Have a little faith in me (but not too much)…

(An old post made new…)

When the road is daaaark
and you can no longer see.
Let my love throw a spark,
and have a little faith in me…..

God, I love this song. It always makes me feel like I should be in some pivotal scene of a romantic comedy or something.  You know the part I’m talking about. The part where it gets all serious. Like, right now, to this song, some guy somewhere should be realizing how very very much he loves me.

Ha, and he should be running.

Yes, running. That’s it! Of course he is running. Because such scenes (the pivotal most important kinds) always start with running. Hmm, or do they end that way? I always forget. Oh well, MY scene will start with running.

With a man running…

Perhaps he is in the rain. Perhaps he is not. It doesn’t matter much really. But what does matter, what’s important here, is that he is running.  Running as hard and as fast as he possibly can.  And maybe he’s even a really horrible runner. Like maybe he has a limp. Or he’s been hurt in some horrible accident. Or no, not horrible, just an absurd or silly accident. One of his own doing. Then again, maybe it’s not his doing at all. Maybe it is something outside himself. Some evil. Some malevolent force. Most likely, it is both. (Ah, because isn’t it always both. Isn’t that something I always say?) But I digress..

Whatever it is, he is injured in some way so that this run, this attempt at a run, is even more miraculous. Is even more…what’s the word for it? Meaningful? Significant? Ridiculous? Hmm, perhaps that doesn’t matter much either.

But what does matter is that he goes on. He runs/hobbles/limps his way as hard and as fast as he can. He has obstructions. Things he must deal with. People who get in his way. They try to stop him. They will not let him pass. They will not let him through. He cannot get by security, by the angry parents, family members, friends, ex-boyfriends, current boyfriends, hopeful boyfriends. He cannot get into the country club, the terminal, the mansion, the hospital, boardroom, bedroom, girls bathroom, any room, anywhere. They (and by they I mean these people, these forces of the universe) will not let him. They are having none of it.

They are old.  They are powerful. They do not know. They do not understand. They are forces (universal forces) that are larger and greater than any two people could ever be. Could ever hope to be…

But wait…

No! It isn’t so! It can’t be!

Somehow he finds a way. Or love finds a way. Or somebody somewhere, something somehow, finds a way, a great big puke rainbows and shit butterflies kind of way… And he gets through. It is hard, yes. It is even torturous. He has, most likely, hurt himself even more getting through this obstruction. Getting through all this obstruction, this life. It is so very very tough you see. He is literally hurting himself with every step. With every movement. And yet, he goes on. His feet are dragging but he picks them up. He puts one in front of the other. He stumbles. He falls. He gets up. He keeps going. He does not stop.

He run run runs. Faster, faster, faster. On and on and on and on he goes. Until, of course, he (at just the right possible moment, the one and only true possible moment) finds me. THEN, he stops.

Because really, where else is there left to go? Nowhere.

So then, you know, we like totally make out.

And it’s like totally this great metaphor for the human condition and finding faith and love and contentment. And really, it’s pretty kick ass.

And me? Well, I just say what they always say at such moments (after he confesses his undying love for me, of course) which is something close to, “Oh, shut up,” or, “Oh, go to hell.” Or even, “Yes, I know.” Or, if I’m in a really good mood and feel like indulging in a little pain, “I love you too.”

But then, maybe something else happens, like I notice he’s looking behind him or maybe just to the right of my face a little bit. So I’ll touch his cheek.  (Because I have always liked touching cheeks. We seem so much more vulnerable there.) Maybe I’ll even linger over it for a bit.  Just a tad longer than I should. Long enough to indulge myself. Long enough to let him know that I care. That this is hard for me. And then I’ll turn. Slowly. So slowly I almost won’t be able to make it all the way around. So slowly I almost don’t make it at all.


Because then, well then, I’ll walk away.

Or die of cancer.

Or get hit by a car.

Or pass away heroically while giving birth to something.

Because anyone who knows anything, knows that all the best movies end in tragedy.  Or is that how they begin? I always forget. I don’t know anything.

Either way, I guess I’m not ready for an ending just yet. Not even an almost happy ending. So I suppose I’ll just do what I always do, and leave it open.

Whatever the hell it is I mean by that.


Writing Prompts From Back In the Day: What 19th century ailment do you have?

Megan Murray

BS 101

4 August 2008

Brain Fever

“Brain fever . . . it’s something that ‘brains’ get.
Usually, if you just read a best-seller, it goes away.”

Jane Lane, Daria 1999

When choosing a 19th century ailment there are many things to consider—which ailment has the coolest name, which ailment would be the most fun, which ailment has the best sense of ridiculousness and absurdity, and then, perhaps the most important thing to consider when choosing a 19th century ailment—which ailment will produce the most opportunities for emotional and physical suffering, drama, and, of course, moments wrought with horrific and beautiful poetic tragedy and excitement. Brain fever is my preferred 19th century ailment because not only does the very nature of its name suggest a profound  loss of mind and body but in looking closer at its symptoms, origins, and the mystery surrounding its diagnosis, brain fever is indeed a most beautiful and tragic ailment worthy of my lost, tortured, inexplicably-in-love-with-suffering soul. Brain fever is thought to be caused by the inflammation of the brain. The brain becomes so inflamed, so swollen, irritated, tender, and sore that it causes one to have fever-like symptoms and to, in essence, go a little crazy.  According to Wikipedia:

Inflammation and swelling of the brain could cause profound mental and emotional changes, from inability to think, plan, or act meaningfully on plans, or to act-out, hitting, pinching, biting, etc. Many persons with these illnesses could wander away and thus, life without constant supervision became unsafe. (Wikipedia, 2008)

Oftentimes, in my own reactions with the world and the subsequent disappointments with “things as they are” (Godwin, 1974) I too have felt the inability to think, plan, or act meaningfully. But it’s not just life’s disappointments that cause such a reaction, it’s life’s triumphs as well. It is not at all uncommon for me to look at life, experience a piece of part of it with intense emotion and passion, and in the face of such emotions be unable to fully understand or comprehend the significance of the moment I am in. This vain quest for knowledge and understanding leads me to believe that there is too much in one life. Too much in one existence, or one moment, or one world, to ever get a grasp on any of it, let alone all of it. There is simply too much to do, to be, to think, to feel, and to know to ever really do, be, think, feel, or know anything past the most surface of levels. It is at such moments and during such realizations (or lack there of) that my brain becomes impassioned and irritated. That my mind grows sore and tormented. As if the very tissues, the very cells that construct the intelligence (or lack there of) that makes up the content of my being were expanding, growing, and pushing up against the contours of my skull. I begin to feel a loss of control and it is then that I feel the urge to wander away and lead a life without constant supervision—to become unsafe. To join those masses of people who have felt this thing, this unexplainable fever of the brain, that makes them get up in the dead of night, in the middle of summer afternoon, or at 12:00 on a Tuesday and leave it all to wander away to the unknowable places of the world where the mind may not be able to rest, but it can exist, and it can go on. Forever if it has to. And, quite naturally, in a fever.