Waiting for Arsenal
So it’s 2 am or so, and there are yet 2 more hours until the league leaders meet in a much anticipated clash at Emirates Stadium in North London. I know I have been looking at this date for ages. Arsenal, the hands-down most fluent and beautifully passing team in the world, versus their old nemesis, ManUre United. It does not get much better than this for the football fan. The game is destined to be a classic, with both sides in tip-top form. Manchester is scoring goals at will, while Arsenal is mesmerizing teams with hypnotizing passing and individual skill. I am predicting a win for the Arsenal, 2:1.
This is a tall order, of course. Manchester has had Arsenal’s number in the last ten years. Last campaign, AFC took all six points, while finishing 21 points behind the ultimate League champions, Manchester United. I would settle for a draw if it meant Arsenal went on to win the title. Stranger things have happened.
A loss for the Gunners might mean a severe psychological blow for the young side. They are unbeaten so far this year, and a loss might send them spiraling. On the other hand, a win could send their confidences soaring, ending in a miraculous run of the treble. So it goes (thanks, Kurt!).
So, I am recently off of work, about two, big glasses of wine deep, and I am finding it difficult to contain myself. Ninety percent of the anxiety is over the match, whereas a wicked ten percent is due to other things, football notwithstanding.
Football, unfortunately, is not my life. I hate to dwell on the fact I never gave college ball a try. But, that is well into the past, and my concers seem to dwell more on current situations outside of the beautiful game. How have things come to be so bad?
It would be easy to say that Woody’s passing (just had the four year ‘death-aversary’), but it’s more than that. Every path I have embarked upon since then, has seemingly ended in bitter sadness and defeat. The teaching is a non issue. The loves are lost. My triumphs have been few and far-between. Is there an end to the darkness, a light at then end of the tunnel?
My feet also seem to hurt much more than they have. Why is this? I have lost weight, 20 pounds to be precise. Am I walking awkwardly? Have I forgotten how to tread lightly? I think not. It seems that it has more to do with the fact that I have lately been imagining myself constantly walking on hot coals. This is not hyperbole; in fact, it is a waking nightmare from which I have yet to wake. Sometimes, I look down, and I see glowing embers and coals beneath my shoes. I can see the sering heat making those wavy, clear lines, like a reverse oasis, below my feet. I will look down and see them there. They are burning the underside of my opposable large toes. Am I mad? Is there a cure? I am lost, and constantly seek that cool, wet grass that most coal-walkers traipse before traversing the red-hot rocks in mock miracle.
Besides having my feet constantly burn as a result of my path of above average temperatures, I have become more and more physically ill. Why is this? I eat well. I haven’t offended any dieties that I know of. Maybe I am too pensive. The rocks, therefore could be a manifestation of something larger, something inherently psychological. It does not take away from the fact that I constantly have blisters on the soles of my feet, and I am inexorably tired…all of the time. I miss the comfort of bliss, of the daily joys that once rained down upon me like cool sheets of ice. God, I wish I had a popcicle right now.
There are one and a half hours until the match now. Should I drink more wine? Duh…of course I shouldn’t…but I do anyway.
Trust me, the wine helps. But, I know it is only a temporary solution to the problems of ennui. I’ve really turned to the books lately. Vonnegut, Huxley, Dostoyevsky and Dickinson. These four have kept me fueled. How long will their therapies last? I don’t know the answer to this. At least they don’t disappear. Sometimes, they bring with them cool sheets of ice to stand upon. Sometimes, they don’t answer at all. But, they are always there, ready to talk, to listen at the drop of a hat. I thank them for that. The masters will always be the masters.
I feel like my life is a series of three stones. The three stones are prodigious. They are enormities but I cannot see thier entirities. About ten percent of them exists above water. They are unconnected, about three feet apart in the water. They look like stepping stones. The first is the stone that represents my career. This is the shortest stone. It is barely above the water. Under the surface, teaching, writing and editing scramble for air, but are constantly drowned out by the realization that maybe this stone is not tall enough. I can stand upon it, but my feet are still wet. I hop onto the next. The second stone is my relationship stone. This one is loose, and wobbles as soon as I set foot upon it. It is weak, unsure and unstable. I cannot find balance. Each time I think that I have stopped the wobbling, I am once again thrown, this time into the cold waters of the sea. Maybe I placed to much of my weight, expecting a stability that was not there. I am doused, and forced to swim to the third. This is the stone of overall happiness. This stone is also a mirage. I swim towards it, hoping to catch a breath and maybe dry off a bit. But, with each stroke, each paddle of my flailing arms and legs, the stone appears further and further away. I keep reaching out, trying to clasp onto the cool smoothness of this stone, but I simply cannot make up the distance. Each effort sends it further into the disatnce. I am in the middle now. i cannot go back to number two, because I have come too far. I tread water. I tire in the cool vastness of this ocean. I begin to sink, and am suddenly comforted by the quietude of things beneath the surface. For a moment, I am calm in the soundless barrier of the liquid universe. There are no sounds. The water is warm and unyielding. I sink down, way down. There is nothing now below me. Bubbles emerge from my lips like alien crafts from their mother ship. I begin to feel faint. I realize I still require oxygen, but there is none to be had this deep. I can either grow gills, or I can die of asphyxiation. I feel my body begin to struggle. I am had.
I wake up in a neatly made bed. It is my bed, in my room, in my house. My feet and hair are wet, but I am safe. I am alive. The sun creeps up over the horizon, and immediately, my feet begin to dry. I look beneath the warm sanctity of my sheets and see the beginnings of a warm fire. The coals soon heat to red, and my feet once again feel the sting of burning flesh. The begin to blister. I can see the print on the wall at the foot of my bed. It is a picture of three individual rocks in the middle of a vast ocean, each one a lifetime apart from the other.
Arsenal wins two goals to one, in a game that takes place in the middle of a freak ice storm. Each stone in the painting is covered in a perfect white blanket of snow, and for a time the red glow of the coals recedes into the blackness, leaving a thin coat of ash and burnt skin.