Give me another horse! Bind up my wounds!
~Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard the Third, V, iii
The first step in any therapeutic process involving anxiety is to name that thing you fear most. So it may have taken us to Act IV of my tragedy (hey, who doesn't procrastinate when it comes to dealing with fear?), but let's all take that first step together: Bullpen. Bullpen. Bullpen. Next step: Normalize. Every team worries about its bullpen heading into the season, right? And it's part of basic training for any type of organization to put its most vulnerable performers under some stress to see how they hold up. They may surprise you! Third step: Take concrete actions to deal with your fear. Do it today. Fourth step: Become forward-focused. Try to anticipate the future.
And as you do all these things, of course, you have to embrace those activites and people you enjoy most. For me, it's writing free verse about the Phillies' relievers here at thegoodphight.
Oh no I didn't!? Oh, yes...I did.
After we broke up, I remembered that other girl, the one
I spied from a sideways glance: Substantial, exotic, mature. It was fall.
She seemed to sparkle in the crisp autumn air. So I called her. We began
and tried to make sense. I pretended not to hear
We remain an item, and with each warming day
and every tab I pick up, I glance sideways.
yet each Sunday I consider wearing them to church. Some odd compulsion makes me keep them.
They are not nice enough for work, not stylish enough for a date in the city,
my vague homage to my father's floppy Hush Puppies.
I am wealthy enough to buy a new pair, but never get around to it. The balls
of my feet have worn into the rubber sole. My legs always hurt a little after I wear them;
Surely a visit and bill from an orthopod looms, I think, as the phone rings.
I return them to my closet for another week, another prayer.
That spring term when my schedule was light, and I hit the bars
as a ritualistic dare, we read the book everyone talked about.
I felt snotty and pretentious carrying it, hip, mock black-turtlenecked
and headed toward graduation. But when I read it
I wondered what the fuss was about. I faked it in discussions,
never got past page 89, wrote essays about other books on the syllabus, got an A.
Only out of guilt, and the insistence of others, did I pick it up during the summer,
took it to the beach, finished the chapter, went for a swim
and never looked at it again. Ask me today, and I'll say the same thing:
That last gift under the tree was the one I had saved, convinced
it was something other than it was. At 10, Santa was actively debunked,
Unwrapped, it was simple to describe: I had wanted it, but when I was seven.
I was old enough and young enough now to be unable to say a word.
Pasteur and Roux harvested vaccine from infected rabbits,
from which the nerve tissue was weakened by allowing it to dry for five to ten days.
To think that it was bunny nerves that could prevent the symptoms, which
expand to slight or partial paralysis, anxiety, insomnia, anxiety, insomnia, confusion, agitation, abnormal behavior, paranoia, terror, hallucinations, progressing to delirium.
That such a transplant could possibly take root in a new skin, and cure madness.
What improbable leaps we take, born of necessity.
It is the tragic among us who never browse, never once
of where to look, and nothing more. We are so good at searching that we fail to look around,
miss the joy of serendipity, never feel the embrace of the unknown,
or know the friendship of a next-door neighbor. True: thrift stores are full of cloying junk
and empty afternoons, and the unknown embrace at times is a joy buzzer, or worse: a taser.
J. C. Romero
Last week I sent an email with an apology. It said:
"Sorry for the delay on this. When I filled in the boxes of the spreadsheet you sent me
back in January, I discovered I had done the work already, just
neglected to send it. Apologies."
I meant to say:
Now that I have typed in your boxes on your scorecard
Ah! How we went pozzo the night he strung up Il Duce with piano wire
And celebrated it all like our new Garabaldi; the day sunny, the Americans here,
exchanging our vino for their nylons and chocolate, fully unaware that the pressure we piled on him
Was too much to bear. Two years and five governments later
how fashionable guys in dark shirts look.