"But you never gave up did you? Giving up is for cowards, not Gunslingers."

From the fire, and back into the fog:


Three months ago, I broke back into the world of writing.


Well, kind of.


The closest I've been was my five month stint with the Times Union. I wrote about Siena basketball. Some people like it. They didn't pay me anything and I still hassle them once a week. Is a gift certificate to Wendy's too much to ask for?


Since then I have wrote pieces on via BlogSpot and posted them on Facebook. Similar to most aspiring writers, I'm lazy, but three months ago I wrote a whopper.


I was going through a rut at the time. We all hit 'em.
What came out on screen was dark. If you know me, you know I'm generally a positive individual.


But a rut is a rut, so I wrote dammit. Spit it out on paper and let people think what they want to think.

Write first, think later.

Reading it now, it scares me a bit.
I wasn't in a great place.
I felt like the world was pressing against me.
I felt like I was in a burning building.
I heard voices outside coming for me, but nobody could get in to pull me out.


I grabbed for my soul and found it.
Then I ran.
I ran the hell out of that building. Literally ran.


I hit the streets like Balboa in Rocky Six and tried my best not too look back.
Initially, I felt like a lifetime smoker. I also ran like one.
I hacked and spit and did my best to keep pumping my legs.
It was the most physical exercise I had done since my boys from Siena and I went to beat up on some Italians a few summers ago.


My ankle throbbed and I liked it. I liked the burn and it liked me back.


On more then one occasion I received taunts from jackass high school kids who could clearly see me struggling. If only they knew, I used to be a big deal.


Slowly but surely, I began to become an athlete again.
The ankle still hurt, but the lungs felt better. I went a little more each day. Before each run, I'd pick out a person or a thing that would help me keep going. I was having a good time.


Two months into my new outlook on life ("Just run dammit"), I was on my daily journey. The sun was blazing and I liked that burn too.


I thought alot on my journeys.
I thought about everything, nothing, and anything.
All of a sudden I was brought out of my thoughts.
A horn was blaring and a car had slowed down.


"I swear if it's those damn kids again, I will pull them out of the car one by one," I thought.
It wasn't them.


It was a car full of females. That's right gentlemen, females.
I don't know if they were good looking or not, but frankly I didn't give a shit.
They hooted and hollered, and I smiled and waved.
Then I went back into my head and kept running.


So I got out of the burning building. Wohoo! Good, grand, great, wonderful!
Parts remain, some always will. We all feel the flames from time to time, sometimes hotter than others.
Just don't let yourself get trapped in that building. It's a long road out. So find a way out. And do it fast.


With the running I had found something. I felt alive and high.
I don't take drugs, so I don't know what that high feels like.
I do take beer, and know what it feels like to have a few in you.
But this was different. This was like playing ball again.


Then one day I ran into a fog. Back into a fog.
I thought I was out. I was sure I was.
I spent eight months in a fog once. It was a head hitting induced fog.
It's a fog that cripples you and makes a day seem like a long month.


So you could imagine my fear when this started happening:

One day at work I began to feel dizzy.
I felt real dizzy.
I didn't tell anyone. I'd sleep it off like a bad night at a bar in college.


I tried to ignore it, but it was relentless. I could function and get by without anyone knowing, but it was like a bad case of poison ivy. It just kept coming.
Everyday for two weeks I sold beds to people while eyeing a spot for my landing, which I was convinced would come any minute.


Over two years ago I got hit in the head with the hammer that is Ryan Rossiters elbow. It wasn't the first, second, third, fourth, or tenth time that kind of thing had happened. It's just the one that did the most damage.


It changed my life and still does to this day.
Since I smarted up and went to the Doctor, my symptoms have improved.
Nevertheless, tommrow I will have surgery on my left ear.
The injury happened over two years ago, but may have been re opened while running out of the fire.
I don't regret it. Far from it.


For the next week I will be on the laying low. I will be hanging out with King, Hemmingway, Bukowski, and Eric Taylor from Friday Night Lights. And don't forget, the infamous Phil.


I'd like visitors and presents. Mainly just presents. But if you want to stay and chat I'd love to have you.

Beer is out for now. But you can bring your own! Gatorade and chocolate milk would be appreciated.
When I feel up to it, I might clap on the keys for a while and take you inside my world.
If I seem like I'm on drugs, I probably am.


Come mid July, I'll get my runners high back.
I'm sure I'll have to hack and spit for a while. My ankle will get upset with me again. Maybe those high school kids will even come taunt me again. As long as they don't throw anything at my head, I'm fine with it.


Before I know it, the car of girls will come by again. I'll smile and wave.
Then I'll just keep running.