Friday, November 14, 2008
bits/pieces
I recently read Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (of course I dig the reference), and though the book's taken a good deal of flack for its 'inanity' and lack of fluidity post-translation, I really liked it. So what if it's a little disorganized; actually, this seems almost fitting, the way he dips in and out of topics, sometimes returning to point A, other times not. Running's like this, after all, marked by all sorts of wayward/tangential thought patterns. And the 'inane' claim I think is unduly harsh/unreasonable, as the mental aspects of running can/do lend pretty readily to cliche--often because this really is the best way to explain it, you know? But, then, I suppose this claim can be made about any number of things. Aaanyway, it's hardly flawless, but the book has enough redeeming elements to have made it well-worth my reading-while. Here are a few passages that stood out for me:
"...for some reason I never cared all that much whether I beat others or lost to them. This sentiment remained pretty much unchanged after I grew up. It doesn’t matter what field you’re talking about--beating somebody else just doesn’t do it for me. I’m much more interested in whether I reach the goals that I set for myself, so in this sense long-distance running is the perfect fit for a mindset like mine."
"As I run I tell myself to think of a river. And clouds. But essentially I’m not thinking of a thing. All I do is keep on running in my own cozy, homemade void, my own nostalgic silence. And this is a pretty wonderful thing. No matter what anybody else says."
"No matter how slow I might run, I wasn’t about to walk. That was the rule. Break one of my rules once, and I’m bound to break many more. And if I’d done that, it would have been next to impossible to finish this race."
Then there's this--"it’s strange, but when I have to speak in front of an audience, I find it more comfortable to use my far-from-perfect English than Japanese. I think this is because when I have to speak seriously about something in Japanese I’m overcome with the feeling of being swallowed up in a sea of words. There’s an infinite number of choices for me, infinite possibilities. As a writer, Japanese and I have a tight relationship. So if I’m going to speak in front of an undefined large group of people, I grow confused and frustrated when faced by that teeming ocean of words"--which brought to my mind this line from the short "Good Old Neon" (incredible, and incredibly unsettling) in David Foster Wallace's Oblivion, which I just finished: "It's interesting if you really think about it, how clumsy and laborious it seems to be to convey even the smallest thing."
More on this/same DFW story:
"I know that you know as well as I do how fast thoughts and associations can fly through your head. You can be in the middle of a creative meeting at your job or something, and enough material can rush through your head just in the little silences when people are looking over their notes and waiting for the next presentation that it would take exponentially longer than the whole meeting just to try to put a few seconds' silence's flood of thoughts into words. This is another paradox, that many of the most important impressions and thoughts in a person's life are ones that flash through your head so fast that fast isn't even the right word, they seem totally different from or outside of the regular sequential clock time we all live by, and they have so little relation to the sort of linear, one-word-after-another-word English we all communicate with each other with that it could easily take a whole lifetime just to spell out the contents of one split-second's flash of thoughts and connections, etc.--and yet we all seem to go around trying to use English (or whatever language our native country happens to use, it goes without saying) to try to convey to other people what we're thinking and to find out what they're thinking, when in fact deep down everybody knows it's a charade and they're just going through the motions. What goes on inside is just too fast and huge and all interconnected for words to do more than barely sketch the outlines of at most one tiny little part of it at any given instant."
I'd recommend reading the entire story. It'll... do things to you.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Breather
I dropped by a cool exhibit at the Scandinavia House the other day. So close to my work, yet I rarely take advantage. Anyhow, the current show--all pieces on loan from a local collector--features Norwegian and Swiss landscape paintings from the Romantic period, the link being that, at this time, both countries looked to art to illustrate and shape their respective cultural identities. Norway would've been struggling, around then, in its push to gain independence from Sweden, which wouldn't come until 1905...
Shown above is a Johann Christian Dahl image, Dahl known as "the father of Norwegian landscape painting." A lot of his stuff was on hand, as was the work of Thomas Fearnley, another big gun at the time. Representations of nature at its fiercest and most subdued: a brief escape from the urban jungle outside my office, it was a half hour well-spent.
And, um, unrelated, but: http://www.planetdan.net/pics/misc/protectiveparent1.gif. Quite possibly the funniest thing I have ever seen.
Still need to write about the marathon...
Whitney!
I came across this on a food blog of all places, and was reminded of how spine-tinglingly fantastic it was/is. Best rendition ever, far as my ears are concerned.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
"They want what you want"
Just watched Keith Olbermann's stunning speech/plea re: prop 8. He makes many excellent points, points like: "I keep hearing this term 're-defining' marriage. If this country hadn't re-defined marriage, black people still couldn't marry white people. Sixteen states had laws on the books which made that illegal in 1967. 1967."
He also goes into the religion thing, which for many Christians is at the heart of all this, and which reignited something that has(/will?) forever sadden/anger/confuse me--that is, the question of how so many Christians can so blatantly overlook bible verses like Romans 2:1-3, which reads: "Therefore thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest: for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same things. But we are sure that the judgment of God is according to truth against them which commit such things. And thinkest thou this, O man, that judgest them which do such things, and doest the same, that thou shalt escape the judgment of God?"
Seriously. At the risk of sounding naive, how is a clear hierarchy among parts of the bible not evident? I mean, sure, the bible decries all sorts of human behaviors, homosexuality one of them, but the parts that address God's omnipotence/supreme role as final judge (see above), how did this stuff get so severely downgraded? How is it not considered one of the most critical/end-all parts of the book? (See also: those casual references to spreading God's love, the golden rule, etc., etc.)
Seems to me the takeaway is something along the lines of: Don't do all this bad stuff I'm warning you against, and if you do, you'll have me to contend w/. No one else, just me. Er, if all goes according to plan, that is.
This in mind, let them marry already, y'know? Go on and let them plot their fate in hell, if this is how you see it. Just don't step in and dictate yourself--at least not if you wish to avoid the same fate.
And now, on a much happier/ridiculously fuzzy and cute front: http://cdn1.ustream.tv/swf/4/viewer.45.swf?cid=317016
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Grab the Kleenex
Also re: the next President of the United States of America, something I'd intended to post earlier: http://digitaljournalist.org/issue0810/callie-bp.html. (Be sure to click 'show more images' at the very bottom of the page. It's somehow easy to miss this.)
Intense, the humanity. Some of those images are so intimate, you feel almost intrusive, taking them in. Yet not uninvited. Mostly just honored, I think, for the glimpse.
Holycrap!
Goes w/o saying: The White House is on the other side of that fence. One of my fave photos from/of that evening.
Yikes, so much.
Like everybody, I had a most unforgettable Nov. 4. Got to my polling place at 8:00 a.m.--er, no: Got to the end of the line that led to my polling place at 8:00 a.m., a line that wrapped, very nearly, around an entire block. Preeetty sweet. Since I was already fairly wound up at this point, the idea of waiting a good two hours to pull the lever was... not my favorite. So, turned around and, stopping for the obligatory coffee en route, headed for home. Worked/checked the blogs compulsively for a couple of hours before heading back out, this time greeted by a much shorter line. In and out in twenty minutes' time, bakesale-cupcake in hand/mouth.
Favorite scene: the third-grade teacher leading her students up and down the street, directly alongside the line pictured below, as she explained to them, "These people are about to vote for our next president," which garnered the responses, "Cool!" and "I want to vote!" It was awesome.
Fast-forward to 7:00 p.m. Opted to watch the awesomeness unfold at this place, a just-opened Gowanus venue run by these guys, who've brought many a terrif show/comedy hour to the Slope. The space, cavernous as it is, filled up fast--by just 8:45, folks were already being turned away.
Anyhow, it was CNN/Wolf all the way. As state after key state was called for our man, the hugs only grew fiercer, the cries rowdier. And of course, when the final triumphant call was made and that beautiful face filled the screen, well, you know.
Delicious pandemonium! At last, government for/of/by the people! Talk about representation. The success of that campaign in rousing everyone and their dog to get out there and vote already, changing the political map in the process... Wowie. This is one decisive victory. Hallelujah!
So, yeah. The walk home--first w/ Brendan and Jacks, then just Jacks--was fantastic. Horns a-blarin', screams and shouts and chants that rose and fell as one person would let loose an extra-inspired WOOHOOO that would set off a series of the same, which would eventually dull a little only to start up again w/ the emergence of another alriiight! or yeeeeah! or, well, OBAMA! Jacks and I were digging it.
At the point that I left J and it was just me making my way up Sackett, I realized I wasn't feeling quite ready to call it a night. No problem! As I rounded the corner, what did I see but this: http://picasaweb.google.com/ed.manning.net/ElectionNight#. Not my pics, and they're not the best quality, but there ya have it. Even the cops were reveling--well, to the extent that cops can revel.
OBAMA!
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Irish Riviera
Today's run--a long one, 20 miles--couldn't have come at a better time. Slightly wound-up/anxious courtesy of some issues at work, fantastic news from these guys (in! in! in!), November 4 (hopeful! hopeful! hopeful!), and a few other things, I needed for it to go well. And by 'well,' I mean comfortable/calming/free of the pesky aches that have risen up from time to time while training for this particular race.
It was, do I dare say... near-perfect? I do!
Got to bed last night at a decent hour, anticipating a warmish day, one that I wouldn't want to be running square in the center of. An eight a.m. start? Sure! Or, no. Following the standard 'sitting in front of the computer while considering that maybe I wasn't up for the task at hand after all--physically, mentally,' it was 11 by the time I pushed off, and it was none too cool. Not that I could/can really complain--these last few days have been the finest in recent memory: bright and sunny, crisp yet plenty comfortable, no jacket required. In the words of my corner market guy: "I'll take this every day of the year."
I'd decided on a straight and simple approach: Start on Flatbush, stay on Flatbush. Similar to a (shorter) run I did earlier this year. The initial plan was to turn around once I'd crossed Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge and gone two or so miles up the Rockaway Peninsula shoreline, finishing up at Ave. J where my due reward would await--pizza-lunch at what remains, no question, my personal favorite. Alas, I strayed from this early idea, though I did manage to invest in a halfway-decent slice elsewhere. Far elsewhere. But anyway.
Starting out, I wasn't feeling too hot. The first four miles--skirting my own Park Slope, passing through lively Flatbush (the neighborhood, not the street), heading into Midwood--passed laboriously and, frankly, I was just kinda bored. That happens these days during runs, every so often--more than in the past. The bored part, I mean, which tends to get me a little nervous, just because it's new and, well, it's pretty much the last thing I ever want to associate w/ running. Well, 'injury' is up there, too, but I'd almost rather contend w/ some nagging ache/pain (distraction!) than I would boredom. Yeah.
Somewhere around mile five, or maybe six, things started lookin' up. First off, I'd lost the shirt--a loose tee that was flappin' around and just generally irritating me. (Shorts & sports bra weather well into October? I'll take it.) And, I don't know, the roadway opened up (literally--expanding into an eight-lane, median-divided street toward Kings Plaza) and the scene quieted down significantly, which, again/in retrospect, was just what I was looking for in today's jaunt.
After Kings Plaza came the postcard-ready Bergen Beach, Nick's Lobster & Fish Market (considered returning for lunch, before fast recalling the absence of a train stop for several miles), Floyd Bennett Field (NYC's first municipal airport, just learned), the golf course and rolling park I fell in love w/ the first go-round... And the trees! Oh, the trees. Boy were they somethin'. The reds especially stood out--crimson and burgundy, brilliant offset by all the green still unchanged.
On crossing the bridge this time, the structure itself was more impressive than I remembered. It's not a large bridge, at least compared to the ones I'm accustomed to, but the shape is interesting--especially from a considerable distance, at which point it made/makes me think of a pair of rising/opposing waves. The color's also neat--sortof an icy blue. Oh, but in starting across and eyeing an appealing stretch of clean, velvety sand below, I realized I was probably gonna need to reevaluate my route, momentarily captivated by a fantasy involving my bare toes post-run, the ocean, that soft warm sand... And that sealed it: DiFara's would/will be there next week. Or, y'know, maybe.
Just off the bridge, I turned right, having opted for a left on a previous run. Good move. Here's an aerial view of what lay before me. Breezy Point, which, sadly, is off-limits to me (residentially). Eesh, even their website's forbidden. Too bad, 'cause after experiencing it, I was sending texts far and wide, proclaiming its breezy beauty and its aptness as my next home (probably moving soon here--cave's just too much money and too much dark). Ah well--I'll have to settle for more routine treks out that way.
Soon in, I came upon a harvest festival of some kind, kids carving pumpkins, parents grilling corn. It was all very festive, w/ a hefty and clearly evident dose of community spirit. I definitely felt like an outsider, though not unwelcome. Moving on, I reached this next, the only retail hub in the area. I stopped briefly for water and to confirm my whereabouts, then continued on...
Here's one teensy street I believe I ran up, after rounding the better part of this stretch of the peninsula and encountering more of that thick and dazzling fall foliage, a series of sweet, disjointed promenades strewn w/ that lovely pale sand and smooth pink shells, and neat views of a very distant Empire State Building, the Coney Island parachute jump, the Verrazano, planes flying in and out of nearby JFK Airport... And while the occasional person would amble--and I do mean amble--by, tanned and smiling, for the most part I was left to my lonesome, the only sound the lulling crash of the waves just beyond. Because even when I would come upon someone, it's like people were operating according to some unspoken rule, like, 'feel free to move your lips, just don't let any sound out.' My time spent here was the most serene in... months? Longer? I kept thinking of the Oregon coast, even Calif., minus some of the rockiness.
In reading up, it sounds like the vast majority of co-op dwellers are only present through the summer months; I suppose our recent nice weather's responsible for drawing some of them back out this w/e. Or maybe it was that festival I ran into? At any rate, they struck me as a friendly enough bunch, and quite keen on displaying our country's flag. I can't tell you how many residences have this feature; they also fly from roadside posts at regular intervals. Must be due to the area's military background.
W/ about five miles to go, I ran northeast toward the 116th St. train stop (A train--or, shuttle train to the A), and at this point I was starting to feel pretty tired. I'd been running a pretty consistent 9:00/mile pace--a bit faster than ideal for a long training run, but still a pace I felt good about--and experienced a bit of a dropoff through the next three miles, but at around 18, knowing I was so close to the end and pleased to be feeling as good/strong as I was (especially compared to my last 20-miler, at the end of which my legs felt like rotting wood stumps), I kicked it up a bit, remembering to focus on my form, going over some helpful mantras, this sortof thing. Oh, and I'd started daydreaming about my post-run meal, par for the course.
The scene around me these last few miles was pretty ho-hum relative to what I'd witnessed back in/at Breezy Pt. I was following the shoreline, but a stone wall separates pedestrians (and fishermen--there were many out today) from the water, and the grassy space in between roadway and walkway was pretty litter-y. I kept to the housing side, where homes and lawns are very well-kept but modest--not at all stuffy. I took advantage of the occasional sprinkler, the effects of the midday sun taking a toll...
With half a mile to go, I knew exactly where I was, recognizing some key landmarks from before. As I slowed to a walk, I marveled at the lack of 'wooden-ness' in my legs, relieved at having completed this one w/ relative ease. A well-timed confidence boost, for sure.
Last but not least: cheeeese pizza. It was no DiFara's, just some random place off the main drag, but crap did it hit the spot. As I devoured the thing, I headed beachward, admiring the clear, unbroken stream of blue overhead and eventually peeling off my salt-crusted socks to dip ten very happy toes into a very chilly Atlantic. I then did a little beachcombing, careful to sidestep all the glittering jellyfish and wishing I could take home w/ me the feeling of the sun on my bare shoulders and back, the hypnotic din of the surf, before lying directly on the sand for One Satisfying Nap.
An hour later: back home. Back home and pondering how to justify not packing up and promptly moving out to the ocean (what better place to write?), when said ocean's such a tantalizingly short commute (well, an hour) from my Midtown job...
Thursday, September 11, 2008
pathetic
List of books (from the official minutes of the Wasilla Library Board) Sarah Palin tried to have banned from the Wasilla, AK library:
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle
Annie on My Mind by Nancy Garden
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
Blubber by Judy Blume
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
Carrie by Stephen King
Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
Christine by Stephen King
Confessions by Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Cujo by Stephen King
Curses, Hexes, and Spells by Daniel Cohen
Daddy's Roommate by Michael Willhoite
Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Peck
Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller
Decameron by Boccaccio
East of Eden by John Steinbeck
Fallen Angels by Walter Myers
Fanny Hill (Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure) by John Cleland
Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes
Forever by Judy Blume
Grendel by John Champlin Gardner
Halloween ABC by Eve Merriam
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Prizoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling
Have to Go by Robert Munsch
Heather Has Two Mommies by Leslea Newman
How to Eat Fried Worms by Thomas Rockwell
Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
Impressions edited by Jack Booth
In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak
It's Okay if You Don't Love Me by Norma Klein
James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence
Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
Little Red Riding Hood by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Love is One of the Choices by Norma Klein
Lysistrata by Aristophanes
More Scary Stories in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz
My Brother Sam Is Dead by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier
My House by Nikki Giovanni
My Friend Flicka by Mary O'Hara
Night Chills by Dean Koontz
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
On My Honor by Marion Dane Bauer
One Day in The Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn
One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Ordinary People by Judith Guest
Our Bodies, Ourselves by Boston Women's Health Collective
Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy
Revolting Rhymes by Roald Dahl
Scary Stories 3: More Tales to Chill Your Bones by Alvin Schwartz
Scary Stories in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz
Separate Peace by John Knowles
Silas Marner by George Eliot
Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
The Bastard by John Jakes
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier
The Color Purple by Alice Walker
The Devil's Alternative by Frederick Forsyth
The Figure in the Shadows by John Bellairs
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Great Gilly Hopkins by Katherine Paterson
The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
The Headless Cupid by Zilpha Snyder
The Learning Tree by Gordon Parks
The Living Bible by William C. Bower
The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare
The New Teenage Body Book by Kathy McCoy and Charles Wibbelsman
The Pigman by Paul Zindel
The Seduction of Peter S. by Lawrence Sanders
The Shining by Stephen King
The Witches by Roald Dahl
The Witches of Worm by Zilpha Snyder
Then Again, Maybe I Won't by Judy Blume
To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare
Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary by the Merriam-Webster Editorial Staff
Witches, Pumpkins, and Grinning Ghosts: The Story of the Halloween
Symbols by Edna Barth
Friday, August 22, 2008
Catchup
Goodness. Been a while. (Hi!) Things've been a tad hectic, partly due to much recent attention given to my grad skoo app (finally finally finally taking the plunge, though w/ a 15 percent acceptance rate, I'm hardly holding my breath) and partly due to training requirements. Regarding the latter, it's been an interesting ride these last few months. I've had a hell of a time running in the heat/humidity this year/summer, even w/ a few years of experience under my belt by now. Eesh. I was so miserable for it that I made the decision to start running my hard/long workouts in the evenings--late as I can, really. I'm thinking this'll only last through August and maybe the first half of September, 'cause it definitely fouls up one's social calendar. (Heh.)
But yeah, for this reason and for others I can't quite place--oldladyness, maybe--training for this race feels like a bigger, more serious commitment than in the past. The fact that I really really really want to qualify for Boston again probably adds something. One thing, I switched training schedules a few weeks back, opting for ol' Hal's sage advising over some Portland Marathon-sponsored garbage the pops put me up to back in July (dangit!). That first sched called for super-high mileage, and besides the fact that my body was acting hurt-y and it was damn hard to find the time required to keep honest, I was slowing down--of all things! What I need/ed, I figured, was a return to some good old-fashioned speedwork, which is just what this replacement schedule's good for. Signif lower mileage, too, which has been nice. I think it's working.
Anyhow, I'm up to 14-mile long runs, w/ a 16-miler on the books for this Sunday, placing me about halfway into my training. And it's neat, because I feel like I v. recently--as in, a week or so ago--hit that sweet point in one's training when the whole deal just starts getting/feeling easier. And this, well, this brings the fun back, which was something absent from my workouts in weeks/months prior. Amazing, what staying on schedule will get a runner. Yeah.
As far as specific runs, I've been sticking pretty consistently to quiet, straightforward Fourth Avenue. To be honest, it's just the easiest: convenient and familiar and right on the R line should I decide on a 'point a to point b' run over an out-and-back. (Uh, yeah, done that maybe twice.) Plus, it makes up a reasonable stretch of the actual marathon course, so there's that. Still, I've done a good bit of river crossing these last couple of months, rotating pretty evenly between the Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Williamsburg bridges. Nothing like covering this ground at 2:00 in the a.m. on a Sunday. Nothin'. Views of these are also pretty cool, though only good through 10:00 in the p.m.
Oh, also, and this is something I'm quite excited for, a dear person just gifted me w/ an early bday token: a session w/ these folks (Monday!), and timing couldn't be better. See, I've been having this knee thing--not at all debilitating, just pesky and a nuisance and slightly worrisome when I think about the months ahead. Last thing I wanna do is recreate the dealbreaking experience of a couple years back, when that damn stress fracture sidelined me for a good four months, and so soon before race day, too. Drat. Still bitter.
I've also spent even more time than usual these days reflecting on running's mind-body connection. *Dear person* referenced above has been instrumental in encouraging this, and some great eye-opening conversations have resulted.
One recent decision I made was to, at least where lengthy and/or hard workouts are concerned, lose the headphones. I've never been one to pair music w/ running more often than not, but had fallen back on the practice to a greater degree in the last year. Because it can help, for sure. Thing is, I've determined that it most def distracts my attention from form/posture, and this just isn't something I'm willing to compromise--I can't compromise it, not if I want to be at my best come November 2. So there it is: no more Arcade Fire. (Drat--sorta. I love running to that shit.)
And that's enough on the running. (Though it really is my life of late!)
Other stuffs have also been a-happenin'. Need to get back to work here, but following is some brief photo documentation. First half are pics from Ms. Jenn's bachelorette party (started w/ rooftop drinks/spa treatments, then to dinner, then out), second are from Tippy's recent stay w/ me & the Du (Michelle Du, that is). Needless to say, a trip to Coney was involved...
x
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Kay Ryan
I just finished reading a short collection of poems, The Niagara River, by the newly named poet laureate, Kay Ryan. Some pretty neat stuff. Favorites:
GREEN HILLS
Their green flanks
and swells are not
flesh in any sense
matching ours,
we tell ourselves.
Nor their green
breast nor their
green shoulder nor
the languor of their
rolling over.
STARDUST
Stardust is
the hardest thing
to hold out for.
You must
make of yourself
a perfect plane--
something still
upon which
something settles--
something like
sugar grains on
something like
metal, but with
none of the chill.
It's hard to explain.
FAKE SPOTS
Like air
in rocks, fake
spots got here
really far back.
Everything is
part caulk.
Some apartments
in apartment blocks
are blanks;
some steeples
are shims. Also
in people: parts
are wedges: and,
to the parts they keep
apart, precious.
HIDE AND SEEK
It’s hard not
to jump out
instead of
waiting to be
found. It’s
hard to be
alone so long
and then hear
someone come
around. It’s
like some form
of skin’s developed
in the air
that, rather
than have torn,
you tear.
NO NAMES *favorite favorite favorite!
There are high places
that don’t invite us,
sharp shapes, glacier-
scraped faces, whole
ranges whose given names
slip off. Any such relation
as we try to make
refuses to take. Some
high lakes are not for us,
some slick escarpments.
I’m giddy with thinking
where thinking can’t stick.
GREEN BEHIND THE EARS
I was still slightly
fuzzy in shady spots
and the tenderest lime.
It was lovely, as I
look back, but not
at the time. For it is
hard to be green and
take your turn as flesh.
So much freshness
to unlearn.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Amazing
http://self.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/08/05/vanishing-act/
I conceived the idea of walking from Flamborough Head to Spurn Head, along the Holderness coast of East Yorkshire; which lies to the north of the city of Hull, and to the east of York. It was about 60 miles and I could do it comfortably over three days. Why this walk along this coast? Well, the soil here--loess or clay--was deposited during the last ice age, and ever since then the long shore drift has been carrying it away to the south. The Holderness is, in point of fact, the fastest-eroding coast in Europe, with some six feet a year being lost to the North Sea.
...
In January of this year there was a photo in the Independent newspaper of a house about to topple over the cliffs at Skipsea Sands, a third of the way along the coast, and that decided me: I would do the walk. I thought it would be strange enough seeing all these homeowners of the abyss, but stranger still was the notion that if I travelled the whole way within six feet of the cliff--or better still on the foreshore--I would be taking a walk that no one would ever be able to reproduce, because the very land itself would’ve disappeared within months.I
Must check out this Will Self guy. Hmm.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
g-dreams
Dozin' at work for a few, I just dreamed I was at a party where level of engagement/interest was reflected in the color of partygoers' lips. So like, green = available, red = busy, yellowish orange = idle, and gray = logged out (or the fancy new 'invisible'). Okay, I don't remember there being gray, but considering all the other colors synced perfectly w/ gmail's chat feature, I figure there must've been at least one ashen-lipped attendee. Maybe it was me.
Eh, yeah, so not only is it time to flee the Dub V, it's time to get the hell offline. Clearly.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Signs
Yesterday morning, walking downstairs, greeted by the sight of a towel-clad dude who, on noticing me, made no haste in removing himself from the hallway. But that's not the part that said to me: "go home--it's time." The part that said this is the part where I realized I wasn't really fazed by such a thing.
One more week! I can't wait. I miss PS. And hanging out in the park last night w/ Pan & co. only served to affirm. Still yet, millin' about w/ the dog tonight in the Dub V (sorry) doesn't sound too shabby...
Thursday, June 12, 2008
"Is there any humanity in either of these guys?"
Regardless your thoughts on McClellan/his bookish motivations, the focus here is not on him, but on Letterman's affirmed awesomeness: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/06/12/david-letterman-dick-chen_n_106753.html
LETTERMAN: My feeling about Cheney and also Bush, but especially Cheney, is he just couldn't care less about Americans. And that the same is true of George Bush. And all they really want to do is somehow kiss up to the oil people so they can get some great annuity when they're out of office. "There you go, Dick, nice job. There's a couple of billion for your troubles." (applause) I mean, he pretty much put Halliburton in business, and the outsourcing of the military resources to private mercenary groups, and so forth. Is there any humanity in either of these guys?
McCLELLAN: Look, I still have personal affection for the president. I can't speak to the vice president's thinking that well because he's someone that keeps things himself and he believes in doing it his way, and he doesn't care what anybody else thinks. He is going to do what he feels is best and that's not always in the best interests of the country. As we've seen.
This is mostly encouraging--in particular, the bit about McCain's support dropping ten points in the last three months. Now, if we can just sway some o' them suburban white women Obamaward--'cause they've def got it in them, a number having endorsed Hillary in the primaries... I don't know though, I really do think that once Hillary's termination settles out and regrouping is complete, this demographic will (largely) unite in favor of O over M. The latter is just too, too dismal a prospect, and it's only a matter of time before it's more widely acknowledged among these women.
This is/was just plain awesome:
Last w/e in STL w/ N & D & little K: beers, babes, and blistering heat. Wheee!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Idyll
I would make any number of sacrifices to be here, now.
(Photo's from this great blog.)
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Finally, three years in...
Entry number: 282011
Labels: better late than never
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
2008 Boston Marathon
Quick trip, but I Chinatown-bused it to Boston Sunday night, staying at Kassie/Dave's to catch Monday's race. Dave's teaching at Wellesley, w/ K & D living right on campus. This is exactly the halfway point in the marathon--and a new vantage point for me, as when I've watched races in the past, it's been the finish line I'm parked at, or in the case of NYC, close to the start.
Taking it all in at 13.1 was a different experience, then. Runners have generally found their rhythm and held it for a while by now, which is of course welcome, but 13.1 is also the start of those can-be-torturous middle miles, w/ the beginning well-behind yet the end still far from seeming likely/real. This is why the infamous scream tunnel kinda saves the day--distracting/encouraging for at least a mile or so. Oddly I didn't hear much of anything, having stood a ways down the road from it. That there were like a million cowbells in full effect had to have masked a bit, too.
Anyway, per usual, seeing that first pack of elites emerge (this race: women first, followed by the mens a half hour later) made me almost pee myself. It's insane how fast they're going, how fast they've been going for an entire hour, and how fast they'll continue to go for another hour still. And though as a group form/gait was impressive overall, I was surprised to see a few of the frontrunners looking more than a little ragged. Like, arms were flying around to a surprising degree. I don't know, this is probably routine, strange to me only because of the vantage point newness.
It was especially stirring to watch the Kenyans pass this year, realizing/imagining the challenge of training in their home country in recent months.
I somehow missed seeing ol' Lance go by (one dressed like a bee), who missed his 2:45 goal by five minutes. Also missed a hell of a (women's) finish...
Kassie and I were talking later about how it's pretty surreal, witnessing the aftermath of such an event--several overfilled trash cans and chucked orange wedges the only evidence of 25,000 runners having passed through town not an hour earlier. And given the holiday, several of the shops were closed, making the streets extra-still. Waiting for Kass to drop her ma off at the train station, I stretched out on a curbside bench, sun on my forehead, and napped in total peace.
Yeah, so it was great to see K & D, as that's a trip I'd meant to take much sooner. They're both tearin' it up w/ their respective art, w/ D just recently commissioned to paint a huge wraparound mural in this prominent campus building. K's stuff never ceases to amaze, and it's been fun to watch her style shift in the years I've known her. Totally inspiring, the both of 'em.
Now if I'd only managed to return home w/ my phone charger, jacket, etc., etc., etc. Long sigh/par for the course.
Also running related: If you live in/around good ol' Kent, WA, do go here. Chef's a good man.
Just pretty: http://gowanuslounge.blogspot.com/2008/04/brookspring-weeping-slope-blossoms.html
Monday, April 14, 2008
Master of my domain
I submitted the following two bits some time ago to RW. Both were turned down, and though I recognize why, the experiences documented were personally valuable, and so, I'll blog 'em instead.
Last month I traveled to Europe for the first time. Week one was spent in Belfast, where runner types were conspicuously absent. Next stop: London, where it was hard to avoid them.
My last day there, I managed to squeeze in a morning run. While winding through idyllic Hyde Park, I met runner after runner; each time, a familiar feeling tugged at me, one I traced back to August's trip to Missoula, to January's stay in Santa Monica, to last year's rendezvous with Madison, Wisconsin. In sum, to most anyplace I'd ever donned a pair of running shoes--anyplace that wasn't home.
The feeling: Reverence, homage paid to the resident runners of a stomping ground that isn't my own.
As I skirted the ovular fountain, memorial to Princess Diana, I thought about the red-vested, thirty-something guy, presumably a Brit, whom I'd just passed. What went through his mind when the momentous stone structure entered his sight? Anything? Maybe it's the Serpentine, lake at the park's center, that holds special significance for him. Or maybe it's something less obvious, something that only he is privy to: a particular grove of trees, a certain house on the periphery of the green.
Regardless, I exchanged several looks over the course of my run. On my end, these looks were meant to convey respect, a quiet acknowledgment of the relationship that my British counterparts have with their environment as experienced through running. In my way, I was thanking them, masters of their domain, for allowing me to share, and enjoy, their turf.
It's different at home. When it's my own turf I'm treading, I've been known to get a little, erm, possessive. I have a tendency to act as though certain landmarks along my tried-and-truest routes--the gnarled tree stump that bears an uncanny likeness to the plastic trolls my Norwegian grandmother hordes, the row of poplars that takes me back to the home of my childhood, the city street on which I was running when I had that minor epiphany--grant me some sort of ambiguous territorial claim.
"So where do usually run?" I ask, addressing my new coworker upon learning that she, too, is a runner.
"Well, I'm a big fan of the Belt Parkway trail in Brooklyn, been running there for years. You ever run it?"
"Um, yeah. That's actually my all-time favorite running spot," I reply, a slight edge to my tone.
I was jealous--frankly, a predictable reaction. After all, when I look back on my running career to date, it isn't the PRs that come to mind, it's the unswerving relationships I've formed with my surroundings as I've worked to achieve them. Unfortunately, relationships, particularly those of the romantic variety, tend to invite jealous feelings into the mix. In the case of my running, a part of my life with which I'm very much in love, I wanted that trail--that is, the fondness I’d developed for it--all to myself.
What I need is to get the whole sharing thing down, take a mental trip back to kindergarten to re-learn this basic life skill. Of course other runners have bonded with the same sights as I--the retro diners, quaint cafes and Gothic style cathedrals, cattail-flanked duck ponds and Saturday morning Little League games--but this shouldn't detract from my own unique experience. The comfort should lie in the understanding that no two relationships are identical, including those that exist between person and place.
I've been practicing. Take the other day for instance.
I'm running through Brooklyn's Prospect Park--my old standby route. A familiar runner approaches, a guy I've crossed paths with a dozen or so times in the last few months. In addition to my typical restrained nod, I summon a little something extra: a small smile and sustained blink of the eyes. It's my 'reverential look' and it's intended to express the same thing here as it did in London and Portland and Sedona: respect. Regard for one runner's distinctive relationship with, this time, our turf.
running to the rescue
Vacations, endlessly hyped, can be a real pain in the ass. Unless, that is, you're a runner. The other week, armed with my trusty Brooks, I saved a long-anticipated getaway from a disappointing outcome with a few strategic strides. Running, I'm now convinced, has the potential to make almost any vacation feel longer, richer, worth it.
Equipped with a weekend plus two delectable days off work, my itinerary--my original itinerary, ahem--consisted of a pair of 12-hour Amtrak journeys (New York City to Montreal and back) sandwiching 50-odd hours that would be spent cavorting with dishy French Canadians. Oui oui!
Things got off to a rousing start. Upon reaching the station, an unsavory announcement reached my ears: "I'm sorry, train 71 from New York City to Montreal has been canceled." You don't say. You don't! Ah, but you just did. Harumpf.
I then learned that the next Canadian-bound train wouldn't depart until the next morning. Yet I was hell-bent on getting out of the city without further delay, so I decided on a half-day and night in Poughkeepsie--a small town two hours north and directly en route to my final destination. Certainly I could imagine worse than a brief stay along the Hudson, river flanked by trees electric with fall colors. Still, pining for Montreal and mourning a day lost there, the sentiment "waste of time" more than crossed my mind. It lingered.
Time would tell.
I put in a call to Amtrak, and minutes later I had an updated itinerary: NYC to Poughkeepsie in T-minus twenty minutes; Poughkeepsie to Montreal at 10:00 a.m. the next day.
By 2:00 p.m., I was settled into my discount motel in, yes, placid Poughkeepsie. Another hour, and I was breathing sweet autumn air, shoes snug, water bottle topped off, watch primed for an hour's worth of crisp afternoon running.
And what an hour it was. At the advice of the motel's front desk attendant, I wove through the nearby campus of Vassar College, marveling at the confluence of old and new architecture. Immense brick dormitories; a library extravagant with turrets, stained glass, and sculptural detail; buildings displaying the clean, sweeping lines of Scandinavian design...
Thirty minutes in, I left campus for more modest surroundings: neighborhoods characterized by colorful ramblers, casually manicured gardens, retrievers barking at who knew what, kids caught up in pre-dinner make-believe... Residents walked by; we exchanged smiles and waves. There was a mayoral race in progress, and there were all sorts of campaign signs, with "Poughkeepsie Needs a Work Horse, Not a Show Horse" standing out in my mind. Toward the end of my workout/tour, my growling tummy, teased by a string of aromatic restaurants--Italian, Chinese, Middle Eastern--demanded a shift in attention, and visions of thick Tuscan bread and sauteed snap peas accompanied me on the home stretch. (Italian won out in the end.)
The next morning, while awaiting the arrival of the taxi that would whisk me to the Amtrak station, I felt vaguely sad to be leaving this riverside burg, with its academic influence, its two-car garages, its energized politics. Halfway to Montreal, drowsy post-nap, I realized what it was: Over the course of an hour--over the course of my run--I'd forged a connection with this "Queen City of the Hudson," as it's known. I was never "supposed" to be there, it was a chance maneuver, a mistake; yet through running, I'd developed a meaningful relationship with it, an affinity for it.
Had I skipped the run, I'm convinced I would have missed this. I wouldn't have received the same range of visual cues, thus my Poughkeepsie schematic would have been comparatively flimsy. Perhaps more significant, had I chosen instead a leisurely stroll along the main drag, my not-quite-a-daytrip would have been absent that binding thread that mysteriously sews itself between runner and nature, the thread that people invoke when they speak of the spiritual aspect of the sport.
The thread that, apparently, saves vacations.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
400 words
Everyone (most people? no?) has their own weird little compulsion(s)--thoughts, actions, etc. And yet, some of the more nonsensical ones are hard to put into words, which is why I find this pretty amazing. Succinct! (Check out the site in general--neat stuff.)
Speaking of (more commonplace) compulsions, this place, freshly opened, is one whole block from my studio. Toooo-night. Hopefully there'll be reason to celebrate--as in, a replacement cave dweller on the books...