 | Happy Halloween, my pretties! |
Over the Youghiogheny river there is an old train bridge that rises high above the water on aging stone pillars. The bridge is now a walkway linking two hiking trails that end at steep cliffs along the riverbank. Far below, the river looks almost calm; the only indication of its swift current is the white froth surging around protruding rocks that occasionally catches the sunlight and animates the far off waters. Looking out past the bend of the river, an iridescent wood rises up to meet the thin, vaporous clouds and pale blue horizon.
Directly below the bridge is an eddy, where many gold and burnt orange leaves have accumulated, swirling in a slow mass by the shore. The leaves seem content, circling together, but every so often some leaves separate from the group, borne away by a slight diversion in the flow of the water. Other leaves arriving from upstream collide with the mass but never join, touching the outermost leaves in a brief greeting and disappearing under the bridge.
Your shadow appears, peering over the bridge railing with me at the eddy.
"Whatcha doin'?"
"It's pretty," is all I can think to say.
You exhale humorously. I want to tell you the story of the leaves but it seems too poignant in the face of the smiling crease at the corner of your eye. You lean in close and I feel the warmth of your forehead without the touch.
"Let's go," you say, jumping back suddenly. By the time I look up you are ten steps ahead of me. I walk to the other side of the bridge to look for the leaves swept away, but they are already gone.
Directly below the bridge is an eddy, where many gold and burnt orange leaves have accumulated, swirling in a slow mass by the shore. The leaves seem content, circling together, but every so often some leaves separate from the group, borne away by a slight diversion in the flow of the water. Other leaves arriving from upstream collide with the mass but never join, touching the outermost leaves in a brief greeting and disappearing under the bridge.
Your shadow appears, peering over the bridge railing with me at the eddy.
"Whatcha doin'?"
"It's pretty," is all I can think to say.
You exhale humorously. I want to tell you the story of the leaves but it seems too poignant in the face of the smiling crease at the corner of your eye. You lean in close and I feel the warmth of your forehead without the touch.
"Let's go," you say, jumping back suddenly. By the time I look up you are ten steps ahead of me. I walk to the other side of the bridge to look for the leaves swept away, but they are already gone.
Last night the Piranhas played our coach's men's team in an exhibition game/scrimmage type setting, in preparation for the pummeling we are to receive in Columbus next weekend. To my surprise (and perhaps distress) there were even a few audience members in the bleachers at our normally empty practice rink. We miraculously had enough players for three lines and this was my first time actually changing lines and playing a "real" game. I say "real" because if someone had been keeping accurate score I think it would have been about 40-1 rather than the 9-1 that showed up on the board at the end of third period, but it was as close as we could come to realistic competition. Coach brought four other players and a goalie, and our assistant coach reffed after begging coach's big sister for $5 from the team account to buy a whistle. I promise we aren't normally this ghetto, but you'll just have to take my word for it.
They were twice our size and half our numbers, but we spent most of the time trying to get the puck out of our defensive zone all night. At least our goalie never felt neglected. The turning point (at least for me) came during the short break between first and second period when Coach said in front of everyone "Jess you're doing a great job of staying on your point. Really good." Anyone who knows the Piranhas' coach knows that extracting a compliment from him is not just like pulling teeth, it's like pulling out a canine from a half-anesthetized African lion that hasn't eaten in two weeks. In other words, it doesn't come easy.
We had a few good plays, once where I was actually able to get the puck out of the corner and over a defender's stick and out to #82 who was in front of the net. Yes, make a note of that, the puck came off the ice, and even more amazing, at an opportune moment. In other miracles, I was only off sides once the whole three periods.
My backwards skating is still horrendous. Worse than that is the turning around part. It's frustrating, as in my daydreams I fantasize that I can play defense. With the way we play, I'd have the puck a lot more as a defender, and probably the same chance of scoring.
The good news is that Schenley ice rink still hasn't asked to see me skate, and the general public probably won't respect me any less for not being able to skate backwards. At least, one can hope.
Saturyne: Right-handed people live, on average, nine years longer than left-handed people do.
Jess: what about ppl who are right handed but shoot left
Saturyne: they live an extra 4.5 years
Jess: what about ppl who are right handed but shoot left
Saturyne: they live an extra 4.5 years
The comments are working! (*dancing a jig*) So comment away folks, as I know you've been dying to defend your reputations on my blog.
Thank you everyone for coming all the way to Pittsburgh for my birthday and for all the cool stuff. Saturday felt like school again but without the paper to write, the programming assignment, the design prototype due at 12 noon. Just all the best parts -- the friends, the food, the political discussions on life and love. I felt like we never left.
Happy Birthday to me!!
There are now two pages to my new site. The main page and the resume page. All the other links are broken but you can see how it's progressing. I've made it bigger (800 pixels wide). Notice anything cool about the top banner? Hit refresh. Tell me what you think.
Birthday countdown: 3 days.
I know you think that I shouldn't still love you,
I'll tell you that.
But if I didn't say it, well I'd still have felt it
where's the sense in that?
And when we meet
Which I'm sure we will
All that was then
Will be there still
I'll let it pass
And hold my tongue
And you will think
That I've moved on....
- Dido, White Flag
I'll tell you that.
But if I didn't say it, well I'd still have felt it
where's the sense in that?
And when we meet
Which I'm sure we will
All that was then
Will be there still
I'll let it pass
And hold my tongue
And you will think
That I've moved on....
- Dido, White Flag
Birthday countdown: 5 days.
There's gold in them there hills (well, there used to be). The decision has been made, they're tacking the horses now and the bags will be packed soon. It's California or bust, and we're leaving the covered wagons behind.
Halloween is my favorite holiday. It's almost here. What should I be this year? A railway hobo? A dot com casualty? A dual-degreed Subway sandwiches employee? A jilted girlfriend? Oh sorry, I forgot we're supposed to dress up as something we aren't. That's what makes it Halloween as opposed to reality. And that, in turn, is why it's so much better. If only everyday could be Halloween -- then I could ask for treats instead of all these damn tricks I've had played on me as of late. Because let's face it, if you have the choice between getting a wedgie or a Kit Kat bar, which would you choose?
I've found myself balking lately at things that normally would never be scary. I have no good explanation for this, except that it reminds me of riding Penny several weeks ago when I was home in the bay. I hadn't ridden in a long while, let alone jumped anything, but Penny was being a fantastic trooper, amazingly game down the lines, extending and collecting and rounding like a pumpkin over every fence. I grew bold, thinking I could still ride. He snapped over the yellow castle wall with a rail on it, cantering solidly around the turn down to a vertical with a gray box underneath. I rode softly and not aggressively down to the fence, when, five strides away, he balked and darted right. It was a halfhearted refusal, but a stop nonetheless. I was surprised and baffled. There was nothing strange about the fence; in fact, he had jumped much scarier obstacles only a few minutes earlier. I slapped him twice with my crop out of habitual horse training discipline, but he ignored it. It almost seemed as if he wondered why he had refused the fence as well. We picked up a canter and turned around and I rode forcefully down to the fence, although I could almost feel that he had no intentions of refusing it this time, and the extra encouragement was probably unnecessary. He jumped it easily, and clearly gave no more thought to it after that. I've been afraid of things recently, things I see out of the corner of my eye, things that are presented to me at face value, unseen things. I've been refusing -- but only like Penny has, with tepid resolve and the understanding that I'll just have to go back and "jump it this time." I guess, what I wish, is for someone to tell me the course, so I know which fence to go to next.
Now I remember why I keep sunglasses in my car -- California. Where did this bright yellow thing in the sky come from? And why is it so hot? I returned to Pittsburgh this morning and it was 36 degrees out. The leaves are starting to turn but my heart already bleeds red. If I let it scab over it might, but I just keep picking at it. October, the month I get older, never looked so lonely.
