Sometimes I wonder if I should really look all that hard into my deeper motivations.
Judging by last night, this morning, and the continuing theme of OWIE that seems to be following me into this afternoon, the distinct impression that I had previously
of judging my progress and my happinness by how much pain I can overcome
isn't necessarily the wisest way of going about my life.
It sure does get results, though.
The current results, of course, being in need of slightly more creative interpretation than usual, seeing as all I've got to show for an hour's worth of giggling and straining last night
is
what feels far too much like a serious flaring up of Carpal Tunnel Vengeance.
I can understand the attraction of rock-climbing. I can understand all the faces that have passed through my life and the way they lit up at the very mention of a harness. I can understand Aura or little Andrea or Alex's excitement at confining themselves to the concrete interior of a building in order to feel the thrill of great heights.
It's all about personal best again. It's all about watching something slide from impossible to difficult to instinctual. Part of the way you move. Part of who you've become. Juggling. Origami. Calculus. OOP. Skydiving. It's not about the cliffs we were diving from in Israel and Grenoble, it's not about the height or the wind or the sheer cliff face.
That comes later. The beaten skin of that man I spoke with at Chamonix tells a thousand stories
the only one I hadn't been able to discern
was this beginning.
Walking into the gym I had the horrendous impression that I was in a clubspace, that people were here for status, appearance, to belong to Yet Another Group.
Walking out, I realized, again, that like with the ski team of ultra-cool jockboys, there is something hidden by just the right slant of light, waiting for me to discover it in all my arrogance.
What I want to know, though, is why every single rock-climber I've ever, ever met,
has some tie to goth.
(except that guy in Chamonix)
And y'know what else I hate to admit? That despite the size of my ego and my addiction to accomplishment
my favourite moment from last night
wasn't the look on the kid's face when I snarled "fuck off" and strained numb hands just...to...get...that...last...grip, wasn't the cheer from some randomly black-garbed person down below at the bloodthirst in the growl
it wasn't the fact that I made it up a second time
oh no
my very favourite part was getting way up to the top, and while waiting for my belay-partner to figure out how to position his hands to let me down
I let go of the wall,
leaned back in the harness
tilted my head until my ponytail tickled my back
and hung there the way I have hung from so many places
and for a moment again, for a moment I was flying.
Fifteen minutes later when some taut-muscled fellow was gasping at my demonstration of this or that yoga posture for flexibility
I would have giggled in proud glee
but in my head I was still hanging upside down.
Cheap thrills, that's me.
Unfettered, stolen moments at a time.