It’s hot out, humid. But that is not why my hands are damp. It’s because I am nervous.

Email communication is not working, and I must get this done, now. So it is the old-fashioned way, the physical, visceral way--paper, envelope, stamp. I look at the address, my scrawly handwriting, the first pen I could find, purple ink, embarrassingly girly.

The envelope contains a single piece of paper, hastily signed but long considered. It feels so light, but it is so heavy, containing the focus of an urgent charging passion. No wonder just holding it in my hands makes me sweat.

What I ask for with this missive, this single act, is a chance. A chance to have my desire, my commitment, my physical integrity challenged, ruthlessly examined and possibly destroyed.

New York City Marathon. November 5, 2006.