Talking Turkeys: Thanksgiving Day Excerpt

STRAY turns three years old this week and will be .99 cents until Saturday. Check out the latest cover.

.99¢ KINDLE Version

That strung out heroin addict on the cover is from a series of photos by Actor/Director/Producer David Beatty who graciously allowed me to use the image. To me, that makes him Good People, and I will give him a fist bump in heaven if I can get there. Surely his spot is secured. 

 The Golden Retriever sandwiched between used to have sole possession of the cover, and now he's back.  The blurb on the front is from Sacha Scoblic, author of the fabulous "Unwasted: My Lush Sobriety."

Here's a short Thanksgiving day themed excerpt from STRAY. James is a main character of STRAY who was raised on a turkey farm. He has an epiphany hanging out with the turkeys after taking his first hit of acid. Enjoy! 

James remembered sitting against the wired fence, with a bottle of Busch beer between his legs, and waiting for the LSD to take effect.  Turkeys shuffled in front of him, their herky-jerky heads bobbing this way and that, and they gobbled with every breath.  James sat relaxed, like watching waves fold upon the beach, and the turkeys weaved a wonderful dance as he drank his six-pack.

The sun was warm and glowing, and his senses started to drip like the sweat on his forehead.  The cells of his body seemed to be expanding, encompassing more and more, and James let it happen.  He felt his body oozing, the grass breathing, and the earth moving up and down to match the air in his lungs.  Sounds were deeper, richer, and were felt in his chest like loud bass from far away.

The sounds he felt in his chest were the gobbles.

The random gobbles from the turkeys, the backdrop of life for James his whole life, were now screams.  Cries.  Gobbles were cries, getting more and more intense, and speaking to James directly.  The turkeys were telling James they were finally glad he could hear them, finally glad he could hear their screams of fear, of being trapped.  We’ve always been here, marching off to our slow death, watching our family being hit with stun guns and propped up by their feet, and then sliding towards decapitation.  You can hear us now James, you’re realizing we smell the blood of our brothers in the air, see the blood squirt out of their necks.  We’re always scared and screaming, screaming in the gobbles, gobbles, gobbles, gobbles, but nobody hearing us, just watching us being slaughtered.  But now you know, James, today you can finally hear us.

They know they’re going to die, thought James, feeling his veins throb in his temple.  James had never been sure if they knew they were going to die or not, but now they were telling him.  The animals on the farm knew they were here to be slaughtered for someone else, and were living in terror everyday.

But then James began to envy the turkeys and his pulse began slowing.  The screams ringing in his ear became comforting.  The turkeys had a definite purpose, they knew their role, and they lived not in fear but acceptance.  They accepted they were supposed to be killed slowly, accepted they were supposed to live in terror.  It was all part of an absurd game for them to try to escape through cracks in the fence, to eat to get fat, and to wander aimlessly to get nowhere.  It was just why they were here, so let it happen.  And just as James found his mind comforted with this thought, they gobbled back in confirmation.  Yes, James, you’re finally getting it, yes, James, you’re getting it.  Gobbling in fear was just part of it.  Now you got it James, now you know. 

Grateful For My Scars

Is it trite to say I'm thankful for my running and all the wonders it has brought me?

Yeah, it is. The answer's in the question.

Ah, but peel back the layers and you'll find that running is like ogres is like onions, and behind that layer of running gratitude, I think what I'm really grateful for is the recovery from the run. The healing.

Without healing there would be no run.The running part is easy. I've never been one to lack in motivation to get out there door. Maybe in putting in enough miles when my legs aren't responding, maybe in not stretching enough or eating for ideal training, but I can run anytime, in most any weather.

Each run tears the body down a bit so that it can be built back stronger, the trick is not to tear it down so much that it gets injured.  Pushing your limits means always dancing on that edge, and often going over it as my latest injury reminded me.

But I'm very grateful that the relatively minor injury is healing, and I'm feeling ready to hit some harder training in the days/weeks to come. Time off to recover and heal after an injury makes you miss what you had, but damn, instead of lamenting the time off of running I try to flip the switch and be grateful I'm healing. This time of slower/less running isn't permanent. It's temporary.

Yep, today I'm grateful for healing and recovery. If I hadn't recovered from lots of damage I've done to my body, brain, and soul through my life I'd be a wreck.  But, as of now, I can run, and can heal and recover.

But, as I age I'm healing much slower and my recovery time seems twice as long.

I know some aged folks who, when I have an experience with them, say out loud, "you know, as you get older, you often wonder if this the last time in your life you'll be doing this..."

Carpe diem or carpe party-poooping, one or the other,

But the day will come when I no longer can do this, no longer can marathon, since I wont be able to recover and heal. One of these injuries may become permanent. One day I may actually have that heart attack or wreck my knees like the smokers and sedentary folks have all been warning me as they list off the reasons running isn't good for me.

 For now, I have had to heal over and recover many times, and have a lot of scars, both physical and otherwise, but I like to think that he who dies with the most battle scars wins.

I want to be one of those guys where folks say "wow, you are still running a marathon at your age...?"

I'm thinking that doesn't even come into play until post -50 years old, right? Probably more like 60.

In other news, the Ann Arbor Marathon announced they are running on June 9th, the weekend after the Dexter to Ann Arbor half-marathon (oh, I can hear the Ann Arbor running community clamoring from here.)

I was just at the Big House last Saturday for the Michigan/Iowa game, and one of my favorite parts of going to each game is the nostalgic walk to the stadium. Well, now I have the nostalgia of last year's Ann Arbor marathon which started at the stadium and then ran past it again at mile 23 or so.

The football game was wonderful. 55 degrees, sunny, a unique Denard Robinson/Devon Gardner backfield, and the incredible beat of my favorite running song "Seven Nation Army" blaring to pump up the crowd. That primal, slow and steady beat that crescendos until your insides are ready to burst.

(I realize it's a popular song for lots of sporting events, but Jack White is Michigan and Detroit, the rest are just borrowing him.)

Yes, I want a football game, a marathon, and a life that is worthy of having the song Seven Nation Army as its soundtrack. And this means a lot of physical beatings, a lot of hurt, and needing a lot of time to recover and heal.

And I'm grateful for that, so for now, “I’m fine... I carry a lot of scars. I like the way that sounds. I carry a lot of scars.”

(pretend I didn't plagiarize this line from the novel The Beach.) 

Happy Thanksgiving. Rub your scars, whether they be on your skin or your heart, and think of how dull life would be if you had none.

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