I'm going to split this entry up into two parts. The first bit is for humor, the second for reflection. Suit to taste.

I Won't Die For Irony

ELIZABETHTOWN, NY (AP) - Local resident Buck DeFore was killed today when his vehicle struck a young deer upon returning from a hike on Buck Mountain. Authorities were heard mentioning, "We always knew he wanted his life to bring humor, but we didn't think he'd try to do it this way."

Note: If this really happened, I hope you would have laughed for me. This press-release didn't happen yesterday because somehow I managed to miss the deer, slanting the car back towards the direction of the side it came, as it kerplunked its hooves across I-87. I thank fortune it didn't slip, or I would have hit it at 75MPH and the airbags would have put a plushy end to my consciousness at a very inopportune moment. Comfort first.

In other news, my sister told me, that same day, Kenny Blackerbee (sp?) was killed on a sidestreet accident somewhere. I'm shocked. I suppose there is a way to phrase it: one of us from those troublemaking front bus seat days "had to go" yesterday. The cold north country continues to claim us young. It's especially cold in the summer. Chris, Don, Kenny, I'm sorry. I need to leave here before I join you!

Yikes, that started out humorous, honest! Then again, DeLillo reminds us: "All plots move deathward."

And Now For Something Completely Different

So I'm still here, writing you updates on lake monster culture. Starting over from the beginning...

Anxious as I was to leave the house, yesterday I went out for a hike in the Adirondacks. I was testing a few theories. The mountain as laboratory. Hmm...

One of my theories was that we know very little of how or why the body really works, especially in healing. Three days before, I suffered a bad cramp in my left hamstring during a soccer game. I woke up the next morning with the muscle so tight that I could barely walk. I must be getting older, I thought, for I never remember a cramp causing me grief the next day. I decided that the best approach was one of comfort and stresslessness for my hapless leg, so I sat around much of the day, resting. The next morning, I woke up surprised to see that my hamstring was as tight as the day before, no improvement. And this was how my body rewarded me for a vacation! I let the day go, generally immobile, in hopes that the leg would "fix itself." Natch, there was to be no fixing. Two days later, the cramp had still altered my normal gait.

I reasoned that I had endured just about enough crap from my body (we have a love/hate thing going on, just to let you know - and this was definitely a bad spat). So I decided to press the issue. I went on a 4 hour hike. You probably know the hamstring is the essential muscle for the stairs and for otherwise increasing your altitude. By some reasoning, I was being silly, pressuring the very muscle that was complaining and needed rest. But, after it was over, I had successfully risen 2000 feet and back again without a hitch. Today, the leg is absolutely normal again.

So, I'm now pursuing corollaries from the following theories: 1) Never think you're "getting older" when you're 23. And 2) Comfort leads to atrophy or lack of growth, lack of healing.

I can take this a few ways. I think numero dos applies not only to my hamstring but to my health (physical, mental, etc.) in general. The worst is behind me, but I am still not back to my full form. Recently I've reconsidered again whether this is the best time for me to take on the challenges of world travel, and, once again, I conclude that it is. Repairing the aftereffects of a soul cramp demands challenge, not comfort.

P.S. - Thank you, Emily M., for the poetry, and the inspiration to look up:

Hemingway's Iceberg Theory

"If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water."

- Death In the Afternoon, Scribner's, 1932, Chap. 16, 192.