An Uninvited Guest

Based on a true story

Finished up my last gin
Head caught up in a spin
Thought it was late plenty
Needed to sleep badly

Got my ass off the chair
There’s a cat in the stairs
Fur all smeared, black and white
Purring in the faint moonlight

I’m dressed dark, like a bum
I expected it to run
But it moaned, meowed and begged
Wrapping all around my legs

Its back against the sidewalk
You should have seen it gawk
Roll over, all happy
As I rubbed its belly

Tell me why it likes me?
I’m not even friendly
And I’m beat and it’s late
And it’s cold, which I hate

OK Sir, Mr. Fluff
I think I’ve had enough
I’ll just be on my way
See you some other day

He follows me still
Even past my doorsill
Sneaks inside like a mouse
Acts like it’s his own house

Enough fooling around
Don’t make me chase you down
Suddenly, it hit me;
Maybe you are hungry?

Can of fish in a plate
I can use it as bait
And when he wants no more
He’ll just meow for the door

He eats half of his meal
Doesn’t finish the deal
Without saying good night
Disappeared out of sight.

The Leaf Warrior

She was a fighter. An odd one, many would think, but a fighter nonetheless.

She had received many gifts from life. A powerful, energetic glow, eyes sparkling with intelligence and wits, and a softness rare in these troubled times. She could melt mountains with her smile, calm furies with a few simple words.

But yet, she didn’t see that. From her perspective, inside, it was different. She was a carrier of dark clouds.

As far as she could remember, she had acted against a powerful force that seemed to drag her down every step of the way. A ball and chain from the spirit world. It didn’t show much on the outside, adding to the eerie feeling she had when she looked deep down inside. It’s one thing to live in a dark underground, she thought, but it’s a complete other when this is invisible to the outer world. Like a twisted theatre, it forced upon her a role to play, a mask to wear; it burdened her with great solitude.

As she walked her path, she found discoveries and challenges like specs of light to show her the way. Closed gates blown open, wandering souls looking for a home, guides and prophets, visions and dreams. She was taken in many directions, some forward and some dead ends.

She felt like a leaf floating down a river; it was the current of life that was driving her downstream. It’s refreshing at times, she thought, smiling at all the wonderful memories this image had brought. But it can be constraining and brutal, as well, she echoed silently, clenching her jaws remembering every time she’d been given wings only to see them decay and fall.

She didn’t notice at first, but her vision of the river was still very present as the thoughts were swirling in her mind. As she centered on it, she noticed the stream she was envisioning had become larger, stronger, agitated. Curious, she frowned as she closed her eyes, slowly shutting out the world around.

What was this? The closer she was getting to the inner image, the more vivid her feelings. As the stream changed into a river and turned into a rapid, strong, loud, powerful, a flow of uncontrollable feelings rushed inside of her. This wasn’t a peaceful place.

Images from her life started associating. Clashing waves. Twisting swirls. The gushing waters of the darker thoughts she’d kept hidden were cascading forward. The black clouds had rained down one time too many. Her secret dam was overflowing.

A flash flood. Of refusal, rage and every restraint, humiliation and ignoring silence. A hurling debacle forcing upon her the realization of what was holding her up all this time. In the middle of this frenzy now turned into a thundering roar, overwhelming and uncontrollable, so destructively liberating, something awoke.

She was deep, deep in her thoughts and she had not noticed the flood had breached out to the open. As she felt the black tears of her rage streaming down from her eyes still closed to her soft cheeks, she knew something had changed. She was no more a leaf carried down a stream. She was the stream, calm and pure at times, but also the raging river rushing down, overpowering anything that stood in its way.

She wiped away her tears like a hammer breaks long-worn shackles. She took a slow, resolved breath and opened her eyes.

She’d sat down a leaf, and gotten back up a warrior.

Little Nudges And Great Marvels

I knew this wasn't necessarily the best idea. I'd run Wednesday night on a treadmill and, for no apparent reason, fucked up my right foot. Since then, every time I get up, it takes me a couple steps of limping before I start to walk straight. It doesn't really hurt, but I'm sure I shouldn't run on it... even more with my first half marathon in less than a month.

But when I saw it, I knew I couldn't resist. Red Rock Canyon. A desert valley surrounded by high peaks of flat-faced rock, varying in color from sand to blood red. It's astonishing. The air is dry and fresh and open trails invite you in every direction.

For a while, I thought I could probably get away with going for a hike. It'd be the reasonable thing to do. Save my foot the stress and still enjoy the magnificent canyon...

Mireille said it best. I hate being reasonable.

:)

That's just what I needed. A wink and a gentle kick in the ass to remind me life is short and canyons are awesome. So I said screw it, packed my brand new Five Fingers and running gear in a backpack and headed for Red Rock.

I got there with knots in the stomach. This is, after all, a very large wildlife reserve with minimal amenities. They basically give you a map of the place and let you loose. I parked the car and started studying the surroundings. The terrain is very rough. It's loose pebbles at best, steep sharp-edged rocks in the worst stretches. There isn't really sand; this is a rocky desert.

I'd never ran on anything else than a treadmill with Five Fingers. Would they be sturdy enough? Would my own feet be sturdy enough? Barefoot running is no small business already on regular trails, this was something much more... extreme.

The little Mireille above my shoulder kicked me one more time. Just go!

So I headed for the trail. I only had a 750-ml bottle of water, because I forgot my runner's hydration belt in Montreal. This also made me nervous, but I decided I'd watch my running time and start heading back as soon as I'd reach the first half of the bottle.

Running barefoot on rock is an indescribable feeling. You can sense every little bit of ground under your feet, and somehow they are able to compensate any instability in a blink. What a surprise. As I took my first strides, my apprehension rapidly changed to excitement and the realization of the level of concentration I'd need if I didn't want to end up with a sprained or broken foot.

I chose to run the Calico Hills, a legendary piece of land where native petroglyphs were found on the many rock faces and caverns surrounding it. It had a feel of mysticism, a strong energy emanating from the earth and the powerful wind that blows there almost endlessly.

The valley is basically a steep climb toward the rock walls. You need to push forward really hard and to jump over larger rocks as you go, which sets a very demanding, irregular pace. But the more I went, the easier it seemed to get. I started to run on the uneven surface with increasing ease, dodging cactuses and thorny bushes on the way.

I thought I was going really slow. My pace wasn't fantastic, I was at the top of my breath and needed all the focus to make sure I didn't step on anything I'd regret.

I kept at it for about 5 kilometres, more or less following the trail up. Then I crossed a paved road, which I decided to follow up to a lookout. That was my turnaround point. But when I got there, I discovered there was a rougher hiking trail going up...

My little Mireille was already giggling. I didn't need any kick this time. I ate a couple energy beans, took a sip of water and went forward. The trail was mostly a very soft sand, compacted by hikers' footsteps. A completely new terrain, much easier to run on. I took only a couple steps in the trail and my speed started to increase, to a point that took me by surprise. I flashed through the rows of surprised hikers, looking at me but also at my feet, perplexed.

I jumped from rock to rock, sped on the sandy trail, not even trying to avoid the large puddles of water. I was getting fast, I was getting dirty and I wanted some more :)

I ran the trail until there was nothing else than large boulders to climb on. I stopped, took a couple breaths, drank a little, took some pictures (which I think you will like). Unable to stay in place, I turned around and started running back down. Even faster. I couldn't believe my own feet! Seems a winter spent practicing on a treadmill was a good idea after all...

When I finished the trail, a group of hikers I'd passed cheered at me and applauded as I was jumping and dodging down the last stretch of the pass. I made a large smile and kept going. Since I'd lost the trail I came from, I decided to run along the road for a while, surrounded by huge walls of red rock. I was breathless, I was in deep effort, but I couldn't do anything else than smile and laugh as I was going, taken by the majesty of the canyon and its magical energy.

Further on, I found another trail that streamed down toward the visitor center where I'd started. I climbed down onto the trail - a dried river bed, most likely - and pushed myself even more. I couldn't believe my speed and the strength of my legs. What an amazing feeling.

I finished my run covered in desert dust and excited like a kid. The adrenaline of the run stayed with me for several hours as I was walking a hiking path to get to various viewpoints. On the way, I captured the images of Red Rock Canyon in my mind and I connected to its vibrant energy.

They're stored now. And I know just exactly when these might come handy, when I hit the 30-km wall of my marathon in September.

It's been a long time since I have felt so alive :)

Las Vegas And Me

Sin city. Lights, glitter, exageration galore. I've been here quite a couple times and never really was able to put my finger on what exactly it is that makes me hate this place so much.

Maybe the hordes of paid conmen walking the streets trying to lure you into their casino, club or restaurant scams? Or the clicking sound of these desperate little boys and girls snapping whore ad cards at you? Unless it's the absolute lack of anything regular like a grocery store (no, ABC is NOT a grocery store) or even a place to get a decent healthy meal under 300$... Beats me.

Of course, there is the Bellagio fountain and the lovely Mon Ami Gaby just in front, where you can enjoy a delicious steak with your choice of pretty much any type of French wine you can think of - and by the glass. It's an oasis of relief. The extraordinary Cirque du Soleil venues (mostly Zumanity and Ka)... But aside from that, it's neons all the way down.

And the people. Walking the streets shitfaced drinking from plastic guitars or Eiffel towers, on their Sunday best with their cowboy hats or Croc shoes. Playing slot machines for hours on end, zombie-faced, rocking the baby carriage with one foot, smoking cigarettes and pulling on the machine's arm like a mindless robot. Being rude to their washed-out tired waitress wearing a sad excuse of a miniskirt showing her fat, cellulite-ridden asscheeks.

If you've got money and want to burn it, the city's yours. As long as you keep the greens flowing, you'll be treated to every single wish you might have. Limos, diamonds, luxury suites, cigars, $3,000 Cognac, helicopters, they have it all. But as soon as the money runs out, so do you. You'll end up ignored, broke and washed out on the curb before you know what happened. Wanna get a feel of what I'm saying? Walk The Strip at 7:00 in the morning.

As I was finishing to write this, the lady sitting next to me in the Internet room closed the Solitary game she was boringly playing on the computer, sighed and gave me a half smile as she was leaving. "I guess I'll go back lose some more money at the casino" she said, with a resignated look.

Outbound

The echo of his footsteps was faint against the constant humming of the city’s background noises. He took a quick look over his shoulder and smirked. “Five years living here and I never walked this street”, he thought, wondering at which obscure point in his life had his natural curiosity and sense of adventure started to evaporate.

His mind was clearing. A strange sensation emerged, there, almost at his doorstep, as each stride he took in a new direction felt like a decision he should’ve taken a long time ago. He stumbled on the words of an old song, swept in the dust of his memories.

“Roamer, wanderer, nomad, vagabond, call me what you will.”

Years of pushing back one’s nature eventually take their toll. He’d negated so much of himself that he struggled to find a couple pieces still intact. Of all the colors he once was, only some stray shades of gray remained, like old photographs of distant events you can’t remember.

“Enough.”

The evening was getting older. Tomorrow would come invariably, with its tasteless routine and common places. Put your suit on, conform. Take your place in the drone parade.

Surfacing from his thoughts, he lifted his head and took a look around. Two rusty lamp posts were shedding a yellow light on the damp sidewalk, in front of an old metal gate. A train station. With the quietest determination, he slowly walked to the decrepit ticket booth where an old lady was sitting. Without even taking a look, she softly put down her thick novel, took off her reading glasses and mumbled “Can I help you?”

“Can you?”, he asked. She offered no response but an inquisitive frown. He leant to get closer. “Get me the hell outta here, Love”, he heard himself whisper, as if it were a last request, his dying wish.

Seconds of heavy silence started to rain down. Then, without a word, she slowly shuffled through her papers until she found a ticket she handed him through the rusty metal bars. As he reached to grab it, she took his hand. “Twenty years ago, there would have been two of those”, she said softly, with a melancholic smile. He put a second hand over hers and remained there long enough to give ample thanks.

As he turned his back and headed for the platform, she said “when you get there, you’ll know where to head next.”

He didn’t bother reading the destination. He boarded, found a seat by a window and closed his eyes. For the first time in what seemed like ages, a genuine, warm smile rooting in his worn down heart blossomed onto his wrinkled lips.

He slid his hand in the side pocket of his coat to find his stainless flask. He sipped the last drops out of his old friend and gently put it down on the seat next to him, tucked in just enough to look like it’d been forgotten by some random traveler. “Make the next poor bastard happy”, he whispered.

The train slowly came to life and started making its way out of the station. As it gained speed into the night, the spiraling mess of a life he’d been long suffering started blurring away in the distance.

He knew he’d never be back.

Turning Point

Sitting in his dim-lit living room, he was chewing bad thoughts. None of the usual entertainment seemed to be of any interest anymore. Why did he feel like that?

He’d suffered a flash flood of bad memories he couldn’t wash out. The day hadn’t been that bad, really. The weather had been decent; there was even sun at one point. He’d squeezed in a comfortable place in the train back from work, triggered a shy smile from a pretty girl he’d crossed on the street.

“It’s all in the little things”, he thought.

For a moment there, he would almost have smiled. But when he got home, the world slowly fell back down onto him, one regret at a time. The place wasn’t all that bad, but the poor maintenance had rendered the apartment derelict and dirty. The water heaters rattled, the taps leaked. Most of the light bulbs had burnt out and were never replaced, out of laziness or lack of caring.

He’d poured his last glass of hope from the bottle. He couldn’t help but feel his heart slowly sink into the last puddles of his former life.

“Fuck it.”

Realizing there was almost comfort in this toxic state of mind, he decided to try and quietly work his way out of the emotional dead end he’d been stuck into for too long. He pushed the glass a little further on the coffee table, just so it would require a conscious effort to grab it. He sat a little straighter, gently rubbed both hands on his weary face.

The sigh that got out of him surprised him, but felt refreshing.

He got up, grabbed his favorite coat, threw it on and walked down the stairs into the hall. As he reached the street, he took a deep, long breath. The early evening air was fresh, but not cold. The dampness of winter seemed to be gone, at least for that moment. He’d normally head down the street to his usual places, walking a slow pace.

This time, he turned left.