“Repetition” in words and in theme. “Tiresome.”
“Lacks flow and rhythm.”
“Lacking depth.” (This one cut.)
“Can’t produce more than 500 words?”
“Have you thought of a creative writing class?”
I’m two miles into my morning run. The unsolicited feedback is swamping Audible’s narration of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle: Book 5: Some Rain Must Fall. And chirping in, is Brian Blanchfield’s new book of essays written without the internet and any reference sources.
I twist the earbuds deeper into each drum, turn up the volume and hope to drown the sh*t out.
The words from Book 5 continue to pump. Knausgaard’s autobiographic detail and flow is hypnotic. There are five published books in his series, with each averaging more than 500 pages. He goes back more than 40 years and walks us forward stone, by stone, by stone. (There you go again, with the repetition.) [Read more…]
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.
Geese float silently in the shadows.
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.
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…]