Tag: 10 things

nov 11/RUNYARDWORK

6 miles
hidden falls and back
41 degrees

Beautiful morning! I was over-dressed in 2 long-sleeved shirts, running tights, winter vest, stocking cap, gloves, and a buff. Wow — what was I thinking? Had my hair in a braid, which really wicks the water, so when I arrived home RJP and FWA let me know that sweat was dripping (pouring) down my back. They thought it was hilarious and disgusting. It was.

My average pace wasn’t the fastest (11 minutes), and I stopped several times to walk in the second half, but I’m proud of my mental victories. I had planned to run this route before I started, but in the first mile I already felt it would be too hard. Just make it to the downhill at the locks and dam no 1, I thought. By the time I reached that I thought, just make it to the top of the wabun hill. Then it was, keep going over the bridge and make it to parking lot before you stop. Then, keep going until you hit 3 miles. I made it to 2.8, at the spot when the path and parking lot were closed for construction. I walked, then ran, then walked, then ran again for 1.5 miles.

10 Things

  1. what a view between the ford overlook and hidden falls — wide open and steep
  2. a lot of sirens — police, ambulance, fire? — across the river — on highway 5?
  3. feeling strong and fast on the ford bridge
  4. voices below on the winchell trail — happy, chatting
  5. a tall fence around a construction site (for a BIG house) at Highland Bridge
  6. later, that fence rattling, when a worker was entering the site
  7. the “straight” (that is, straight to me) bluff line across the river, visible and framed with fuzzy tree limbs
  8. someone sitting on the ledge at the ford overlook, gazing out at the gorge
  9. the steady flow of water above hidden falls, part of the new water management plan for Highland bridge — making a soft, pleasing sound
  10. empty benches, until I stopped at the one above the edge of the world to retie my shoes

Arrived home just in time to rake the leaves for almost 2 hours. Now I’m tired!

a few more things: Inspired by a call for hybrid/text-images/sound pieces for a journal, I thought about doing more with my rock, river, and air chants from GGG. Not sure I can do it in time for this call (11/16), but something fun to include with GGG as a collection.

Talked with RJP and she showed me her sketches from yesterday’s hike in the gorge. I love them! I could imagine us doing some fun collaborations!

Came across this great resource while searching for something else rock-related. It seems fitting to add it in this entry, since I ran to Hidden Falls! The Cascades of Minneapolis/St. Paul

nov 8/RUN

5.5 miles
falls / veterans home / ford bridge
34 degrees

Wonderful November weather — at least, I think so. Sure, the sky was gray and it was just above freezing but the color left on the trees was intense and the views were open, and the river — the river! — steel blue with scales, curving and stretching. Running over the ford bridge, admiring the red and yellow and orange tree line on the west bank, looking out at the open water, I smiled and reflected on how lucky I am to live here and how glad I am that I’ve dedicated myself to the place for almost a decade.

I experimented with the route today. I ran to the falls then past them to the tall bridge then over to the veterans home and across the ford bridge. Under the bridge and over to the other side then across and north to the winchell trail. A falls, a creek, a river, some seeps. 2 bridges. Above, over, beside, and through the locks and dam no. 1. 3 parks.

10 Things

  1. 2 roller skiers
  2. 2 fat tire bikes
  3. a tree the color of golden chrysanthemums
  4. deep grayish blue river with soft scales
  5. the road over the bridge to the veterans home was blocked off with cones and tape, but the walking wasn’t
  6. the strong smell of week as I passed by a walker on the ford bridge
  7. running above on the ford bridge, looking down at the painted lines of parking spaces at locks and dam no 1
  8. running near the edge of the bluff, the yellowed leaves were thick on the path
  9. a young kid near the edge, a mom calmly saying, it makes me nervous to have you that close to the edge. if you tripped you could fall straight down
  10. running over the tall bridge, admiring the sandy trail far below me

Looked up “cellular” on poetry foundation and found this wonderful poem:

A Body’s Universe of Big Bangs/ Leslie Contreras Schwartz

A body must remind itself
to keep living, continually,
throughout the day.

Even at night while sleeping,
proteins, either messenger, builder,
or destroyer, keeps busy

transforming itself or other substances.
Scientists call these reactions
—to change their innate structure,
dictated by DNA—cellular frustration,

a cotton-cloud nomenclature for crusade,
combat, warfare, aid, unification,
scaffold, or sustain.

Even while the body sleeps, a jaw slackened
into an open dream, inside is the drama
of the body’s own substances meeting

one another, stealing elements,
being changed elementally,
altered by a new story

called chemical reaction.
A building and demolishment,
creating or undoing,

the body can find movement,
functioning organs, resists illness—
or doesn’t. Look inside every living being

and find this narrative of resistance,
the live feed of being resisted.
The infant clasping her fist

or the 98-year-old releasing
hers. This is how it should be,
we think, a long story carried out

to a soft conclusion. In reality,
little deaths hover and nibble,
little births opening mouths
and bodies the site of stories

the tales given to us, and retold, retold,
never altered, and the ones forgotten,
changed, unremembered

until this place is made of only
ourselves. Our own small dictators,
peacemakers, architects, artists.

A derelict cottage,
a monumental church
struck in gold, an artist’s studio

layered with paints and cut paper,
knives and large canvas—

the site the only place
containing our best holy song:

I will live. I will live. I will keep living.

I love so much about this poem and the poetic way Schwartz describes what a cell does in (and to) the body. These lines were particularly striking:

and bodies the site of stories

the tales given to us, and retold, retold,
never altered, and the ones forgotten,
changed, unremembered

until this place is made of only
ourselves. Our own small dictators,
peacemakers, architects, artists.

Cells as dictators, architects, artists? Nice. As I think about more expansive understandings of what it means to be an artist, I especially like this idea of a cell as an artist.

Googled more about the history of the discovery of the cell and was reminded that central to the discovery, and the very idea of a cell, is the microscope and the ability to see a cell. This made me think of Robin Wall Kimmerer and something she said in an interview about western science. Can I find it?

Maybe this, from “Ways of Knowing”:

Both Western science and traditional ecological knowledge are methods of reading the land. That’s where they come together. But they’re reading the land in different ways. Scientists use the intellect and the senses, usually enhanced by technology. They set spirit and emotion off to the side and bar them from participating. Often science dismisses indigenous knowledge as folklore — not objective or empirical, and thus not valid. But indigenous knowledge, too, is based on observation, on experiment. The difference is that it includes spiritual relationships and spiritual explanations. Traditional knowledge brings together the seen and the unseen, whereas Western science says that if we can’t measure something, it doesn’t exist.

Two Ways Of Knowing: Robin Wall Kimmerer On Scientific And Native American Views Of The Natural World

Or maybe it was this, from “How to See” in Gathering Moss?

We poor myopic humans, with neither the raptor’s gift of long-distance acuity, nor the talents of a housefly for panoramic vision. However, with our big brains, we are at least aware of the limits of our vision. With a degree of humility rare in our species, we acknowledge there is much that we can’t see, and so contrive remarkable ways to observe the world…Electronic microscopes let us wander the remote universe of our own cells. But at the middle scale, that of the unaided eye, our senses seem to be strangely dulled. With sophisticated technology we strive to see what is beyond us, but are often blind to the myriad sparkling facets that lie so close at hand. We think we’re seeing when we’ve only scratched the surface….Has the power of our devices led us to distrust our unaided eyes? Or have we become dismissive of what takes no technology but only time and patience to perceive?

“How to See” in Gathering Moss/ Robin Wall Kimmerer

For further reading, see this article on the history of the cell.

And this video is fun: The Wacky History of Cell Theory

nov 4/RUN

4 miles
river road, north/south
49 degrees

We were planning to go to the Y, but when we stepped outside and felt how beautiful it was, we changed our plans. Instead of swimming, I would go running. I’m glad I did; it was beautiful out there! Saw on the forecast that rain turning into snow is possible on Saturday. It’s coming: winter! Felt strong again and bouncy, able to pop off the asphalt with my powerful leg swings and foot strikes. Nice!

I’m writing this 3 hours late because we had a mini kid crisis with parking tickets and passes. Had to help figure that out. Can I remember 10 things?

10 Things

  1. Good morning Dave! / Good morning Sara
  2. running in shorts with bare legs, warmed by the sun
  3. a tall oak, 2 of its branches stretched, looking almost like shrugging shoulders
  4. a lime bike below me in the bushes
  5. stopping before the trestle, walking through dead leaves, standing on the edge of the bluff, looking down to the below the trestle and at the blue river
  6. the warning tape and cones around the big crack north of the trestle have been removed — has the crack cracked more? Possibly
  7. standing by an empty bench nearing franklin, walking past it to another bluff edge and another open view of the river and the other side
  8. sliding bench: empty
  9. my shadow: sturdy, strong, moving fast
  10. after the run, walking back through the grass, kicking up dead leaves and delighting in their crunchiness

Listened to the last part of the Invisibilia episode that I mentioned yesterday. According to the neuroscientists, there is no thing in our body that doesn’t change over the course of our lifetime, even our brain cells are transformed. I need to listen to it again; I was distracted.

3 hours later:

“Neurons don’t die and get replaced, but the atoms that make them up are constantly turning over.”

memory: “each time we think about a memory, we corrupt it”

“we have this illusion of continuity”

Looked up “cell” on poems.com and found this great poem:

Always and Only from Material/ H.L Hix

A drop of water changes shape if it falls through an electric field
(the thunderstorm, say, that gave God material form
in Job, then in Lear trued troposphere to terror).
The drop takes the shape of a spindle (the same that turns,
in the myth of Er, on the knees of Necessity)
and sends out from tl1e positively-charged spindle-point
a slender filament of electrical force.
Or take your red blood cells, which in the blood itself
retain the shape of a dimpled disc, a spongy
rubber ball squeezed lightly between finger and thumb.
A little water, though, to thin that blood, and the cell
turns spherical; a little salt, and the entire
cell shrinks and puckers, grape into raisin.
Mysteries attend even membrane formation.
No pure liquid ever froths or foams. Something
must be dissolved or suspended, to sustain
the additional surface area, the passage
from smooth and taut to bubbled and subdivided.
I feel subdivided, denatured, quasi-solid.
I often fall through electrical fields. I can speak
only as I do: in fragments, of a continuum.

This last bit: I feel subdivided, denatured, quasi-solid./ I often fall through electrical fields. I can speak/ only as I do: in fragments, of a continuum.

Hix’s mention of the spindle reminds me of A.R. Ammons and garbage. I remember that he writes about the spindle early on — in relation to presocratic philosophers, I think? I’ll have to find the reference.

I always forget what denatured means: take away or alter the natural qualities of.

Do I feel subdivided, denatured? No, I don’t feel fragmented or altered, just unstable and never quite finished.,

This poem comes from a book that I might like to find: BORED IN ARCANE CURSIVE UNDER LODGEPOLE BARK

“H. L. Hix demonstrates a Thoreauvian burrowing of the mind—a burrowing of fifty poems—into fifty “seed sentences” from fifty “soil texts” from natural history. The poems burrow, too, into common yet rarified encounters with “the carcass of an elk,” or the sun which “contains all direction,” or the “breathing of Breathing” of a “fresh-brushed red-brown ribcage-rounded coat” of a horse. We readers are invited to burrow along with Hix, not unlike “generations of a beetle species” who can “migrate /deeper into a cave than any individual / could travel to get out.” The exploration yields glimpses of the mystic part and the elusive, mythic whole as well as a profound and sobering reflection of the human experience upon planet Earth.”         

nov 3/RUN

4.5 miles
minnehaha falls, new variation
45 degrees

Late fall fabulousness! More of a view, sparkling water, crisper air, brightly colored leaves. Had fun trying out a variation on the minnehaha falls loop: the regular version until I reached the steps near the falls. I took them down, then ran beside the creek until I reached the last bridge before the path is closed. Crossed over the creek, turned back up towards the river road. Climbed up a hill that led me to the bottom of wabun park. Ran up some easy steps — a stretch of slanted sidewalk, a set of 5 or 6 steps, sidewalk, steps, sidewalk, steps. Ran past the splash pad that I used to take the kids to 12 or so years ago, then down the steep hill to the locks and dam.

I’m feeling stronger, physically and mentally. Scott and I are thinking about doing the marathon again in fall of 2026.

10 Things

  1. the tree that is usually red 2 doors down is yellow-orange this year
  2. the view to the other side is opening up — less leaves on the trees
  3. river surface — bright white and burning
  4. a thinner falls
  5. a subdued creek down below — not rushing or gushing but also not still
  6. honking geese near the splash pad in Wabun
  7. the gate down to the falls is still open
  8. empty benches above the edge of the world and at Rachel Dow Memorial bench — I decided to stop at the edge bench, which is not right on the edge but several dozen feet in — walked over to the edge and admired the water and sun and openness of it all
  9. bright pink graffiti under the ford bridge
  10. good morning/morning! greeting a woman in a puffer jacket that I think I saw in the same spot yesterday

after the run

I am officially ready for winter running. Scott and I went to Costco and they had some great winter stuff set up in the front. New gloves, 2 new pairs of running tights and base layer shirts, and all the hand and foot warmers that I could possibly need! Guess that means I’ll have to run outside in the arctic cold so I can use them!

cells cells cells cells cells

Today I’m returning to EAP and “The Bells,” which I my using as a template for my own “The Cells” poem. Three versions of cells that I’ve been working with so far: dying/dead photoreceptor cone cells; the uncontrolled growth of cancer cells and late capitalism; and the narrowing of a world out of anxiety and necessity —

writing this, now I’m wondering about cells as individual building blocks of living things and the phrase, on the cellular level. What exactly does that mean? basic functional and structural unit of an organism.

And now, I’m looking up cellular level and “cell small room” and reading about “understanding health at the cellular level” and having a wonderful thought: why not devote a month to the cell and some of its different meanings? Fun! In the past 2 months, I haven’t posted monthly challenges; I’ve been too busy working on a draft of Girl Ghost Gorge. As I finish that (because I want to be finished for a while and submit it for a first book contest), I’d like to return to the delightfully wandering work of picking a topic and finding as many different ways to imagine and understand it as I can.

a lingering thought: I am enjoying using EA Poe’s “The Bells” as a starting point for a poem, but I’m not sure I’m a good enough poet (yet? ever?) to wrangle rhyme and meter the way he does in his poem. So tricky and easy to overdo it.

and now a random thought bursting in my brain: what is poetry, at the cellular level? the basic unit, the building block of poetry? Rhyme, meter, sound, pulse, something else?

from definitions of cell on Merriam Webster: a single room, usually for one person

cellular, celluloid, cell phones cell towers, the creepy movie The Cell

Looked up cell on poets.org. Found this Sara poem!

Sara in Her Father’s Arms/ George Oppen

Cell by cell the baby made herself, the cells

Made cells. That is to say

The baby is made largely of milk. Lying in her father’s arms, the little seed eyes

Moving, trying to see, smiling for us

To see, she will make a household

To her need of these rooms—Sara, little seed,

Little violent, diligent seed. Come let us look at the world

Glittering: this seed will speak,

Max, words! There will be no other words in the world

But those our children speak. What will she make of a world

Do you suppose, Max, of which she is made.

Sara, little seed! Love it. And, Come let us look at the world/glittering and What will she make/of a world of which she is made

WHAT? Whoa!

So, reading this poem and the opening lines, Cell by cell, the baby made herself, the cells/made cells, prompted me to ask and then investigate: How often are our cells replaced? And do all of them get replaced every 7 years? I found information about the time span of different types of cells, an explanation of why the 7 years thing is a myth, and then this from NPR: Does Your Body Really Refresh Itself Every 7 Years?

I watcher their video and got to the part, which is almost at the end, when they say this:

And there’s one more part of you that lasts your whole life

2:14Months before you were born,

2:16a little cluster of cells stretched and filled themselves with transparent protein

2:21As you grew, even after birth, more and more fibers were added, but that center endured

2:28This is your lens the window through which you are watching this video right now2:34and its core has remained the same since the moment you first opened your eyes

generated transcript on YouTube

Sara’s little seed eyes?! I had no idea that the lens lasts!

Video (can’t embed it)
A tumblr post with more info

And found out this about the lens:

What is the eye lens made of?

The lens of your eye is made up of structural proteins called crystallins. This is why it’s sometimes called the “crystalline lens.” It has the highest concentration of proteins of almost any tissue in your body. These specialized proteins give the lens its transparency and focusing power. Mature crystallins have no nucleus or organelles — they lose them as they mature. This adds to their clarity and transparency.

But having no nucleus or organelles also prevents the cells from reproducing. This means they don’t “turn over,” as most of your body’s cells do. The cells arrange themselves in concentric layers, like tree rings. Throughout your life, new cells continue to grow at the outer edges of the circle, while the older cells compress toward the center. Eventually, the older cells at the center begin to show wear and tear.

source

Like little tree rings?! You better believe that that is making it into a poem at some point!

future explorations and ideas to play with: If (most) of our cells are being replaced, what makes us us? And, are they really “our” cells? Or, do we all just live together (Oppen’s household)? Is a body one thing?

Listen to Lulu Miller on an Invisibilia episode, especially the last story:

Finally Lulu talks to a scientist to come up with a complete catalogue of all the things about us that actually do stay stable over the course of our lives. They look at everything from cells to memories until ultimately they come up with a list — but it’s a really short list.

a final note: Questions about cells and bodies and what makes us us are ones I’ve been asking for a long time, but I was especially preoccupied with them after my mention of M. Hemingway and her retreat for reclaiming the “sovereign self” in yesterday’s post.

oct 31/RUN

5 miles
franklin loop
43 degrees
cold drizzle

This is Halloween. This is Halloween. As I ran, I listened to Apple Music’s Halloween dance mix. A great run. I felt so fast and strong and capable of running hard for long periods of time. And I did — relatively speaking. Faster and longer without stopping than I have in the past year.

10 Things

  1. slick leaves on the path — don’t remember hearing them squeak
  2. running on the east side, near meeker island dam, a large group of kids laughing and playing on the other side. too far to be at a school playground. were they on the white sands beach?
  3. puddles on the franklin bridge
  4. a runner running far ahead of me, then walking, the stopping to sit on a bench — he wore bright blue shorts
  5. bright headlights
  6. the river from the franklin bridge — a view of the trestle and reflections of trees, but no rowers
  7. the river from the lake street bridge — empty pewter river, pale brown sandbar, slight ripples
  8. on the franklin bridge, a small red dot off in the distance, then it turned green — a stoplight
  9. a person with a dog, turning down and entering the meeker dog park
  10. a soft rain, difficult to notice with my hat and tights and sweat

October viewing update

Finished Theater of Blood — so good! Although the second to last death was super gross — let’s just say it involved gluttony and a funnel. And the last “death” — presumably the worst because it was the final one — was more terrible than actually dying; it involved hot knives and blinding the one remaining critic. Sigh — the idea that not being able to see is a fate worse than death, or a living death. Regardless, I really enjoyed the movie.

Also watched John Carpenter’s The Thing. I really liked it — some gross special effects, but a very good movie. Good pacing, good acting, a good premise with haunting questions about trust and how/where enemies lurk.

Current Writing

I’m on a role right now with my writing. I have so many things to work on, that I don’t want to take the time to explaing them right now!

oct 27/RUN

3.25 miles
trestle turn around
59 degrees

A late afternoon run. Nice! I might try doing more of these later workouts this winter — but not outside, in the dark! I like the light at this time (around 5) — softer, longer, winding down, golden. I only stopped once — to take off my sweatshirt. I considered taking it off while I was running, but thought better of it. I felt strong and confident that I could keep running.

10 Things

  1. bright yellow leaves
  2. a roller skier
  3. laughing voices below me in the ravine
  4. bright yellow t-shirts and vest on some of the walkers
  5. still green below the sliding bench
  6. a long line of cars stopped on the river road whenever there was a stop sign
  7. someone speeding by on a scooter
  8. in the tunnel of trees the path was covered in bright red leaves
  9. a loud honk ahead of me, on the lake street bridge
  10. no geese or turkeys or rowers

vision study

I went in for my second vision test appointment at the U. Colin, a post-doc in the psychology of vision department tested me on a fancy machine that takes 300 pictures of my eyes a second to track what and where I’m looking.

First, a calibration. I put my chin on the chin rest, didn’t move my head, and moved my eyes to track a dot as it traveled from the upper left corner and around the lower right. When I saw it, the dot would explode in confetti. Nice!

Second, a reading test. I was given a sentence to read that kept getting smaller. I struggled to read it when the text was big, but it got easier, and I got faster as it got smaller. I could read sentences that were even too small for my tester to read. When that was finished a screen popped up: 390 trials. Colin said, oh boy. What? The screen said I needed to take 390 of the “trials” to determine if my vision/eyes would work for this study. I asked, what’s the average number of tests? Colin: 100. Of course, my weird eyes would require more testing and of course, this delighted me.

Third, the real test. I had to stare between two dots and try to identify the 3 letters that flashed. At first, the text was too big for me, and I couldn’t see any of the letters. Then Colin decided to try and make the letters a lot smaller — way smaller than anyone had ever done, or even that the program could handle. He thought it was very cool and I could tell he was excited. When I asked him why, he said that he had never seen anyone’s vision work this way. Yes! Even among people with strange sight, my sight is strange! I knew it.

It was fun to do the study and talk with someone about my vision. Will I qualify for continuing? Not sure yet. My vision might be too strange, and too much for this program. They’ll let me know sometime in the future. Whatever happens, it was fun and I got more verification that I’m unusual!

This afternoon, I submitted 5 of my Girl Ghost Gorge poems to a journal, and my chapbook, “I Empty My Mind, I Stuff it with Color” to a contest.

oct 26/HIKE

2+ hour, 4 mile hike
mississippi river gorge
62 degrees

Almost every fall, in September or October, when the weather is still nice, and not too long before the snow will start flying, Scott and I devote an afternoon to the river. Sometimes we hike, sometimes we bike. Today, we did an epic hike, taking the Winchell Trail from 35th to the southern entrance at the Horace WS Cleveland overlook, then down to the locks and dam no. 1, over the metal grate platform above the river to where the water used to rush over a concrete wall. We stopped to take in the view of a canoe passing through the locks and the Mississippi River stretching north. Then crossed back over the platform, hiked up the hill, crossed through turkey hollow, and walked back home through the neighborhood. Wow! What a wonderful afternoon. Half the city agreed and joined us on the trail. Yes, an exaggeration, but there were more people on the trail than I ever remember seeing before, and the sloped grass at the overlook was packed, too.

10+ Things

  1. a clear and close-up view of the rock wall at the locks and dam: soft, crumbling sandstone at the bottom, hard limestone at the top
  2. 4 big turkeys looking for food in someone’s yard
  3. noticing the silhouette of something dangling from the chest of the one of the turkey’s — Scott said it was a long feather
  4. pointed out the green leaves on a bush that had called out to me yesterday as I ran, saying blue! Scott agreed that there did seem to be a hint of blue on this green
  5. intensely yellow leaves — lemon yellow
  6. light green leaves — pear-colored
  7. almost to the bottom of the locks and dam hill, a closer view of the water’s surface: scaled
  8. the river was low at the locks and dam — when it’s full, the water covers the bottom of a stand of trees and a sandbar. Today they were both exposed
  9. what used to be a roar of rushing water on the concrete wall, is now one narrow stream at one end — the water looked green as it fell over the mossed covered concrete
  10. crossing over the metal grate platform, taking in the wide view of the river, remembering taking RJP here more than 10 years ago — almost everything looks the same, only the vending machine that sold Sierra Mist is gone
  11. the enormous and exposed roots of a tree at the base of the trunk, looking like an elephant’s foot

oct 25/RACE

10k race
Minneapolis Halloween Half
45 degrees / rain

A wonderful race! Not even close to a PR, but a huge success: Scott and I ran the whole thing together; we didn’t stop even once even though we were undercooked — I haven’t run a 10k without stopping for a year; I had a lot left at the end and was able to sprint; I had no problem running up the steep hills; I was happy and smiled as I crossed the finish line; and no unfinished business! I think it’s been more than a year since I ran more than 5 miles without the urgent feeling of needing to poop. What a mental victory! I didn’t think there was any way I could run this whole thing without stopping, especially the hills, but I pushed through and did it.

A classic Sara-moment: I recited “A Rhyme for Halloween” to Scott as we ran up the first big hill, 1.5ish miles in. Nice! Then, referencing the line, Baruch Spinoza and butcher are drunk — I talked about how Judy B (Judith Butler) likes Spinoza and his skepticism and used to read him as a kid.

At least 10 Things

  1. Waldo — the first thing the announcer said, I found Waldo! / a runner running up the steep hill near mile 5: I’ve counted 7 Waldos so far
  2. running costume: Olivia Newton John from Physical — headband, tight curls, bright colored tights, leg warmers, jean jacket
  3. Maria, Luigi, Waluigi running up the hill — where’s wario, Scott wondered
  4. the cobblestones were terrible — so rutted and puddles
  5. bright orange tree on one side of the road, bare branches the other
  6. a dog poopin’ in Front of Gold Medal Park
  7. 2 people with gorge tattoos on their calves!! I was so excited that I had to ask them about them and told them that I wanted to get one too. They were so appreciative of my delight, which was completely genuine, that they thanked me! I think I might have to get a gorge tattoo on my calf — and an outline of Lake Nokomis, or something related to Lake Nokomis, on my shoulder
  8. the terrible pacer — the one who always runs too fast and that caused to me to overdo it at the beginning of a 10 mile race and then fell apart in the second half — was there, and was pacing too fast again. I overheard some other racers complaining about him
  9. no live national anthem, instead a terrible recording
  10. puddles and potholes and rutted cobblestones
  11. a runner nearby, shaking out his arms and saying, this is tiring!
  12. several women, descending the hill into the flats, realizing how much more there was to run, and how steep it was, saying oh fuck!
  13. thanking another runner for letting me know she was passing me, her thanking me back
  14. crossing the finish line and feeling great — joyful, relieved, in disbelief that we managed, on our limited training, to run the entire thing without stopping

oct 20/RUN

4.3 miles
minnehaha falls and back
49 degrees
wind: 30 mph gusts

Figured out how to switch the pace of my watch from rolling miles to current pace. It was a pain to do and I’m not sure it was worth it, although I did learn that I have difficulty keeping a consistent pace. Windy. I made sure my cap was on tight. I ran to the falls then took the steps down to the creek. Forgot to look at the creek because I was too focused on avoiding rocks and walkers. Walked back up the steps near “The Song of Hiawatha.”

Running back I admired the reddish-orange or orangish-red leaves and thought about how someone fell off of the bluff somewhere around 42nd. Yesterday, Scott heard the sirens and saw the fire trucks and Rosie read that someone fell. Are they okay? I hope so. I tried looking it up, but couldn’t find anything.

As I ran, I recited “A Rhyme for Halloween.” Our clock is blind, our clock is dumb/ Its hands are broken, its fingers numb/ No time for the martyr of our fair town/Who wasn‘t a witch because she could drown. The blind clock with broken hands and numb fingers. Maybe I could use this in the time section of Girl Ghost Gorge?

10 Things

  1. someone in bright yellow standing near the roundabout — ma’am the road is blocked up ahead, you need to turn around
  2. foamy white water at the falls
  3. the dirt and rock-studded trail covered in fallen red leaves
  4. a little girl greeting me, hi!
  5. another runner greeting me, good morning!
  6. a high-pitched whistle then STOP! someone calling to a dog down on the winchell trail?
  7. running on the paved path, above the winchell trail, hearing the voices of walkers, seeing the flash of moving forms
  8. occupied benches: above the edge of the world and Rachel Dow Memorial bench
  9. chainsaws in the oak savanna — buzzzzzz buzzzzzz
  10. the rush of wind through the trees

GGG update

1

Not sure how it will work, or if it will stick as part of GGG, but I think I need to write a ghost story poem. Maybe something inspired by UA Fanthorpe and her poem, Seven Types of Shadow. I should look back at what I’ve written about this poem in the past.

2

I’m experimenting with a poem inspired by Endi Bogue Hartigan and her o’clocks. Here’s what I have so far:

it’s covid
o’clock
twelve minnesota
deaths o’clock

three hundred nineteen

minnesota deaths
o’clock
four thousand minne
sota deaths o’clock
a quarter of a
million half of a
million one million
u.s. deaths o’clock
keep your six feet of
distance o’clock
spit in a cup o’clock

memorize poems
by Mary and

Emily o’clock
read Georgina o’clock
find your blind spot o’clock

oct 19/RUN

3.75 miles
bottom of locks and dam no. 1
47 degrees

Another wonderful run. Windier, but it didn’t bother me. Not too crowded on the trail. Didn’t encounter anyone at the bottom of the hill at the locks and dam #1. I ran until I reached the door that leads to the steps that take you over the iron grate bridge to the concrete curtain where the water falls. Saw my reflection in the glass window next to the door. Hello friend! I felt strong and was running fast/er — maybe too fast? I could run the pace for 2 miles, but then wanted a walk break. I’d like to figure out how to change my watch to show current pace instead of rolling pace.

10 Colors

  1. yellow — not golden, but marigold or the color of butter? — lit from behind by the sun
  2. a full head of orange-ish yellow leaves on the tree by the double bridge
  3. streaks of red in low-lying bushes — vermillion?
  4. BRIGHT yellow running shoes — canary yellow?
  5. cerulean sky
  6. blue-gray water with small scales
  7. the gun-metal gray sound of a roller skier hitting their poles on the rough asphalt with strong strikes
  8. shimmery silver sound of a dog collar
  9. grayish-tan of the ford bridge arch
  10. bright pink flowers — garden cosmos — in many neighbors’ yards

Richard Siken!

First, I love Richard Siken and his second collection, The War of the Foxes. Second, I was aware of his new book that just came out, his first in a decade, but I didn’t feel any urgency to get it. Then I read this interview, An Encyclopedia of the Self: An Interview with Richard Siken and I want to read his book, now!

Check out this response:

Mandana Chaffa

One of the things I enjoyed most about this collection—other than the delight of more of your work in the world—was considering prose poems and how they serve the writer and reader. Each page is a stanza—in the Italian sense of the word—with doors, windows and sometimes, secret hidey holes to similar themes in other pieces, in different sections. When did you start contemplating this collection, and how soon in the process did you set the architecture? Were the vignettes always poems? Or always in this form?

Richard Siken

I had a stroke. I was paralyzed on my right side, lost my short-term memory, and couldn’t make sentences. This was the experience of it. This is all I could do. There are some memorable lines in these poems but mostly they hinge and swerve in the gaps between the sentences. It’s associative. It’s broken logic. The goal was to say a complete thought. That’s what I was going to measure my recovery against: a solid, complete paragraph. The sequencing of one word after another was excruciating. In conversation, I would trail off and get lost.

A fundamental power of poetry is the friction between the unit of the line and the unit of the sentence. When you break a sentence into lines, you create simultaneous units of meaning. Meaning becomes a chord, not a single note. But I couldn’t break the line anymore. Everything was so broken, I didn’t want to break an additional thing. So, I had a form—the paragraph—and everything would have to be poured into identical molds. I set the margins to try to contain the thoughts. I made boxes, rooms, and sat in them and moved the furniture around.

I’m excited to see how the form of his poems is shaped by his limitations. I’ve been thinking about that a lot with my own poetry and how my inability to read a lot of words, or for long, influences my forms.

And this:

Mandana Chaffa

I appreciate how you wield language, as meaning to be sure, but also as a gesture. How in “Pain Scale,” there’s the friction between the linguistic structures we’re often forced to operate under, in this case, the almost ludicrous expectation that pain can be numerical rather than adjectival, and equally, how often people hear, but still don’t listen. What use is language, if those we speak to can’t understand?

Richard Siken

I fell down. I was taken to a hospital. I said, “I’m having a stroke.” They said, “No, you’re having a panic attack” and they sent me home. I kept thinking, “Something is terribly wrong. I do know some things.” That’s where the title for the collection came from. I went to a second hospital the next day and they admitted me. I was hard to understand and not many people tried. My premises didn’t add up, so my conclusions didn’t make sense. There were fish moving under the ice; I was running fast at a plate-glass door. They didn’t get it. I didn’t know how else to say it. Speaking in figurative language with the doctors didn’t work. They didn’t try to understand. They ignored some very important things I was saying. I just wasn’t able to say everything literally. But when you write, there’s an understanding that there will be a reader. The audience inside the poem might be impatient or dismissive but the reader is leaning in, listening very closely, trying to understand.