self portrait, entitled "why?"

Yes. I took a photo of myself at 7:04 am with the Today show playing in the background. I'm wearing five seriously mismatched shirts, and mesh track pants that couldn't keep out a moth's cough, let alone the chill of 18 degree weather.

I hate running. I hate it. And yet, I seem to thrive on the twisted, parental negotiations that I have with myself on the subject.
"You will get up and go for a run tomorrow."
"No!"
"YES, you will, and you will get up five minutes earlier just for using that tone"
"But I don't want to. It's cold, my lungs will hurt, my joints will get sore later in the day, and I dress absurdly"
"This is what it is to be alive, grasshopper"
"No it isn't. I'll be standing by the curb, clenching my knees and gasping for air, wearing clothes that aren't remotely warm enough except for my hands (which will be sweating profusely under my 5 year old mismatched gloves), when suddenly I'll be surrounded by a pack of grass-thin Boulderites clad in spandex who will race by me like a desert wind; simply a blur of endorsement advertisements and shoulder-length, hat-resistant bouncing blonde hair. THOSE people are alive-- I'll barely be holding on to consciousness."
"Well. At least it will teach you a lesson in humility and motivation."
"No, it will make me feel extremely snarky. Then, when I try to convince my tired and muscle-cramped legs to start moving again, my iPod will fail at exactly the 18 minute mark, and I'll have the second half of my run to finish in silence, lugging a 1st generation mp3 player behind me that weighs more than a brick.
"I regret to inform you that you've argued like a little girl through your alloted sleep time. Your alarm will go off in approximately... no seconds."
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

Welcome to a day in my life.

When I'm not "running" (HA! real runners call it 'a run' or 'a quick jog'-- people like me call it 'running' and truthfully move slower than a snail dying of dehydration), I'm stuck at a computer thinking about all the ways that I could improve my life-- starting with more running, and fewer movies.

But I can't help it. I'm in a binge.

Last week, I rented "Stevie"-- a Kartemquin film about a man who goes back to Southern Illinois after 10 years away from his "little brother" in the Big Brothers program. (*note to self: write an entry sometime about obsession with Kartemquin and the unfortunate fact that I have not only applied there this month, but accidentally started driving each and every one of their employees nuts in my die-hard Kartemquin enthusiasm)

Stevie broke my heart in the way that a lot of films have been lately... I was so pumped up with my expectation for the film (by the "Hoop Dreams" filmmakers) and the subject (a filmmaker explores his previous relationship with a boy-- now man-- who had struggled through the ultimate lows of the US foster care system) that within 30 minutes, I thought I had the film pegged.
I found it interesting; much more grim than I had expected. I thought it was so-so; but didn't feel very invested in it.

But then that feeling creeps in-- that phrase I hate: "it began to stick in my craw". And as much as I hate that phrase, the film felt much like the word and sentiment of "craw". Stevie is not only a loud, confusing, "chaotic" (as one critic wrote) person-- but he's dirty. His teeth are violently spaced apart, and he grows hair in big, thick, bushy patches. When the filming took place 13 years ago, Stevie looked to be in his mid-40s... he was 25. And as I summed him up: probably guilty of theft; negligence; basically good person under a very misguided and rough exterior-- Stevie is charged with molesting a young girl.

From there, the film becomes a very quiet rollercoaster into a series of ethical quandries for the viewer.
The human side of a child molester?! NO! My mind was screaming.
But I couldn't hit 'stop'. The tone of the documentary never fought for him-- at least, not without apologizing immediately afterwards-- but it watched a man, very quietly, who was absolutely lost. Lost, defensive, and somehow-- deep under the cracked exterior of a face that's seen too much ugliness-- trying to pretend that he has some control over a life that he was never able to drive.
Stevie carries an expression that I've seen very few times in my life, but I recognized it-- a bracingly vulnerable expression that seems to say: "I'm not afraid of you because I'm the most unpredictable guy in this room, and god damn, I wish I didn't have to be."

The filmmaker used an incredible photo that he had taken when Stevie was about 9-- dressed in a Cheshire Cat costume that his Big Brother found for him. It was a sweet, simple photo, but it told the story that my mind (and probably all viewers' minds) had figured out from the credit sequence: this film is not compelling because it's
the story of a potential molester, but because it paints the portrait of a young boy who went through every kind of abuse and neglect possible in home after home-- abuse at the hands of adults and other children-- and somewhere very early in his childhood, he knew that he was alone. What would it feel like to be alone at the age of 9? Or the age of 3?

I didn't want to cry during Stevie, and I didn't feel compelled to.
But I couldn't fall asleep after watching it, and I felt a deep sadness growing in the pit of my stomach.
At 6am, I turned over and looked at the shadows my 4-post bed was casting on the wall. The image of the Cheshire Cat costume was very clear in my mind, and without realizing that they were coming, I suddenly felt tears rolling down my neck and onto my pajama shirt.

Sometime, when I'm in a better place to write clearly, I will sit down and try to understand why this image makes me desperately want to make films.
The placement of the boy behind the clothesline is probably simply because he was joking around with Stephen and the camera-- having a good chase while brandishing the garden hose next to the house. But he looks so small-- his right arm is held up slightly; the boy looks small, and protective more than anything. Even with the hose spraying, he appears tentative to peer out from behind the post.
There was another image in the film of Stevie in the costume. The photo was taken from behind, and shows Stevie peering over a fence with his little cat ears dark in silhouette. I think that is what made my early morning sadness flood over-- the image of a child who the audience has only heard about in regard to the horrors and disappointment that he experienced, but in the photo, he is simply a little boy who wants to play in a cat costume.

I promised myself today that when I came home, I would brush my teeth and go straight to bed.
I was too tired to entertain the thought of reflection, or any iota of emotion.

Besides-- I was in a happy mood. Despite a family upset, I had convinced mom to do the "giving tree" at the mall. We took 'wish lists' off the tree in Longmont-- one for a 5 year old boy who wanted "tools or construction things", and one for an 8 year old girl who wanted "science or adventure kits". Buying the tiny tool set (complete with belt) and the bright pink box full of science experiments was truly enjoyable-- and although we went over the required limit, we couldn't help but splurge on a fire truck sticker book, and an Angelina Ballerina paper doll book. It is Christmas, we kept saying.

Bed did not happen, and hours later, I can tell that it won't for a while.
I need to work on curbing my impulses more often, and use better judgment.
(And, perhaps, this is a much more fitting title for my self-portrait in moronic running clothes.)

Tonight, I leave this post with very confused, unassembled thoughts about the film "Stevie," and a small curiousity about which children will be opening their tiny tool box and "amazing science adventures" kit on Christmas morning.

I feel an anxious twist in my stomach about whether or not these kids will have their wishes granted after Christmas morning-- do they have heat in their home? Are they able to live with their parents? Are they happy, and cared for, or are they little silhouettes in a Cheshire Cat costume, looking for ways to be children when no one is looking?

Part of me feels relieved each year that the process is anonymous, and I won't ever know what the look on their faces will be. Whether the kids are excited, or disappointed, or if they aren't emotional at all-- it's their personal memory with their family, and it's none of my beeswax.
But when I have weeks of too much thinking (like this one)...
oof...
I understand why this time of year can really bring on a mixed bag of emotions.