Run

Would that I could run. You know: run. I mean really run. Run everywhere. Air in my face. Sweat on the sleeve. Run into the sun. Run for the hills, run under trees, run in front of cars and behind them and beside them. Run. I would, you know. I would run. I’ve been practicing. I run from the car to my house. Then I run from the car into the bakery. I don’t run because I’m in a hurry. I run because I can. My legs moving, toothpicks in wrappers. But you can’t see. I’m running. I like to gasp. I suck air. Some people might say its because I’m out of shape. I say it’s because I like air. I love it. I can’t get enough. So I run.

And when I’m not running. I’m usually reading. I’m reading the third book of the Faerie Queene. The heroine of the story is Britomart, lady knight of chastity. She’s facing off with lesbians and cowards. She’s an extremist, pursuing love with militance. I’m reading Ezekiel too. He’s shaving his head and burning piles of hair in the middle of the city. He’s eating scrolls and laying on his side laying siege to a lego castle. He’s cooking dinner over cow dung.

And it’s Good Friday, day of our Lord’s crucifixion. How extreme. How sharp. How offensive. How daring. But I pretend to be. I imagine the fierceness of true love, the ferocity and wildness of chastity. I picture Ezekiel, that holy freak. And Jesus wears a crown of thorns. Would that I could run. Would that I would really run. Run everywhere. Run with air in my face, aching side, and sucking air. I would run. Really run. And I will. I’m practicing. I run from the car to the house and from the car to work, and I keep running.