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False Starts
by Catherine McClain The mist still clung to the grass around our feet. Her voice reached from somewhere to my right, but my nervous eyes never found her. I guess it was the official, the race-starter, the referee, whatever you call the person who starts a cross country race. I looked beyond Jackie’s shoulder, shook my hands, bent knees out of habit, and suddenly everyone was running. Maybe I didn’t hear the gunshot, but then there were two, and we stopped. A false start, a mistake. Sometimes ideas, the words, the pictures take off before they’re supposed to, sometimes I just come back to the start line. Maybe there’s no good reason – maybe the speed I started with would’ve lead to a good start. Maybe these almost starts are because my shoe’s untied. Maybe it’s my fault I can’t complete things. I stop believing in myself after the first rush of thought. I searched through torn up journals, documents titled “ehhhh,” and sticky notes with a few words on them. I’ve listed the thoughts here, the almost maybe starts. But everyone has. I don’t want air out my sins, I don’t want my words to live in a dumpster. I found Sarah next to the elevator, outside of security, after parking my car and finding the train to Terminal 3 at Chicago International O’Hare Airport. She smiled and winked, the army green Eddie Bauer backpack slung over one shoulder, pulling up her dress just a tad. I adjusted my shoulder strap, trying to make it lie flat while my duffel swung, forcing a half limp until I reached her. My sister finds a certain joy in airports. I think it’s when her travel virus “Ahhh I can’t believe we’re going!” Passport Stamps from 2011: Greene Memorial Hospital’s Surgical Waiting Room – November 14th, 2011 12 am-3 am. Memorable View: Daddy’s hand on Mama’s back. I don’t remember falling asleep, just waking up. What is it with power anyways? I am an octopus, not an eagle. My mind works in feels, tentacles testing and searching each moment quietly, colors giving way to surroundings. I am an anchor, not a flag. I hold fast, catching on moments and memories, holding firm that which is up high. I am Velcro, not glue. We attach and rip, but both remain intact after the break. But I mean, how am I supposed to lead you to truth? Dinner: things said - “I can get you a job with Peter Roskam” - “He’s not turning red or grey or black” - “You can get really good Mexican there” But butbut that’s when the shift comes, that’s when the change occurs. Lead me lead me lead me to the next heart, the next desire, the wondering eye. Maybe a false start is better than no start. Can I still run? Do I just disregard thoughts about octopi and power? I pick and pick and pick at everything. I shoot the gun, tell myself it’s too early, stop and start all over. Maybe I stand in my own way, judging myself and my work before it ever begins, knowing it’ll fail before it tries. These are words I like, maybe I could love, but words I gave up on before they even had a chance. I stopped believing in myself. |
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