3.6 miles
bottom of locks and dam no. 1
48 degrees
Another cool morning! Today, I glowed: a bright orange sweatshirt, bright blue running shorts with lighter blue swirls, bright yellow running shoes, a purple-pink-blue running hat. Did it make me run faster? Maybe. I felt much better on the run this morning. Was it because I didn’t have any unfinished business, or because I was going only about half the distance? Or a little bit of both? I ran south and recited part of my new You Are Here poem about the grassy boulevard. I like it.
10 Things
- red leaves
- the occasional thump of an acorn hitting the ground
- the loud rumble of a school bus approaching Dowling
- scales on the river near the locks and dam — no clear reflection of the bridge today, instead more of an impressionist painting of it
- the bridge in the 44th street parking lot was empty, so was the one near folwell
- a dog’s bark, deep and loud, in the trees near Becketwood
- more golden light through the trees
- heading north, descending on the path that dips below the road, seeing a big but not the trail — hidden behind leaves
- the bench at the edge of the world: empty
- a buoy (not orange) bobbing in the river under the ford bridge
Listened to cars and dogs as I ran south. Put in “Taylor Swift” essentials retuning north.
Since I wrote about the grassy boulevard this morning, and being alone, and freedom, here’s a fitting poem:
Grass, 1967/ Victoria Chang
When I open the door, I smile and wave to people who only
have eyes and who are infinitely joyful. I see my children,
but only the backs of their heads. When they turn around, I
don’t recognize them. They once had mouths but now only
have eyes. I want to leave the room but when I do, I am
outside, and everyone else is inside. So next time, I open the
door and stay inside. But then everyone is outside. Agnes
said that solitude and freedom are the same. My solitude is
like the grass. I become so aware of its presence that it too
begins to feel like an audience. Sometimes my solitude grabs
my phone and takes a selfie, posts it somewhere for others
to see and like. Sometimes people comment on how
beautiful my solitude is and sometimes my solitude replies
with a heart. It begins to follow the accounts of solitudes
that are half its age. What if my solitude is depressed? What
if even my solitude doesn’t want to be alone?
Chang’s version of solitude involves being watched, stared at, judged and assessed, evaluated. And it involves a distance created with eyes and staring and being on display. My solitude, or maybe my loneliness, involves a lack of seeing — not of being seen, but of seeing when I’m being seen.