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Against all expectations, I got out of bed this morning! There was a brief moment where I thought "Uh-oh! These legs aren't going to DO what they're supposed to do!" But I was out on the streets of Long Island by 5 AM and wow, who knew there was a quiet time? Or a time without bumper to bumper traffic? I ended up walking down some little suburban road called "Intervale" and began to worry I might have entered an alternate universe.
Here are some overall thoughts from Day 2!
And that's everything! One interview tomorrow!
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Hey all! It's Elena. I'm stopped for the night and I had a shower and FINALLY! put my feet up. Wow, today was hard! Definitely fun, definitely interesting, and definitely hard. It was one of my longest mileage days right off the bat, which was no joke! I felt really, really good for the first 12 miles and after that, things slowly got slower...but: here are some amazing thoughts from a great day.
What is a Cult based on thirty seconds of internet searching
By: Elena Faverio, Aged 28 I realized instantly that I don’t know what a cult is, so I googled cult definition. Then I realized I don’t want definitions, I want transfiguration of meaning through time so I googled “cult etymology” not entomology which is about bugs. The word cult comes from Latin “cultus” which meant first: tended, cultivated, tilled - like a field is then: care, labor, cultivation, culture, worship, references And from French “culte” which is worship, homage, and late a particular form or system of worship. Popular before the 17th century, obsolete for two hundred years, and then revived in reference to ancient or primitive systems of religious belief and worship in the 19th century. I wonder at the difference between ancient and primitive, how the words couple and converge along Caucasian feelings and findings. I have gotten most of this information so far from exactly one (1) website: which is: entymoline.com under cult (noun) And it looks hella plagiarized as I read it back so please leave me alone. This is how information is passed in these non ancient and non primitive Western societies. This is how we learn about shit, and learn it good. I am not convinced by any of these definitions so far, but we’re in luck because NEXT UP is Hugh Rawson, who apparently wrote something called Wicked Words, which I will pause and research. According to fifteen seconds of googling and the top link (Amazon, surprise surprise) Wicked Words: A Treasury of Curses, Insults, Put-Downs, and Other Formerly Unprintable Terms from Anglo-Saxon Times to the Present by Hugh Rawson is availed in Paperback form from $24.44. Condition: Good. Sold by Bay State Book Company. And Amazon. What the fuck is an Anglo Saxon? Hold, please. According to the Oxford Dictionary and Google - Anglo Saxon is an adjective (what the fuck? an adjective? Okay) relating to or denoting the Germanic inhabitants of England from their arrival in the 5th century up to the Norman Conquest. Or a noun (yes this is what I thought):
Hmmm. Old English is hyperlinked for bozos like me who are on a late night Wikipedia odyssey of terms that they only sort of know, definitely have an idea of what it encompasses in their head, but could never adequately or accurately describe or convey that knowledge to another person. We’ll leave it for now. Back to Hughie Rawson and his wicked words! According to Hugh, the word cult means “an organized group of people, religious or not, with whom you disagree.” Incidentally Hugh wrote this definition in 1993 which is the year of my birth which means it’s time to talk about me. NICE. According to Hugh, here are some things that are cults:
Wait, what the fuck is a despot? Oh okay, according to Oxford it is a ruler or other person who holds absolute power, typically one who exercises it in a cruel or oppressive way. So I was using it correctly. Although wait apparently there is also a rapper known by the stage name Despot, birth name Alec Reinstein, who was born in Queens in 1982. Not much info on him. Oh shit, I googled him and he’s a white guy. Weird. Is it ever possible to be a white rapper and not be constantly appropriating from and profiting off Black culture? Some more cults, according to me: -White suprematists -Anti-vaxxers and anti-maskers -Parents who yell at Board of Education meetings -People who want to have children -People who’s favorite season is not fall. -People who liked the film LalaLand. I would turn in this valuable research, but I learned about Despot on Wikipedia, and my teachers always told me that’s not a viable source of information. Play this game in a group of three.
Are you all met? Okay. Are there more wheels or doors in the world? Let’s all say what we think on the count of three, okay? 1 2 3 - If one person says doors and two say wheels read this: Like time and civilization, all things roll down hill. Gravity is inevitable. Newton knows about this, so does Johnny Appleseed. Like the universe and a wheel in a dusty vacuum, all things roll until they reach the bottom. The ending is inevitable. Everyone knows this. Even the wind. Even the stars in the sky. If one person says wheels and two say doors read this: Aren’t you getting damp, out there in the rain? A newspaper isn’t a great substitute for an umbrella. You should come inside. Come in from the cold. It’s too cold out, so we’re opening hotels and Airbnbs and empty Montauk mansions for the homeless. When the nights rise again over 40 degrees, we’ll turn them out into the streets again Let them build up cardboard cities with newspaper blankets so we can burn them down and wash them away, into the storm drain. Take off your shoes. We’re not a “no shoe household” all the time, but your sneakers are damp. I’ll stuff them with newspaper, so they’ll be dry when you leave. If everyone says wheels: Congratulations! Good things are coming your way. Can you feel them, floating in on the spring wind? The pinwheel is spinning again, and the birds are waking you up at the ass crack of morning. Get up, bitches! They carouse into the golden 6 AM. Get the fuck up! Good news is on the way! It’s spring again And everything is green and gold And the pinwheel is spinning in the gorgeous, gorgeous breeze. If everyone says doors: Maybe this is how it is - you’re always going out of the room. There you go again, clearing the dishes after the holiday meal You’re in the kitchen now, but a moment ago you were in the dining room. Chasing the dog down the hallway into the breezeway into the driveway - A door you don’t even remember open, left - Propped by a stone or a brick or a child’s shoe. And you’re ducking under stone archways of cathedrals and cave mouths, rushing into the tunnel at 80 miles per hour - because it’s late and even the city is sleeping - Rushing out the other end in the same breath. Do you feel it? Even now, you’re going out of the room, into the next. Into the next. TO BE READ AT THE END: To conclude: Let’s linger for one moment - on the threshold. On that perfectly balanced point. our dream is to sail around the world
and he has the yacht to do it. his name is jeff no james no mark no david no john no henry no lyle no evan no christian no george no charles no adam no nicholas no conrad no trent no brent no brendan no brandon no brayden no brady no brodie no brock no spock no sprock no sprick. no rick no dick. dick has the yacht to do it and it is a huge yacht girthy and long and firm and pulsating with desire. we are the maid who has been hired to keep dick’s yacht spotless and our name doesn’t matter all that much because we are a literary device created to allow lonely, horny readers to self-insert. we cross our legs tightly under the table. we push our silky hair back over one shoulder, exposing a slender neck. we bite our lip, and bring blood to the surface - red. our cheeks flush prettily and we have never NOT EVEN ONCE farted or burped or had diarrhea or period cramps or acne or scars or mental health issues or invisible illnesses or learning disabilities or physical disabilities. we have no money, but honestly, who the fuck does these days? dick had money, but he spent it all on his stupid fucking pulsating penis sorry, i mean yacht and spends his days loving scrubbing the gleaming sides with a soft cloth stroke stroke stroke pulling and pushing gripping and twisting. the yacht is not a thinly veiled metaphor for dick’s dick it is a blatant metaphor for dick’s dick. dick would love for us, the maid who has been hired to keep dick’s yacht spotless to climb aboard and take a ride in another blatant metaphor for sexual intercourse. this is not what we meant when we said our dream is to see the world. It is dark inside the belly of the beast
And warm And wet. I read a news story, or perhaps someone mentioned it over dinner, about a person who was swallowed by a whale a real life Jonah And this was recently. There is air in the belly of the beast And time. You can breathe deeply Lungs within lungs And wait for the perfect moment. A hurricane touched down the east end of my island Some weeks ago now And I wondered how long I could move along inside the eye of the hurricane Traveling at the same speed as the winds It is quiet inside the belly of the beast And dim yellow light Like when morning creeps and casts itself over the warm and purring body of my cat Asleep on the foot of my bed. I went to the London Zoo and walked along the tiger enclosure High walls and netting. They are so orange against the grey and grim skies of Camden So striped and still. Why run in a room so small? And their bellies expand with hunger for space And I know that in any other circumstance I am their meal, walking. It is empty inside the belly of the beast Pang-ed and unsatisfied, even after a five course meal and dessert. It is the Platonic cave echoing And the black hole that scientists are creating in a laboratory in Haifa And the well at the edge of the Coraline woods And the space between your bed and the wall. It is dark inside the belly of the beast And warm And wet Like a womb Like a swamp And some days I am the belly And some days I am the beast. In my softest and most precious times
I can understand how lucky I am to sit warmly in bed, with a perfect cat clawing her way across my stomach My breasts My thighs Nails clipping awkwardly into the duvet Knees angled and awkward like a chicken Strutting and yowling at 2 AM It is no one’s fault but my own That she believes 2 AM is the perfect time to complain Or announce her undying love in caterwauling tones As I was the fool who woke, one night, from woolen dreams To pull her close and tell her she was perfect And pet her velvet ears and let her know that I will wake up when she calls me In my softest and most painful times I can understand how brief and stacked the time is We have had wonderful days of kittenhood and claws out Of blown-eyed catnip wondering and nighttime mouse haunt stalking And years of coming home with a backpack or a suitcase or nothing To know that she remembers me still and will still crawl warm into my lap And let me pet her little belly I don’t want to lose this, I think up into the midnight As she curls awkwardly on the floor in a pile of my clothes Or sprawled across a cardboard box that I bought with things for me Or meowing and nipping at my fingertips I don’t want to lose this little life Why did you come into my life this way? And make yourself so perfect And so fragile And so wild That even a wind could blow you far from me And nothing but death could come between us two My cat doesn’t care. Even now She sits on the floor and licks her asshole And understand that it’s enough. All of it, taken as one. This soft and precious time It is enough. I’ve been expecting your call for years now
Both elated and deflated when it doesn’t come I hope that I am growing into a softer and greener self, That I have less moments of glitching one inch to the right of my skin like Why are you this way when you know it’s not so deep And deep I have collated the mistakes in with the good things And I am no longer worried about where they stack up So at night, I sleep whenever I am tired and do not lie awake There is the future, ahead of me Like a road And I don’t know where it ends or what happens on the way But I am not afraid to walk Can it really be that simple? I ask in the quiet moments when dread has edged away And I can just sit in the perfect, temperate, breezy summer And there are not too many bugs Can it really be that simple? When a group of lions gather together and sitting,
shake their perfect golden manes up at the sweltering sun And melt like butter into the short rustling grasses And the wind is not too sharp and not rushed, but trickles in a gentle way Then it is summer - hot and full and burgeoning with the promise of fire. They will speak in one voice, “We are here, together Those of us who remain. Gold and unapologetic and immovable. Sacred and untouchable Under this unmistakeable sky. let’s start not at the beginning
a very bad place to start the middle of a busy highway at rush hour cars zipping by at 80 miles per hour in a 55 zone with honk if you’re sexy bumper stickers and metalica blaring from rolled down windows this is what frogger feels like, you muse as your fringe ruffles in the hot dry breeze belching out of the exhaust pipe of a semi as it clips past, one millimeter from your right ear and HONKS as if you’re the problem as if you haven’t just arrived here as if you weren’t just hatched into this hot and sweaty speedway with no helmet and no car seat and no one to pass you gummy snacks and fruit juice and ask if you can feel the air conditioning on your tiny baby face |
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