Running. And, slow sailing to a quiet dance.

drum-drumline
It’s a coincidence. (Again?)
It’s synchronicity. (Do you believe that?)
You made it up, you’re delusional. (Not yet, don’t think so, not just yet.)
It’s a sign, a message. It’s G – – . (Oh, boy.)

5:45 am. I round the corner to Cove Island – low tide.  The sulfur released from the exposed mud fills the lungs – gas, pungent smelling salts.

I inhale.

Geese float silently in the shadows.

I run.

I’m around the loop and back, 1/4 mile from the entrance.  GPS flashes 4.1 miles in. I don’t glance at the time, that’s been a year now, I’ve conceded. “Matured.”  Over 25 years of daily tracking of body weight and notating work-outs, first in a log book, then Excel spreadsheets and now Google Sheets.  And also, now, on a parallel path on a digital step tracker which automatically feeds volumes of data into machines and is charted and graphed and spliced into pieces – all of which I never look at.  The logging, the tracking, the effort, I mean Really! WHO CARES?

Yet, the tension pulls at both ends, a medieval body rack tearing the limbs from the torso. Wired to Do, whipped by a Mind that makes you Do and strapped to a Body that can no longer Do. And, the Head swims in rip currents.

[Read more…]

T.G.I.F.: It’s Been A Long Week

dog-tired-hot-summer-TGIF


Source: Themetapicture.com

 

Running. With a Black-Winged Bird.

crow

Sunday morning, early, 5:40 am.  Out the door.

Temperature: 78° F.  Humidity? 1 zillion, and climbing. Visibility? Fair. Mist rises from the earth, still absorbing the 3 am deluge – one very large compost pile.  It’s August in the Connecticut rainforest, and I run.  This should be corrected, I used to run. Now I lean forward and move my feet hoping not to take a header.  I’m 1/2 mile in, all exposed body parts glisten with a high sheen…and the rest are feelin’ Heavy.  I flip my music player to Counting Crows and The Rain King.  Yes, if you’ve followed along with me on this blog, this song and its reference would be a repeat. You get old, you repeat sh*t. That’s how it goes.

….When I think of heaven, (Deliver me in a black-winged bird) I think of flying…

I triple click the up volume arrow, Rain King is boomin’ into the earbuds.  The tech gremlin pipes in a warning: “Sir, you can sustain ear damage at high volumes.” Honey, no worries, there’s ain’t nothing up there will be damaged.

I round the corner and approach a steep incline. You’re Usain Bolt. You’re a Kenyan. You’re in Rio. You’re amazing!

I take off. [Read more…]

T.G.I.F.: It’s Been A Long Week

bear-log-tired-funny-2


Source: Media Bakery.com – Captive Adult Brown Bear Rests On A Log At The Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center, South-central Alaska. (Thank you Rob at The Hammock Papers)

 

My mind chattering, lay hold of me. Lay hold.

bird-simone-sbaraglia

Remember the giant whooping crane on the county highway
whose mate had been hit, stretched out dead at the center
of the road? She stood by him, wings open and flapping, shrewd
voice anxious, screaming, her dark red crown bowing in her descent
through the rim of despair. With each oncoming car she took a short
running flight to get our of the way, pacing the side of the road until
she could return to him. The next day, when still there, exhausted,
wings tattered and brown, we scraped what left of her lover
off the asphalt with a snow shovel, and laid the body on the low,
dry treadgrass by the embankment. The birds had come that July
to our swill, which had filled with monsoon rain. She stood there
close to us, in the still, yellowing grass, her interminable legs wobbling
underneath her body. The long toes of her feet twitching. That
shallow silver dish of my mind chattering, lay hold of me. Lay hold.

~ Elizabeth Jacobson,”Lay Hold of Me,” The American Poetry Review (July/August 2016)


Notes: Poem – Memory’s Landscape. Photo: Simone Sbaraglia

Running. With Man on Wire.

spider-web-close-up-kim-westcott

This body is 6’1″ and yet it always seems to hit me head-high. On the chin. Wraps around my forehead. Straps across the eyes, like strings of celophane plastered on the corneas. And on a bad day, at the end of a long morning run when I’m heaving, it hits me full on the mouth like strands of cotton candy, without the sweet and the color. Here, the scene would be a middle aged man who’s lost his marbles, arms waving maniacally and spitting like a machine gun.

Yet, it’s so fine. A fraction of the electrical wires slung between the poles overhead. Thinner than the monofilament fishing line I would cast in the eddies of the Kootenay river. And thinner yet, than the fiber optic cable laid across the Atlantic.

Yet on this road, this morning, this path less travelled, it was apparent that overnight he was working. At 5:15 a.m., it hit me across both eyes. A single strand. Not on the forehead. Not on the chest. Not on the knees. Not even on the neck. Not one eye, square across both eyes, as if he had a plum bob, measured me up and said: to get him, it has to be right here. 5’x” off the ground, and assume a bit of up and down motion because he’s running.

The single web line was strung across a two lane highway, to a tree on the other side. Across a two-lane highway!

How? Now that is the question(s). [Read more…]

secret, disciplined, generous and unfathomable

owl-dream

Not the bald image, but always –
undulant, elusive, beyond reach
of any dull staring eye

– lodged
among the words, beneath
the skin of images: nerves,
muscles, rivers of urgent blood,

a mind
secret, disciplined, generous and
unfathomable.

– Denise Levertov, excerpt from Williams: An Essay from Selected Poems


Notes:

5:00 Bell! Long week. For the ride home…

Fenne Lily, 18, lives and studies in Bristol, England. She was born in Dorset and crafts elegant, folksy songs performed with a fragility that belies the lyrical strength of her music is accompanied by a simple acoustic guitar. Being discouraged from watching TV as a child was integral to the development of Fenne Lily’s musicality, as instead much of her time was spent writing songs and honing both instrumental and lyrical skill. Her folk-tinged music is woven with integrity and sincerity; grit and soft understatement in equal measures.

Liked this? Check out Fenne Lily’s Hit: Top to Toe

Find her on Facebook here: Fenne Lily


Bio Sources: Youtube and Facebook

Miracle. All of it.

john-cusack

… But right now, you and me here, put together entirely of atoms, sitting on this round rock with a core of liquid iron, held down by this force that seems to trouble you, called gravity. All the while spinning around the sun at 67,000 miles an hour and whizzing through the milkyway at 600,000 miles an hour in a universe that very well may be chasing its own tail at the speed of light. And admist all this frantic activity, fully cognisant of our own eminent demise – which is our own pretty way of saying we all know we’re gonna die. We reach out to one another. Sometimes for the sake of entity, sometimes for reasons you’re not old enough to understand yet. But a lot of the time we just reach out and expect nothing in return. Isn’t that strange? Isn’t that weird? Isn’t that weird enough?

— John Cusack [David Gordon] Martian Child (2007) Directed by Menno Meyjes. Screenplay by David Gerrold and based on his book The Martian Child: A Novel About a Single Father Adopting a Son.


Notes:

  • Credits: Photo. Quote: Thank you Value of Soul-Making
  • Post Inspired by Albert Einstein’s quote: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
  • Related Live & Learn Posts: Miracle. All of it.

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call

birds-swallow-feeding-nest


Source: Photo by @brianlehmannphotography (via Paper Ghosts) – Barn swallow’s nest on the wire of a missing light fixture inside an abandoned farmhouse in Nebraska.

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