Thank you Lynne.
Thank you Lynne.
The Fast was not part of any religious experience, ‘Tis the season, but the execution of a containment exercise. We order cocktails before dinner. Rachel was giddy in her counter: “the Dimwit thinks that skipping lunch is a Fast.” There’s no point in arguing with the closed-minded so I sit quietly sipping my tap water watching the mocking escalate, with Mother and Son now piling on. Who’s she calling a Dimwit? Who raised this thing?
Yet, I knew. I just knew, a bad outcome was coming. The late night dinner was preceded by a full day in the Sun and an empty stomach following the end of my Fast. My Fast.
I open with warm bread rolls (and who’s counting after three) – all carefully lathered with cheesy butter and baptized in virgin olive oil squeezed from some tree on an arid hill in Greece. This was followed with a Caesar salad, fresh crispy greens, a light-just-right Caesar dressing and razor thin strips of Parmesan cheese cultured from some cow grazing on a hillside in Southern Italy. The knife and fork then worked the entrée, a heaping portion of three-layered eggplant lasagna topped with cheese, broiled to a golden crisp.
This was chased down with three intermittent spoonfuls of Rachel’s garlic mashed potatoes, with the buttery succulence coating my tongue and lips. In my fourth attempt, the sharing was shut down: “Dad, ENOUGH!” – batting my spoon back and moving her dish beyond my reach. [Read more…]
My head carries the sound of tap-dancing through puddles.
One slow stab of wonder until I get to sleep again.
I think the trees are ﬁrework taxidermy.
A steady reminder of celebration and light.
I’m a collapsing house.
Come collect me.
All the candles
burning down to the metal,
the radiator singing its dumb water song.
in my lungs.
out of me.
did it get so cold?
The hotel lobby. (~2006)
High cathedral ceilings. Dark wood grain walls. Turkish Rugs that run and run.
There’s a whiff of lemon in the air, the wood floors scrubbed by the overnight crew.
The Bellman, adorned with a red cap, offers a “God Morning” in broken English, and quickly drops his head back to his book.
A step back in time.
There’s no mistaking Warsaw (Poland, not Indiana) for the youth and flamboyance of Barcelona or the hushed old money wealth of Geneva or the modern efficiency and hum of Tokyo.
Warsaw is the Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. Long past his prime and wearing deep scars of bone jarring defeat. Tired, hurt and a heaviness that lingers.
It was a slow run 9 years ago.
An early Sunday morning in autumn.
A single 40-minute run cutting deep furrows which are turned over and over again. [Read more…]
In the back of my awareness,
I also know this:
The day will come when
I shall have to recall the luxuriant splendor of long, solitary walks,
rather than take them.
~ Katrina Kenison, Present. Magical Journey: An Apprenticeship in Contentment
There is no proof of the soul.
But isn’t the return of spring
and how it springs up in our hearts
a pretty good hint?
56° F. Rain spitting on the windshield.
The convoy rolls out to Mianus River for a trail run.
Zeke sighs as he curls in the backseat. Anya settles in the trunk.
The Wolfpack is draggin’.
Their leader rides the slow lane on I-95 thinking about the benefits of a long walk on his joints.
99 days. 3 months + since your last trail run. What a lazy a**.
Rain stops. Clouds hang low.
We pass through the gate.
The Park is empty but for a fisherman making his way upstream.
Both dogs pull on the leashes. A sharp tug gets them to heal.
Wait! I’m not ready for this yet.
I look up.
A gold leaf canopy.
I look down.
A solid gold leaf carpet.
Someone is laying tracks.
Red tail light blinkers flash ahead.
One car after another, clears the way.
Left lane is all mine today. All mine.
Autumn hues frame the highway.
The browns, the yellows, the reds flash by.
The clouds, paintings, gliding silently overhead.
What is this?
It’s Roland Barthes in Deliberation: The window is wide open, the gray day has lifted now. I experience a certain floating euphoria: everything is liquid, aerated, drinkable (I drink the air, the moment, the garden)
7 on 70s spin on Sirius. Boz Scaggs playing Lowdown:
Nothin’ you can’t handle
Nothin’ you ain’t got
17 minutes door-to-door.