks away. I'm not going to watch from the perifery for this race, though. It means too much to me. I'll run a marathon on October 9th, even if it's on a treadmill in my gym or as a "rogue runner" numberless in the Chicago marathon. But most likely it'll be somewhere else. . .maybe I'll pick a city that has a baseball team and actually go see a game!