01.29.2002 - 10:48 a.m.

My cat�s new hobby has to do with waiting until you pet her and then attacking your arm. The bites are kind of amusing, since she can�t really get her jaws around human forearms, so it doesn�t hurt at all. Just looks funny.

The claws, though, dig in just fine. I had forgotten that healing scabs could itch so much.

Besides the cat scratches, I have a scrape on one elbow from some branches the other day during Frisbee golf, some fading knee bruises from a pool game last Thursday, and a few other assorted sore spots from a flirtatious wrestling match over the weekend. I suppose it�s a little strange, but I like feeling just a little well-used. As if the marks on my body prove that I do live my life fully, that I take risks with myself and cherish all the outcomes. I enjoy brushing a knee against my desk and remembering, oh yes, I had a good time that night. Moving sore muscles makes me aware of myself in a deep, sensual way. I can�t be a klutz when I know where I am. I miss being an athlete.

I used to believe that pain meant you were growing. Which I suppose is partially true. Mostly, though, I think pain is just there, like wind and cold and candle-lit baths, and means whatever you want it to.

I should write more, about wanting things to mean other things, but I have a meeting to go to. Maybe later.

-stonebridge

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