5 miles
franklin loop
62 degrees
humidity: 80%
Not an easy run, but I kept going and was happy to be outside, above the gorge, for almost an hour. Some walking, more running. Was able to greet Dave, the Daily Walker. Noticed something sticking out in the middle of the river as I ran across the lake street bridge. People swimming across? No, tree branches stuck on the sandbar. The bridge steps were wet. Not rain, but a hose?
3 moments of color
1
Running across the Lake Street bridge, looking out through the railing, pink. Someone had spray-painted the railing with a thin line of bright pink, maybe bright green too, or was that my bad vision? Or maybe the bright sunlight doing strange things? Whatever it was, it looked magical.
2
Descending into the tunnel of trees from the north, a pool of reddish-orange light ahead of me. A wildfire sun? No, reflections from some orange paint on a nearby tree and red leaves on the ground.
3
Again on the lake street bridge: a very bright circle of light on the water, silver with streaks of orange, or an orange tone? or the idea of orange?
Found a powerful poem on Poetry Daily this morning, Schrödinger/ Katie Erbs.
excerpt from Schrödinger/ Katie Erbs
a little thought experiment
gone sideways an idea
trapped in ovum
the cedar chest the bride suffocates in
the refrigerator’s magnetic closure invented only
after one too many kids
got trapped inside leaving
little claw marks on the insides
of little coffins how I dreamed
of the little bell to ring
from inside the box
to let everyone know
I’m alive inside still
Just yesterday, I was reading a novel, Victorian Psycho, that mentioned these bells in coffins. I don’t think I had ever heard of them before.
I am convinced I can hear bells — the bells that chime from inside the safety coffins in the Hopefernon churchyard. ‘To ensure one isn’t buried alive,’ explained the Reverend when I first remarked upon them as a child. ‘They can only be rung from inside the coffin.’
‘But I hear them at night,’ I had told him, and the Reverend had sighed and shaken his face full of wrinkles . . . .
Victorian Psycho/ Virginia Feito