Tag: 10 things

jan 1/RUN

4.6 miles
minnehaha falls and back
11 degrees
100% snow-covered

A wonderful way to start the new year: a run outside, in the snow, above the gorge! There were moments when it felt easy, but mostly it was hard because of the uneven, loose slow. I think my calves are going to be sore all day from the effort! Not injured, just tired from being used to push through and keep balance in the snow. Ever since we got the 5.8 inches of snow last weekend, it has been snowing a inch of two every night. It’s beautiful, but not fun to drive in — I’ve heard; I haven’t driven in at least 5 years because of my vision. It’s not always fun to run in (and on), either. But I’m not complaining, I loved being out there today.

I encountered runners, walkers, at least one fat tire. No cross country skiers or regulars. I heard some people sledding at the park, and the light rail leaving the station — oh, and a woman saying to someone she was walking with, I just need to get the shoes and I’ll be fine. What shoes? Fine for what?

10 Things

  1. a bright while, almost blinding — I’m glad I had some dark tree trunks to look at
  2. snow on the side of a tree making a pleasing pattern on the textured trunk
  3. the falls were falling and making noise — more trickle than gush
  4. the dark gray water of the creek was moving through shelves of ice and snow
  5. the sounds of my yak trax in the snow: crunching and clopping and clicking
  6. the smell of a chimney smoke hovering in the air
  7. a small dome of snow on top of a wooden fence post
  8. empty benches
  9. a crunching noise behind me: crusty ice in my braid hitting the collar of my jacket
  10. overheard: an adult to a kid playing in the backyard, are you having fun?

Running up and out of the park, I had a moment of freedom and happiness — ah, to be outside moving in this fresh air and all of this snow! I thought about my wonderful, low-key New Year’s Eve with Scott and our kids, both of whom are doing so much better at the end of the year than they were at the beginning, both excited and hopeful about the next year.

Today I’m submitting my book manuscript to another press, Yes Yes Books. Before I went out for my run, I drafted a pithy description of my collection, Echolocate | | Echolocated:

“Echolocate, echolocated: to locate using echoes instead of sight, to be located by the echoes you offer. In this collection, a girl and her ghosts visit a gorge daily to locate and be located by the rocks, a river, and the open air and all who are held by it.”

Here’s a beautiful poem I discovered the other day about (not) naming.

Against Specificity / Virginia Kane

Hanif says never put a bird in a poem
without saying what kind of bird.

I want to agree. I like my blues
cerulean, my clouds cumulonimbus.

I prefer my mountains baptized
and my rivers carved with names.

Your reader will find you 
in the details, everyone says,

but when I write about memory
I am just writing about loss.

Here, I forget to tell
the flowers you brought me

they are irises. I decide
the dogwoods we laid under

are just those trees. The months
I knew you, crisp and labeled,

all become that year.
When you leave,

I christen nothing.
I call it what it wasn’t.

dec 30/RUN

2.5 miles
river road, south/north
20 degrees
100% snow-covered

We got another dusting of snow last night, so the path was covered in an inch or two of soft, uneven snow. Harder to run through, but not slippery with my yak trax. A few times, I could feel the spikes digging into slick spots. It was beautiful and I would have loved to run longer if the surface had not been so uneven. Halfway through, I stopped to hike down to an overlook on the winchell trail. Quiet, white, too bright. I encountered a few other runners, 2 trios of walkers. A fat tire. Walking back, I saw a small kin on disc sled sliding down a hill in his yard.

10 Things

  1. the rumble of a blue snow plow
  2. a line of cars driving very slowly along the river
  3. the dark curve of a retaining wall
  4. heavy, white sky
  5. the strong smell of weed coming from a car parked in the 44th street parking lot
  6. a sheet of dirty snow on the road, stirred up and flung by the wheels of a mini-van
  7. a kid sledding down a very small hill
  8. no ice or puddles, only powdery white snow on the path and light gray ridges of snow on the road
  9. empty benches everywhere
  10. the vine with orange leaves on a neighbor’s fence, some of it had snow — little white spots of ice? snow? making patterns on other parts of the fence
vine with ice, snow, orange leaves, on brown fence
vine with ice, snow, orange leaves, on fence / 30 dec 2025

This image is most vivid when I look at it on iPhotos. Is it because the quality is higher? When I noticed the white spots on the fence — directly, not through a phone or computer screen — these spots were only small white dots. In the photo, they look bigger and I can see small vince steps. Very cool and strange. I might make this photo my wallpaper!

With these 2.5 miles, I reached my goal of 950 miles for the year. I took some time off in May (because of my back) and I swam a lot more this summer, so I’m happy with 950. Next year, at least 1000 and the marathon again!

2025 cento: lines I love + lines I can relate to

It’s time for another cento created out of poems I gathered this year. First, I read through all of the poems and tried to pick out (at least) one line from each. Then I pasted these lines into a document, then printed it out. I cut out the lines, which took forever (and is very taxing on my eyes!).

favorite lines in a pile

Then I arranged the lines on a table, in no particular order:

2025 poetry lines

Now, it’s time to have fun! The first experiment: quickly divide the lines into 2 categories: 1. I love and 2. Does this happen to you?

an explanation: Each cut-out included the lines and the poem’s title and author in parentheses at the bottom. I tried carefully to make sure that the lines were always grouped with the title/author. But, on 2 occasions, I noticed lines that had no citation: I love and Does this happen to you? I decided to make those the titles of 2 different sections of the poem.

dec 29/SHOVELBIKEWALK

shovel: 30 minutes
12 degrees / feels like 0
bright sun

The official word is that MSP (airport), which is only a couple of miles away, got 5.8 inches of snow. It wasn’t too hard to shovel; thankfully it got a lot colder yesterday and overnight. No longer heart attack snow. Under the powdery stuff, there was some crust, but it didn’t seem too slippery either. I would love to go out for a run by the gorge, but I don’t think that’s a good idea for my glute/hip/back. It’s tough to resist.

10 Things

  1. bright blue sky
  2. warm sun on my face
  3. fogged up sunglasses
  4. an unsettling creaking noise above me: some frozen branches on our big maple in the front which seems to be dying (evidence: big branches have already fallen this fall + several woodpeckers have been drumming on the wood)
  5. the whiny rumble of a snow blower in the distance
  6. a cold spray on my face when the wind blew some of the snow I’d just shoveled
  7. the recycling and trash can lids frozen shut
  8. rabbit prints along the side of the house, near the garage
  9. a sharp rumble nearby: another slow blower, closer and in the alley
  10. sprawled branches of the crab apple tree, weighed down with snow and ice

bike: 35 minutes
basement

Resisted the urge to go outside and run; biked in the basement instead. Almost finished the first episode of season 2 of Wednesday. Like in the first season, she attends a boarding school, Nevermore. Did I know that Edgar Allan Poe was the founder? Probably. Some outcasts are psychics or wolves, can control bugs or shoot electricity out of their fingertips. I can’t remember if there’s only one siren or more. This season has Steven Buscemi as the principal and a scar-faced crow. It was helpful to watch the episode with audio description on — such relief to actually see and understand and to not not know what is going on. Yes, that is a double negative, and yes, I meant to write it — the feeling of uncertainty is not knowing, so the relief is in not being in that state of not knowing: to not not know

walk: 20 minutes
neighborhood
13 degrees

Managed to convince Scott to go outside for a quick walk around the block. It was cold, especially walking into the wind, but I had hand warmers in my gloves, which helped a lot. Scott did not, so he was very cold, and didn’t want to walk for long.

What did I notice? One neighbor had put salt down on their sidewalk (boo). Most of the sidewalks were shoveled. The street 2 blocks over had lights strung up from one end of the street to the other. I never see these lit up, because I don’t walk this way at night. A friendly woman greeted us halfway down another block — hello! / hi!. She was giving treats to a cute dog. Anything else? I can’t remember.

Found a purple poem earlier this morning:

an excerpt from Language Lessons/ Judith Kiros

Translated from the Swedish by Kira Josefsson with Judith Kiros

is it only words. On and on. If you shook up the words. On a
particular shade of purple being extracted from spiraling shells.
If the repetition had less to do with the broken-apart sea, see my
skin and my arms rippling like a wave, on and on again, I’ve
dyed them navy. On receiving a gift in your childhood, a purple
doll with foaming skirts, beneath them nothing, between her
legs nothing, what a perfect wave of black nymph. On violet.
Or on lavender. On being lowered into an ocean of colors. On
your head being pushed beneath the surface, on and on again,
to the tune of seashells knotting their purple insides. Don’t give
yourself up for free; there is a point in talking back to the sea. On
a particular shade of vague purple. On the way a shadow struts,
violet, across the page.

a particular shade of purple: tyrian purple, made from snail shells
violet, lavender, being lowered into an ocean, pushed beneath the surface: this makes be think of Alice Oswald and Nobody and Odysseus and his purplish-blueish cloak

I like the idea of being lowered into an ocean of colors
shade of vague purple

My favorite: the way a shadow struts,/violet, across the page

I love the word strut, especially when it involves a shadow! Immediately, it reminds me of another favorite line from “My Invisible Horse and the Speed of Human Decency “/ Matthew Olzmann:

I’m not asking for much.  A more tender world 

with less hatred strutting the streets.

Also discovered this morning: Fragment Thirty-six / HD and the reading guide by Dan Beachy-Quick — I’d like to return to this some other day, when I have time.

one final note: I have posted a log entry, either running or biking, on this day every year that I’ve written in this log: 2017-2025. Tomorrow, I’d like to experiment with mashing up or combining or erasing or scrambling or cutting up the words in these entries to make a new piece of writing — most likely, a poem.

dec 27/RUN

5.25 miles
bottom of franklin and back
38 degrees
humidity: 90%

Even more wet today than yesterday. I was prepared for these conditions because I asked FWA, when he got back from walking Delia and before I went out for my run, what it was like outside and he said, like yesterday but wetter. Yep. Today I ran north instead of south. Puddles everywhere. Like yesterday, I tried to avoid them, and like yesterday, I was successful until I wasn’t and then I squished squished squished for the remainder of the run. Even though they were wet, my feet weren’t cold. In fact, I was warm — dripping sweat. Saw and greeted Daddy Long Legs twice. Hello!

For the first 4 miles, listened to the gorge. For the last mile, Sight Songs (originally titled “Eye Tunes” but that name was too confusing for Siri), on shuffle. The song I remember the most was “Breakfast in America” and the twisted return of the opening lyrics:

Take a look at my girlfriend

and

Don’t you look at my girlfriend

10 Things

  1. the surface of the river, closer up, under the I-94 bridge — glossy, looking like the surface of the ice skating rink at Longfellow on a warmer day
  2. the not-quite-frantic, unsettled? call of a bird under the franklin bridge — one note, repeated
  3. a wall of snow on a curb, white speckled with grayish-brown, subdued cinnamon sugar
  4. a biker speeding down the franklin hill
  5. another biker powering up it
  6. a small patch of bright pink graffiti on the underside of the franklin bridge
  7. misty, foggy, thick gray air
  8. an empty sky with an occasional bird flying through it
  9. voices all around — talking, laughing
  10. a vine on a neighbor’s fence with orange leaves
vine, orange leaves on fence / 27 dec 2025

on walking

Discovered and read a beautiful essay about walking this morning: On Walking / Ira Sukrungruang.

1 — connected to place

Walking barefoot as a monk was a constant reminder of how we humans are always connected to the earth, bound by gravity, ever aware of the heft we carry—some of us more than others. It made me feel the mechanics of movement: muscles and tendons stretching and contracting, propelling the leg forward. It made me aware of the ground we walked on, the dirt and tar and tufts of grass in cracks, the unevenness of the pavement, the changes in terrain. This was spiritual walking, a bringing of awareness to our breath and our steps.

I am reminded of a line from my poem, “Girl Ghost Gorge,” it begins here, from the ground up: feet first, following

2 — an awareness of a changing climate

The environmental destruction we humans have enacted on this earth is obvious, but I didn’t take it in, I didn’t feel it, until I started walking.

Yes! Since starting to run above and beside and around and with the gorge (almost 9 full years and more than 8,500 miles), I have become more aware of the outside world and its shifts from season to season: when the leaves change and the acorns fall and the snow arrives (or doesn’t) and the floodplains are flooded and the sidewalks are cracked and the sun is covered in wildfire smoke and the bluff and a bench on its edge slowly slide into the gorge.

3 — eyes forward, ears open

After two weeks I came to look forward to taking the same path, seeing the same people. I was coming to understand devotion and repetition and humility. When a monk walks, his eyes should not look too far ahead, but neither should they be at his feet. They should be ten yards in front of him. And a monk’s ears should listen to the land waking up—the creaks and groans of the earth. The land is alive. It communicates. This earth, this world, is more than shape and matter.

Listening to the land speaking, open to how it communicates. Not staring, studying, dissecting it with our gaze.

4 — looking up and waving at a gargoyle

One afternoon in Exeter, walking to pick up Bodhi from school, I noticed how hunched I had become. It had been four months since our move, which meant I’d made that walk more than three hundred times by then, but only on this day did I notice a gargoyle staring down at me from above.

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to look up at it. Such an odd sensation to straighten and tilt my head back. It was a rare sunny day in Exeter. I shielded my eyes with my hand and felt like a flower willing itself through the ground. Then I waved at the gargoyle. I don’t know why. Cars whizzed by. People walked on both sides of the street—parents like me, getting their kids from school. The steeple of St. Leonard’s Church was in the distance, a beautiful marker of how far it was to Bodhi’s school. I headed toward it, my head high, learning a new way of being.

This ending paragraph and the looking up and waving at the gargoyle, reminds me of a favorite poem I read early on in this log (in a july 4th, 2019 entry I mention that I’ve been trying to write about this poem for years, but I can’t find an earlier entry with a mention of it, so I’m not sure when I first discovered it):

excerpt from Woman Waving to Trees / Dorothea Tanning

of these old trees. Raise your
heads, pals, look high,
you may see more than
you ever thought possible,
up where something might
be waving back, to tell her
she has seen the marvelous.

I love her use of pals — I’ve tried to (unsuccessfully) use it in my own poem. I often think of these lines whenever I stop to look up at a tree. Have I ever waved at one? I can’t remember, but probably not.

a year in poetry

Searching this my log for mentions of pals, I encountered a cento I wrote back in 2019, out of lines from all of the poems I gathered in 2019. I like it, and I want to do this again for 2025! I love centos and putting others’ words into conversation with each other!

Here’s the “finished” draft of the 2019 cento: I’m not Asking for Much — I’m hoping that I identified where the lines came from in some document because I’m not sure I could do it now! And here’s an earlier draft: Listen

Here’s where I begin: Poems Gathered in 2025

a word quarry game

While reading through my poems gathered in January of 2025, I came across an essay — We Could Just Gaga Our Grammar — and an idea for playing with words:

Find two or three random paragraphs from two sources and copy and paste the paragraphs into a word scrambler. From this jumble of found text, draft a poem. This activity is inspired by Dodie Bellamy’s Cunt Ups.

I’m thinking of a variation on this; instead of using a word scrambler, putting the paragraphs into my word quarry — grouping all the 1, 2, and 3 syllable words and then turning them into a new poem or chant or sentence based on rock (2-syllable/1-syllable words) river (3 1-syllable words) and air (1 3-syllable word) formations.

also: Looked up Cunt Ups and was reminded of William S. Burrough’s cut-ups. Found a book about it, and requested it. Now I’m thinking about cut ups and Lisa Olstein and then Henri Matisse and cut up forms and the cutting prow.

So many ideas! It is fun to let my mind wander again, after 6+ months of structured writing, first about open swim, then about haunting/being haunted at the gorge.

Back to Burroughs and cut ups. I watched this video, which I found in this essay: William S. Burroughs Cut Up Method

Cut-Ups William S. Burroughs

So good — when you cut into the present, the future leaks out. Also — the idea of the tape cut-ups and taking a phrase and scrambling the order until it means something else: I want to try that with my rock river air chants. And, the idea of taking different entries of this log — maybe entries from one day, different years — and cutting it up, or finding the same words, or picking a phrase from each entry . . .

dec 26/RUN

4.45 miles
minnehaha falls and back
36 degrees
humidity: 90%

Moist, thick, big puddles everywhere. I tried to avoid them, but I couldn’t avoid all of them and by my last mile I could hear my one shoe squish squish squishing. Since it was warm, it didn’t bother me. Oh — just remembered — my shoe/sock got wet at the falls — the cobblestones near the falls were full of puddles. There were a few slick spots, but mostly it was just wet.

For 3 miles, I listened to the wet wheels, whooshing, crows cawing, and people calling out to each other as I ran. For the last mile: TSwift’s Life of a Showgirl

10 Things

  1. the small patches of snow on the trail or the road, seeping murky gray-green-dirty white liquid
  2. the rusty orange leaves, dead, still clinging to the trees
  3. calmly letting a walker know I was approaching from behind — right behind you/thank you! I meant to say, you’re welcome, but didn’t, then lamented my failure to exchange the you until I realized I had with my right behind YOU –if I had said, the you would have been traveled 3 times: from the-walker-as-you when I said, right behind you, to me-as-you when she said, thank you, to the walker-as-you again with, you’re welcome
  4. overheard: a man leaving a group of people at the falls, calling out, I’m going back to pay the meter!
  5. clusters of people — 6-8 at the overlook just above the falls, and at the overlook close to “The Song of Hiawatha”
  6. a clump of something not moving ahead of me on the trail — dead leaves? A darting squirrel. I studied it closely to make sure it didn’t run in front of me
  7. a distant thumping, heard when stopped to put it my headphones — nearing, another running plodding along
  8. seen with peripheral vision: some frozen crystals on my cheek
  9. the trail on the bike side of the double bridge was mostly wet ice with 2 narrow strips of bare pavement that narrowed even more until not even my toe could fit in their groove
  10. crows! just before starting my run, they were gather in the trees above me. when I stopped to start my workout on my watch, they cawed furiously, as if to say, keep moving!

Just before the run, I got an email about one of the chapbook contests I entered — back in July. I didn’t win, but I got, along with 4 other poets, an honorable mention. I’ll happily take that! The chapbook I submitted included earlier versions of several of the poems that I revised for my manuscript. I think the poems are even better now.

In the last mile of my run, a sudden thought: I should submit something for tiny wren lit’s tiny zine series. It says they’ll open again in early 2026: submit a tiny zine

safari reading list, review:

1 — contentment

Found a poem about contentment while reviewing my Safari Reading List. I’m partial to the words satisfied or enough or still, but contentment works too.

from A Beautiful House with a Hot Tub and Pool/ Jason Schneiderman

Yes, I can be content anywhere,
but alas sadly: No. It’s not true. I can’t be content here
in my uncomfortable present, in my uncomfortable chair,
on the uncomfortable subway, at this uncomfortable desk,
in this uncomfortable classroom. But oddly, I am content 
to visit the past, to say Hello everything I’ve lost, 
to say I wish you could come here to the present, 
my lost companion trees. I wish you could meet 
everything I’ve found.

about this poem: “Making peace with the past has been a common theme in my work, so I decided to try to write about making peace with the present.”

2 — a no-one rose

from Psalm/ Paul Celan (trans. John Felstiner )

Blessèd art thou, No One.
In thy sight would
we bloom.
In thy
spite.

A Nothing
we were, are now, and ever
shall be, blooming:
the Nothing-, the
No-One’s-Rose.

I love this bit of Celan’s poem and the No-one’s-Rose! No One — a someone who is No One: what type of sight do they have? We were, are, shall be nothing, blooming. I want to use this — maybe as a breathing with poem — in a collection* about the gorge/gap/bling spot.

*maybe not a collection, but a series of attempts, orbiting around the idea or feeling or experience of the Nothing in the gorge and in my vision.

Speaking of orbiting: Last night, I was trying to name/remember something, but I couldn’t, quite. I kept almost getting the right name, but I was off, approximate. As I talked, I moved my hands around in a circle, as if to indicate I was circling around the name. I called out, I’m orbiting it! I do this a lot. I wish I could remember the exact example, to make this story more understandable, but I can’t.

3 — CAConrad’s Queer Bubbles

There are some great bits in this article about Conrad and their rituals in The Paris Review:

“I love being inside the ritual,” he says. “It’s like speaking in tongues. It’s not just automatic writing … Every nuance, every adjustment to the ritual, alters the language that comes out of me.”

Exercises like these are nothing new in poetry—Conrad cites Bernadette Mayer and Charles Olson as two practitioners of similar methods—but he insists that his rituals are chiefly inspired by his childhood, specifically the Pennsylvania Dutch Country where his grandmother taught him to meditate and where he took an interest in the occult, from local water diviners to the hex signs painted on barns. But as much as his work owes a debt to Boyertown, it is a deliberate rebuke to the bigotry, violence, and oppression he found there.

Queer Bubbles

I’m familiar with B Mayer’s work — a class on her list is what led me to poetry! — but I don’t know that much about Charles Olson. I should look into him more, like his archeology of morning (on a site that offers footprints not blueprints, which reminds me of my old academic slogan for my ethical/pedagogical approach: an invitation to engage, not a how-to manual) and the polis / Polis is This:

Polis is This

In his two books of (Soma)tic rituals and poems, A Beautiful Marsupial Afternoon and ECODEVIANCE—a third collection, While Standing in Line for Death, will be published this September—the rituals and resulting poems appear opposite one another. Because the rituals are written in the second person, at times the books read like the world’s most bizarre and inventive self-help guides, manuals for what you might call acute mindfulness. One ritual starts like this: “Eat a little dark chocolate before getting on the subway. Sit in the middle of the car … Then close your eyes, and as the car rolls on its tracks make a low hum from deep inside you … As soon as the car stops write 9 words as fast as you can before the train moves again … Repeat this humming and writing for 9 stops.” He credits his rituals with lifting him out of depression and grief.

Queer Bubbles

The use of You — a bizarre self-help manual or how-to on mindfulness!

the blind ring project returns to haunt this log

Doing some reading about lit journals that accept visual poetry, I was introduced to the amazing erasures of Colette LH. So beautiful and wonderful. Here’s the first one I experienced:

(un)certainty

Then I saw this one, Brain, and I started thinking about what I could do with my blind spot black-out ideas, and now I’m wondering about doing something with my peripheral. These white trails above, in (un)certainty are making me think about movement and direction and motion as it relates to my peripheral vision. Hmmm….

I want to buy their 2018 chapbook: a wonderful catastrophe and this, Celestial Timpani from Yavanika Press

dec 22/RUN

4.25 miles
minnehaha falls and back
38 degrees
10% ice and 30% puddle-covered

Waited until the late afternoon to go out for a run; too icy this morning. This afternoon (at 3), there were lots of puddles and sun and not much ice. A good run. Even though I think I caught FWA’s cold, I had plenty of energy while I was running and felt great.

10 Things

  1. bright sun reflecting off the windows of a house
  2. the very strong smell of week near the 44th street parking lot
  3. the creek was moving, but the falls was not
  4. lots of walkers, a few runners, at least one fat tire
  5. a walker moving over to let me pass on the cleared bike path in the park — thank you! / you betcha!
  6. near the oak savanna, a little kid’s voice floating up from below
  7. at least one bright yellow jacket
  8. the river: covered with ice and snow
  9. a line of cars waiting at the stop sign on the road coming out of wabun park and the veterans home — did a shift just end?
  10. the clip clip clip of another runner’s ice cleats

blind spot

Yesterday I wrote about re-finding my blind spot and doing a series of erasure poems with it. Last night, I woke up with a vague idea about writing a hybrid piece (possibly to submit to a journal’s call for submission — Waxwing) that involves using and applying and reflecting on my blind spot. This morning, I’ve been spending more time thinking about it, wandering and wondering how and what to do with these ideas. Just now, a thought: even as I use a cut-out or an image of my blind spot and apply it to text, as if to demonstrate how I see, the resulting poem/prose piece/fragment can’t properly convey how it is that I do or don’t see. The difficulty with my failing/failed vision is that I can’t really see it. Well, sometimes I can see it, like when I’m talking to someone and their head is only a fuzzy, empty blur, but often I can’t. It’s more of a feeling, or sometimes it’s not anything; I don’t realize I’m seeing wrong or that I’m not seeing until it is pointed out to me. How do you convey that?

But, even if the dark outline of a blind spot doesn’t effectively represent my vision, it does do something. So I’d like to use it.

As I write this, I’m looking out my window, into the bright white and blue of the sun and snow and sky. The image is shaking or shuddering or unsettling constantly. I see pixels shifting. The entire image is not unstable — I see solid forms that aren’t moving — like a red car parked across the street, or the straight hulk of a tree trunk — but the feeling of all of it is movement and being unfinished, unsettled, or buzzing? Visual buzz?

Earlier today I was working on a movie musicals puzzle. I’m constantly amazed that I can still work on it, that I can see enough to fit pieces together, but I can. In fact, with the small bit of central vision I have left, right in the middle of the middle of my eye, I often see small details — a tiny face or eyes, a finger pointing — and can recognize where they go. Sometimes I can’t fit it in exactly, so I give it to Scott and he finds the exact spot. Vision is so strange.

several hours later: Right now, I’m starting to look through the entries I tagged, vision. I have 20 pages of them. Already with the first one, I have an idea. On jan 30, 2020 I posted the poem, Natural Forces/ Vicente Huidobro. Since then, I’ve spent a lot of time with this poem — analyzed it, memorized it, recited it while I was running. To me, it’s a great example of the myth of the power of sight. Could I fit it in an amsler grid-sized box, and apply my blind spot to it?

I tried. Made a text box the size of grid. Fit the poem in the box as many times as would fit. Printed it out. Traced my blind spot on an Amsler grid, then cut it out and placed it over the poem. Not sure I like it, but it’s a start.

blind spot experiment #1

I wonder what it would look like if I only wrote the poem once, and made it a horizontal band across the box? Maybe make the font size smaller too? What if offered a few different versions, some with larger fonts, some with smaller so a reader could see what I can/and can’t read. I’ll have to try that next time.

dec 18/RUNBIKERUN

run: 1.7 miles
neighborhood / river road trail
29 degrees
50% very slick ice

Not ideal weather for a run. Were there any other runners out there? I can’t remember; I do recall seeing one walker. A lot of the sidewalk, road, trail was fine — not slick at all — until it wasn’t. Every so often, a slippery spot, some I could see, some I couldn’t. I skittered several times, having to take little half-steps. No sense that I was almost about to fall. I think I was lucky today that I didn’t twist or strain or break anything.

My body didn’t tense up in anticipation of sliding or falling, but I also wasn’t relaxed. Constantly trying to see or feel the ice. Did I notice anything else?

10 Things

  1. flitting birds, emerging from trees
  2. rusted orange in the floodplain forest
  3. the loud scraaaape from a neighbor’s shovel
  4. na ice-covered river
  5. a strong wind — not heard or seen but felt, burning my ears and my face
  6. car wheels losing traction on snow/ice, turning around in the middle of the street
  7. puddles on the path
  8. the edges of the road, dry then super slick then wet
  9. puddles on the sidewalk, not in the usual spots — the house on the next block, the house past 46th — but just around the corner
  10. noisy trucks near a school, doing some sort of repair work involving banging and backing up and scraping and pounding — heard, not seen

bats!

Reviewing old entries, as part of my On This Day morning ritual, I encountered a poem with the great line,

Fix your gaze upward and
give bats their due,
holy with quickness and echolocation
(Abecedarian for Dangerous Animals/ Catherine Pierce

Give bats their due. Yes! This line led me to other bat poems — last year or the year before I created a bats tag — and to these wonderful lines which I’ve written about before:

Think of it—to navigate by adjustment, by the beauty
of adjustment. All those shifts and echoes.
(Threshold Gods/ Jenny George)

To navigate by adjustment, shifts, echoes. Can I do something with these lines, add them to my echolocated poem at the end, Ringing Still, or another poem in the final echolocated section? Hmmm….echolocated is about being located/found by others. The (current) title of this collection is echolocate || echolocated. There’s a gap/tension between locating and being located, the one doing the locating and the one being located. In past years, I’ve imagined these two subjects (the locater, the located) as one Sara (the Speaker) trying to located another Sara (the reader), a You and simultaneously an I. No. Too much explanation. There’s is a swirl of something in my implied speaker addressing a You which is not me, and also me, and my consistent reference to the person going to the gorge and running and noticing (which is what I am doing) as the girl or she — which, if I haven’t already mentioned it is an actual girl — me, age 8:

Sara, age 8, in my soccer team uniform.

Instead of spelling this out, I’d like this to haunt this collection. Does it?

bike: 30 minutes
run: 1.3 miles
basement

Scott and I were planning to go to the y, but it started sleeting and snowing, and the wind was blowing, so we didn’t. Instead I went to the basement and biked. I started watching a documentary that I’ve been wanting to watch for more than a month: Come See Me in the Good Light. It’s about the poet, Andrea Gibson. Beautiful.

Then I got on the treadmill and ran while listening to my new “Eye Tunes” playlist on shuffle:

  1. Breakfast in America/ Supertramp
  2. Double Vision/ Foreigner
  3. See You Again/ Miley Cyris
  4. Tell Me What You See/ The Beatles
  5. Eyesight to the Blind / The Who
  6. Eye of the Tiger / Survivor

Open up your eyes now, tell me what you see
It is no surprise now, what you see is me
(Tell Me What You See/ The Beatles)

tell me what you see, I can’t wait to see you again, take a look at my girlfriend, not seeing straight, she’ll give eyesight to the blind, he’s watching us all with the eye of the tiger.

look at/stare/gaze/encounter/watch/stalk

dec 16/RUN

5.25 miles
bottom of franklin hill
37 degrees
60% snow-covered

Above freezing today! Good, and bad. Good, because the snow on the path is melting. Bad, because it will freeze again tonight. I’ll take it, and the sun! and the warmth on my face! and the sound of wet, whooshing wheels. I ran to the bottom of franklin today to check out the surface of the river: completely covered with ice, a light grayish white. Almost all of the time, I felt strong. It was only after taking a break to check out the river, then starting again and running up the hill, that my legs felt strange. It took a minute to get back into a rhythm.

10 Things

  1. Looking up: powder blue sky, with streaks of clouds and sun
  2. something half-buried in a snow bank, 1: a lime scooter
  3. something half-buried in a snow bank, 2: a bike — not a rental — where is the owner of this bike, and why was it wedged in the snow and not put somewhere else?
  4. another runner, much faster than me, in a bright yellow jacket
  5. deep foot prints in the snow leading up to the sliding bench — someone must have sat here recently
  6. the view from the sliding bench: open, clear through to the snow-covered river and the white sands beach, which is just snow now
  7. someone at the bottom of the franklin hill, staring at the water
  8. a few honking geese down below
  9. cheeseburger cheeseburger — a calling bird — a chickadee, I think
  10. flowers for June in the makeshift vase of an uncapped railing under the trestle

Earlier today, while drinking coffee, I heard (not for the first time) Lawrence’s song, “Don’t Lose Sight” and I started to think about vision/sight/eye songs. Time for a playlist! I borrowed a title from someone’s spotify playlist that came up in a google search: Eye Tunes (groan). Came up with a long list of songs, then put a fraction of them in the list. I’ll keep fine-tuning it. I listed to the list during the second half of my run.

Eye Tunes

  1. I Saw the Light / Todd Rundgren
  2. Blinded by the Light / Mannford Mann’s Earth Band
  3. Eye in the Sky / The Alan Parson’s Project
  4. Eyes Without a Face / Billy Idol
  5. I Can See Clearly Now / Jimmy Cliff
  6. Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You / Ms. Lauryn Hill
  7. These Eyes / The Guess Who
  8. Eye of the Tiger / Survivor
  9. The Look of Love, Pt. 1 / ABC
  10. The Look of Love / Dusty Springfield
  11. For Your Eyes Only / Sheena Easton
  12. Eyesight to the Blind (The Hawker) / The Who
  13. Breakfast in America / Supertramp
  14. Don’t Lose Sight (Accoustic-ish) / Lawrence
  15. Total Eclipse of the Heart / Bonnie Tyler
  16. Double Vision / Foreighner
  17. In Your Eyes / Peter Gabriel
  18. Behind Blue Eyes / The Who
  19. Evil Eyes / Dio
  20. Stranger Eyes / The Cars
  21. Tell Me What You See / The Beatles
  22. My Eyes Have Seen You / The Doors

I listened up until Dusty Springfield’s “The Look of Love.” A few thoughts: I always think, anus curly whirly? when listening to “Blinded By the Light.” There is a LOT of vibraslap in “Eyes Without a Face” and, what does Billy Idol mean here? ABC’s “The Look of Love” is wonderful, and has some hilarious moments, especially the call and response section: Whose got the look? / If I knew the answer to that question I would tell you.

Back to Billy. Looked up the lyrics to “Eyes Without a Face,” and I think they mean that the person lacks humanity, is inhuman. Their look lacks compassion, grace.

Eyes without a face
Got no human grace
You’re eyes without a face
Such a human waste
You’re eyes without a face

And, I’ll end with ABC’s opening lines:

When your world is full of strange arrangements
And gravity won’t pull you through

That sounds like someone with vision problems (me)!

dec 15/RUN

4.2 miles
minnehaha falls and back
20 degrees
75% snow-covered

Much warmer today. Sunny, bright, low wind. My right glute/back/leg didn’t bother me. I felt strong and relaxed and very happy to be back out, beside the gorge. I took a week off from outside running; partly because of the extreme cold, partly the uneven paths, mostly because I was giving my body a break.

10 Things

  1. a runner in an orange-y, pinky jacket
  2. a walker — or a worker? — in a bright yellow jacket, standing above the overlook at the falls
  3. the falls: silent
  4. the creek, looking: almost completely frozen, only a few streaks of dark, open water
  5. the creek, listening: a soft trickling sound
  6. beep beep beep a park vehicle with a plow on the path, clearing out more snow
  7. scrape scrape the sound of the plow blade as it hit bare pavement
  8. the river surface, all white, burning bright through the trees
  9. a car blasting music that was so distorted I could just barely identify it — I think it was “Kids” by MGMT
  10. the big boulder that looks like an armchair, with a lapful of snow

I, Emily Dickinson

I’m finally getting around to doing my write-ups for my monthly challenges in Sept, Oct, and Nov —I was distracted by my manuscript. I found something helpful from 1 sept that I had forgotten about:

Surely, the finest way to appreciate Niedecker would be to read her well. And then repeated reading, reading aloud, transcribing the vibrant phrases on to paper, oh and even framing them. But how to linger in the presence of this voice, and let it echo within oneself, make her a part of oneself? Perhaps by applying Niedecker to Niedecker, I would arrive at a new condensary. De- and re- constructing her poems, deleting words, conflating words, writing through her writing.  

Mani Rao and Writing “Lorine Niedecker”

How to let it echo within oneself? (it = a poet’s words, ideas, worlds). I’m thinking about doing this, writing around and with and through Emily Dickinson, especially in relation to her references to failed vision. To let it echo, listen for the echoes, create echoes. Two immediate thoughts: 1. memorizing and running with her words and 2. taking her poems to my quarry — which I’ve done with 2 already (see the 13th and 14th of December entries).

dec 10/SHOVELBIKE

60 minutes
4 inches
22 degrees

Not sure why 4 inches took almost an hour to do, but it did. The snow was light and dry and easy to push around but I had a lot of area to cover: a front sidewalk, back sidewalk, side sidewalk, small driveway and a deck. All with a shitty shovel. Now, I’m tired. But I don’t care. While I shoveled, I listened to a musical I’ve never heard before — or only heard one of its songs: 3 Bedroom House — Bat Boy. I liked it, well, most of it. One thing that stood out to me: the songs actually told the story. Usually, if I’m listening to a musical and I don’t know the whole story, the songs don’t help, or they give me some of the story but leave crucial bits out. Camelot, I’m talking to you.

A few minutes later, talking to Scott about the musical, I realized how fitting it is to be listening to it — bats! The title of my manuscript is Echo | | location!

10 Things

  1. a group of young kids — in elementary school, I think — walking to school, laughing, calling out, stopping to throw snowballs at each other
  2. 2 women (moms?) pulling occupied sleds towards a school (1.5 blocks away), then empty sleds back again a few minutes later
  3. a burnt coffee smell
  4. a car with an engine that needs a tune-up pulling up to the daycare next door — sputtering
  5. a little girl getting out the car, trudging through deep snow
  6. robins bursting out of our crab apple tree in the backyard
  7. a thick slab of snow on each of our three garbage cans (organics, trash, recycling) looking like vanilla frosting
  8. a neighbor down the alley starting a snow blower
  9. the sharp, scratchy scrap of the metal tip of our bright green shovel on bare sidewalk
  10. the creak/groan of our wrought-iron gate

more manuscript

Thanks to past Sara who left the tab open . . .

the kids next door just came out to play in the front yard — SNOW!, one kid yelled. They’re completely covered in snowsuits, with their hoods up — I used to be annoyed by these kids, but I’ve grown to really like them. They’re always so kind to RJP and FWA when they see them. HAPPY SNOW DAY — a woman called out to them. HAPPY SNOW DAY!!! — one girl replied.

. . . who left the tab open on the computer to an entry in which I talk about daylighting, I remembered that I wanted to write a poem about it, that is, the effort/desire to bring buried creeks aboveground again. Yes! And I’ll put it in the river section, which needs at least one more poem. Before shoveling, I had the idea to take lines from different descriptions of these creeks/springs/ghost rivers and turn them into a cento.

As I shoveled and listened to a line in Bat Boy: the Musical about being let into the light, I had a flash of a thought and a line:

Being outside —
less the light
more the air

I was thinking about how I want to move away from reinforcing the idea that light = good, and dark = bad. Sometimes, with my vision I want/need more light, and sometimes it’s too bright, too much. I don’t mind the dark. I was also thinking about how much I crave/need fresh air. But — maybe for the underground streams it is not a need of air, but space, the room to flow naturally over the topography instead of being buried in a concrete coffin.

okay — these kids are too cute. They just said hi to FWA (as he walked by with Delia) — HI! Have a good day! And now they’re greeting everyone as they walk by, and everyone is returning their greeting with enthusiasm. Hi! / Hi! Are you having fun in the snow? / Yes! . . . FWA came back from the walk and I asked him about the kids. He told me that they said they liked his dog and then the littlest one said something he couldn’t understand — blah blah blah named Soda. He said, What?, and she repeated, blah blah blah named Soda. FWA replied, oh, you have a dog named Soda? That’s cute!

exhumation of streams from underground and reintroduction of them to the surface

exhuming
of bodies —
buried streams
coffined creeks
returned to
the surface
not only
to light, but
open space
and their place
of origin
(or open space/and their source)

Today, I’ll start with these sources for inspiration:

Reaching the Light of Day
“The Urban Mile: The Subterraeam Streams of St. Paul in Subterraean Twin Cities
Daylighting Phalen Creek
 Bridal Veil Falls

(hours later) I read the above sources, and fit some phrases into my triple (berry) chant form. I think I can some of these and shape them into a poem!

urban

waterways

the same path
but below,
under our
feet, under
the ground

natural
waterways —
flow through top-
ography

of a landscape

collective
memory

water, un
ruly, will
not be man-

aged
refuses

to obey

cities, planned
neighborhoods
rooted, creeks
rerouted

caverns, sink
holes, passage
ways deep in

archive of
memory
reflection
on all that
has been lost

she wonders
what a day-
lighted world
could look like

a pipe — the
container
for a
muted stream

not lost, but
forgotten
hidden from
view, walled-in
yet 
flowing still

down here it’s
difficult
to trace the

pedigree
of a pipe
to unearth
its stories
to trace its
influence,
on a place
its people

a creek, its
meadows and
woodlands re-
placed with new
neighbors: streets,
tunnels, pipes,
ditches, wells,
basements for

new houses.
once mighty
waterway
turned from creek
to brook to
rill to no
thing that could
be seen.
industry
buried the
creek that fed
the falls

from a
300
acre wet
land that fed
a creek that
followed
a bank that
spilled over
a ledge and
into a
river, lots
platted, a
street grid
 laid,
a railroad

arrives, ponds
filled, a
freeway built,
neighborhoods
developed

Some things I’d like to remember from what I read: some of the falls/springs/creeks by the river have dried up, no longer exist, others are not lost, only buried, housed in sewer pipes, flowing through massive underground tunnels. In Subterranean Twin Cities, the author — Greg Brick — mentioned how difficult and costly it would be to even attempt to get rid of these waterways altogether. Burying these creeks privileges a particular set of values over other values, comes at the expense of certain communities, cuts people off from their histories, their connection to a place, their waterways.

echoes of the past, of the still-present waterways: seeps, springs, sewer pipes — the dripping or trickling or flushing gushing rushing of water in ravines — it’s all around, and always there when she runs.

bike: 25 minutes
basement

After sitting for much of the day and feeling a twinge in my right glute (maybe) because of it*, I decided to do a short bike ride in the basement. I watched a short feature on a triathlete I like, Taylor Spivey. It felt good to move and get my heart rate up a little — avg. of 120 — from my resting rate of 54. My range = 49-142. All the running and swimming has given me a very fit heart, I think.

*either reasons why I have a glute twinge: overdid the 1/2 pigeon pose in my yoga session yesterday or a delayed reaction to the uneven snow-covered paths.

Last week, Scott tried the treadmill and it wouldn’t work at all. I decided to see if, magically, it had fixed itself. Yes! It was working. I only walked today, but it’s nice to know that if I’m snowed in, I could run in the basement again.

dec 8/RUN

5.25 miles
the flats and back
20 degrees / feels like 5 / snow
100% snow-covered

2 days ago, I mentioned that my next run should be to the flats so I could study the river surface. So that’s where I went this late morning and into the early afternoon: the flats. Unfortunately, there was no surface to study, only white. I had a late start to the run because I was trying to put my yaktrax back on. I might need a bigger size. How long did it take me to finally get them on? 10 maybe 15 or 20 minutes. That’s a long time to be sitting inside wrapped up in all my winter running layers!

Almost everything outside was white. White sky, white ground, white rock, white river. There were a few strips of worn down snow on the path, but a lot of it was lumpy and soft. I twisted my foot/ankle at least once on the uneven ground, but not hard enough to cause a problem. The conditions made it harder, but I didn’t mind too much. It was so quiet and calm and beautiful beside the gorge.

10 Things

  1. another running in a bright orange jacket — encountered them twice
  2. the bright headlights from an approaching bike
  3. under the I-94 bridge, 1: a few streaks of open water
  4. under the I-94 bridge, 2: honk honk honk — some gathered geese, gabbing
  5. heading north, no notice of the wind
  6. heading south, wind in my face
  7. approaching a woman — I was heading north, her south, I could see the snow flying up around her feet from the wind
  8. the bells of St. Thomas chiming and chiming and chiming at noon
  9. brightly colored (I can’t quite remember the colors — maybe pink and orange and blue?) graffiti under the bridges
  10. as I approached the franklin bridge from below, the wind picked up and I felt the arctic air, under the arch, a shopping cart

mental victory of the run: Even though I wanted to stop to rest my legs, sore from the uneven terrain, I kept going until I reached the bottom of the hill.

I had some success writing drafts for my m//other and g||host poems this morning before my run. During and just after the run, on my walk home, I had some thoughts about the third poem, t here involving the dotted line on the map that runs through the middle of the Mississippi River on the map indicating the dividing line between Minneapolis and St. Paul. Here’s a draft that I spoke into my phone. It needs some work!

if you look
on the map
between the
here of this
side and the
there of that
side, a dotted
line was drawn to
represent
that moment
mid-river
when one city
becomes the
other. Do
you think, if
you were to
swim across,
you could feel
this shift, could
find this place
where a there
becomes a
here and a
here becomes
a there? I’m
willing to
believe it
exists, this
space where both
here and there
dwell, a place
where both are
possible.

dec 1/RUN

3 miles
ywca track

The first run at the track in over 2 years. I looked it up and the last run at this track was 4 dec 2023. Not much has changed, which was good. It felt like time traveling. Lots of memories at the y with kids on swim team and inside winter running. I wore my bright yellow shoes, and between them and the bouncy track surface, I felt like I was flying. Fun! and also strange and awkward at first. Running at this track — 6 laps is a mile — is easier than the treadmill, but it’s still hard to run for a long time. I ran without stopping for 20 minutes, then walked a lap, then ran a lap, walked a lap, ran 2.

Aside from the dry and warm and not slippery conditions, one of the best things about running on the track is the chance to encounter the same people over and over, loop after loop.

10 People

  1. the fast runner in blue shorts — a great runner, graceful, making it look effortless — he passed me at least 3 or 4 times
  2. a short-ish woman in black pants and a white jacket walking slowly (and obliviously) in the middle lane, often veering slightly to the outside running lane
  3. 2 tall guys, one in a red shirt, walking and chatting
  4. later, one of the guys, starting to run
  5. an older woman, tall, in black pants, with short hair, her head cocked slightly to the right as she walked
  6. a woman in bright yellow shorts, running, her gait was strange: bouncy, but striking on the wrong part of her foot — too much vertical movement?
  7. 2 people chatting near the window — one of them complaining about how, because of insurance and property tax increases, her mortgage was jumping from $800 a month to $1300
  8. a guy in the far right corner, punching a bag in a steady and strong rhythm
  9. a woman walking with purpose, her locker key jangling in her pocket with each step
  10. someone entering the track and stopping in the middle of the lane to adjust their shoe — they saw me in plenty of time and moved out of the way — thanks!

Earlier today, or yesterday?, I came up with a ywca goal for December: swim a 5k. Now I’m thinking that I should have a running/track goal too. Run a 10k? Run an all out mile? I’ll think about it some more.

locker room encounter

Sandwiched between 2 other people changing, it was awkward. I overheard one say to the other, do you smell hot chocolate? I didn’t, and then suddenly I did. It smelled good. Without thinking, which is something I do more often because of my vision, I blurted out, excuse me, did one of you just say it smells like hot chocolate? One of them said, it’s my cocoa butter. I responded, it smells so good!

nov 29/RUN

3.3 miles
trestle turn around
26 degrees / snow
100% snow-covered

Wasn’t planning to run outside today, while it snowed, but something changed my mind — was it seeing people walking out my front window? Was it remembering that I have yaktrax? Was it not wanting to run on the treadmill? I’m not quite sure, but suddenly I found myself getting ready to go out, then leaving the house, then running through a winter wonderland. It wasn’t too cold, or too windy, and with the yaktrax, it wasn’t too slippery. There were times when I was cold or when my feet were a little sore from running with the yaktrax, but mostly I enjoyed being out there in the snow. Snow! Covering every inch of the ground, on the bluff, in the sky. The river was pewter and still open, but for how long? Some dog was losing it down below — maybe they were at the white sands beach, or on the part of the Winchell Trail that descends south from the trestle. So much barking. I’d like to imagine there barks were from the joy and the delight or frolicking through the snow.

Anything else? Some other walkers, at least 2 or 3 other runners, 3 fat tire bikers. Climbing up from under the lake street bridge, I listened to dead leaves on a tree shaking in the wind, sounding like gushing water. I heard more trees later closer to the old stone steps. I stopped at the sliding bench and noticed someone walking on the trail that winds beside the white sands beach.

earlier in the day

It is snowing again this morning. Barely more than flurries, but adding to the thin layer already started a few days ago. Encountered this poem on Instagram this morning, and wanted to remember it. It’s from one of my favorite poets/writers, Wendell Berry:

LIKE SNOW/ Wendell Berry

Suppose we did our work
like the snow, quietly, quietly, 
leaving nothing out.

Something else I encountered this morning that I’d like to remember:

Originally found here: Exploring Dakota Lands and Waters

later, after the run

It may have started as flurries this morning, but it’s bigger flakes now, and they’re piling up. 2 or 3 inches. I shoveled right after I finished running and now, 30 minutes later, the deck is covered again. I wonder how much will we get when it stops snowing?

update, Monday (1 dec 2025): It snowed all night. Apparently we got almost 4 inches, although it seems like more to me.

nov 28/HIKERUN

hike: 40 minutes
Minnehaha Dog Park
21 degrees

Since July or August, FWA and I have been taking Delia-the-dog to the dog park every Friday morning. We’ve only missed one Friday, when we were in Chicago. We took her a few days later, instead. I wasn’t sure if we’d go this morning because it was much colder, but we did. Wow! What a great walk! The dog park is like a winter wonderland. The trail was hard dirt, but no snow, and there was barely any wind. Lots of sun, calm, quiet air, and a river, still and sparkling. I was bundled up in long underwear and my new winter hat and gloves. Had a great talk with FWA about a new project he’s working on.

There was a moment — hard dirt path, bright sun, snow, tree trunks all around of various thicknesses, birds or Bird chirping above, crisp cold air, listening to FWA talk about something he was passionate about, being outside and moving through beautiful land. I told FWA that this moment was making my top ten images of Winter.

run: 4.25 miles
locks and dam / wabun / ford bridge and back
22 degrees
10% snow and ice-covered

With the warm sun, low wind, crisp refreshing air, and the clear path, I knew I needed to go out for a run. I was planning to run to the bottom of the locks and dam no. 1 to admire the river, then walk up the hill and run back, but I got to the bottom and someone was doing a video — they had their camera on a tripod and were standing with their back to the bridge, talking to the camera in Russian — I think it was Russian. I didn’t really stop, just turned around. I decided to run up the Wabun hill and over the ford bridge on the south side, then back on the north side.

Beautiful and wonderful and moments that were effortless, others that were difficult. A small mental victory: I wanted to stop and walk again, but I saw the bright yellow crosswalk sign at 38th street far in the distance. I told myself that I could keep running until I got to it if I just put one foot in front of the other and did it. I did!

10 Things

  1. the river surface was scaled and gun metal gray except for where it was burning silver
  2. a man with a dog, walking fast — I ran to the far side of the path to avoid them. even so, the dog lunged as I ran past and almost reached me
  3. cars driving fast! over the bridge — zoom zoom
  4. stopping at the bench above the edge of the world to admire the view — the bluff wall on the other shore was speckled white
  5. the grass near the bench was covered with crunchy snow — I listened to the 2 distinct sounds, crunch creak, as I slowly walked over it
  6. running on a bare sidewalk under the ford bridge on the st. paul side, hearing a slight echo from my footsteps and the rumble or whoosh? of car passing me
  7. the cold air rushing through my teal hat and making tassels hanging from the ear flaps bob
  8. the wabun hill was covered in leaves and a little slippery
  9. on parts of the path covered with snow, faint traces of reddish-brown dirt that someone from minneapolis parks had spread earlier
  10. the quick, graceful lift — up down up down up down — of a taller, faster runner behind then ahead of me then gone

nov 27/RUN

4.5 miles
john stevens’ house and back
27 degrees
wind: 18 mph
25% ice covered path

Too cold and icy for Scott, so no Thanksgiving run together. It’s too bad we couldn’t do it, but he made the right choice. Too much wind, too much ice, too many other people running and walking. He would have been miserable. I didn’t love all the run — it was hard to run into that wind! — but I loved a lot of it. It wasn’t too cold or windy or icy for me. Winter running is back!

10 Things

  1. clip clop clip clop a runner approaching from behind, wearing ice spikes and running on bare pavement
  2. 2 runners descending on the part of the path below the road south of the double bridge, one of them in a bright orange jacket
  3. minnehaha falls was rushing and (almost) roaring — I stopped at my favorite spot to watch it fall fast, and in sheets, over the ledge
  4. sometimes a little cloudy, sometimes bright sun
  5. the train bells at 50th street station were chiming frantically
  6. a group of people paying for parking at the falls — I wish I could remember what woman said . . .
  7. kids voices over at longfellow house — were they sledding down the hill like RJP did, when she was a kid?
  8. the view above the edge of the world was open and wintery and calming — I kept my distance from the bench because there was a big branch that looked like it might fall in the strong wind
  9. a human, in dark clothing, and a dog, standing at the Rachel Dow Memorial Bench
  10. the 38th street steps are blocked off for the season — today they were thick with ice

update, the next day: I forgot about the silver surface of the river! Runnng south, it burned in the distance as bright sun hit rough water. Wow!

Happy to have a relaxed, drama-free Thanksgiving. The kids are doing much better, and are getting along. RJP made the stuffing this year; FWA, mac-n-cheese. I made 2 pies: apple and maple cream. And, for the first time, I made my own pie crust! I’m proud of myself for saying I was going to do it, then actually doing it. Now we just have to see how it tastes.

Friday morning (the next day): The pies were excellent! Both of them, thanks to Smitten Kitchen: Maple Cream Pie and Even More Perfect Apple Pie. Scott said the maple cream one reminded him of pumpkin pie but better. I was delighted by how the 1/4 teaspoon of ground ginger brightened the apple pie. When I took my first bite I said, it’s so bright! that ginger really brightens it up!, which FWA found hilarious.

Found this poem today. What does the Mississippi River Gorge smell like?

Yaquina River/ Lana Hechtman


The river smells like the absence of sea,
like sky that has lost its confidence,

current wafting down the centuries from 
natives who lived and died on these shores,

the breaths of children’s laughter, their songs
ripple the slow water that goes

only at the pace it is determined to go.
The river smells like bufflehead feet and goose

feathers, salmon scales and brown silt,
fallen cedar boughs, dropped fir cones,

like women brave enough to swim
and gritty motor boat bottoms.

Slick as oil, clear as rain.
The river smells like green and bronze,

the blue of berries and purple of night, 
smells of floods and grief, of relief 

in times of drought, of every dreamer
who ever skipped stones upon it.

The river smells of sun’s sloped shoulders
and moon’s languid kisses, 

and the riverbank smells like a place
to plant myself for all my remaining years

rich delta, aroma I have come to love
despite missing the sea.

nov 24/RUN

7.5 miles
lake nokomis and back
47 degrees

A big goal of 2025 achieved: I ran over to the lake and back! I think this is the first time I’ve done that this year (I’ll have to check later). Since I accomplished that goal a month early, maybe I can add another goal for December: run to the lake and back without stopping. Today I stopped to walk, but only after I had run 3.3 miles. Stopping was mostly a mental issue, although I also started speeding up too much a few times, which elevated my heart rate and made it harder to keep going.

Another beautiful day — at least to me. It was gray and brown and dull yellow. Humid. The moisture made the air cooler when I stopped to walk.

10 Things

  1. a roller skier, graceful and smooth in their motions and the rhythm between their legs and arms
  2. the path under the ford bridge was closed: tree work
  3. running on the grass through large piles of leaves
  4. the creek was very low
  5. only one spot on the creek was babbling as water rushed over the rocks
  6. 2 people walking and talking on the pedestrian bridge, reviewing/planning their Thanksgiving menu
  7. the dock is disconnected, part of it in the middle of the lake, the other in the grass between the path and the water
  8. geese in the swimming area, one of them flapping its wings furiously
  9. the thwack of a ball on the pickleball court (someone is always playing! do they play in the winter?)
  10. the very strong, unpleasant smell of weed near the 44th street parking lot

before the run

Discovered this delightful line in poets.org’s poems of the day, Egg Tooth/ Benjamin Garcia

Ears are the eyes on the sides of your head. 

Ears are the eyes on the side of your head makes me think of what I read last night about echolocation from Daniel Kish (Batman) who sees through sonar.

Activating the Visual Cortex to rewire the brain

Our collaborative projects with research centers in the U.S. and around the world have led to the discovery that the echoes from FlashSonar clicks reflect off surrounding objects, sending auditory signals that activate, and are processed by the brain’s Visual Cortex.

Visioneers

Auditory signals that activate the visual cortex? Very cool. A decade ago, before my vision declined dramatically and before I knew much about vision, I would have found this statement impossibly strange, but now I know better. The brain is amazing and adaptable and its ability to compensate for faulty eyes is not surprising at all.

oops — for the second time in less than a week, I didn’t see my water glass on a table and put something down too close to it and tipped it over. Last week, water spilled all over a New Yorkers. This morning: my laptop. Boo! No more clear water glasses. Time to rely exclusively on my bright blue hydroflask.

during the run

I thought about seeing with my ears and echolocation and listening to the sharp sounds my feet made as I ran. Closed my eyes a few times while I was running to see how it felt and what I could notice. Wow — I need to work on my balance when my eyes are closed!

writing update

I have (almost) finished my manuscript, Echo // location (formerly known as girl ghost gorge and haunts before that). Also put together a chapbook out of the rock poems in it that I’m calling, Riprap which I’ll submit this week.

nov 22/RUN

6 miles
hidden falls overlook
40 degrees

Sun! Warmer (but not too warm) air! An open view! And 6 miles! A good run. I’m tired now and my legs are sore, but I felt strong and light and full of energy at the end.

10 Things

  1. click scrape scrape click — a roller skier’s poles approaching from behind
  2. one roller skier bundled up, another in shorts
  3. running beside 2 roller skiers, one of them listening to the other express concern/frustration about some part of his ski not locking in right
  4. a mini peloton on the road — 10 bikes?
  5. small scales on the surface of the gray water
  6. a serpentine of big cracks and asphalt erupting on the st. paul path
  7. the small building above the hydroelectric plant on the st. paul side is spray-painted bright pink
  8. the gentle trickle of water over the rocks at hidden falls
  9. a bad heavy metal hair band anthem blasting out of the window of a white car
  10. not a wide open view — too many thin branches — but the feeling of openness and air on the st. paul side

Thought about my rock, river, and air chants as I ran. Recited (in my head) as much of the rock one as I could remember. Liked the groove I fell into as I chanted

poet’s clock
poet’s clock
poet’s clock
this big rock

Finishing up the run, I felt strong and fast and proud as I thought about all the work I’ve put in over more than a decade of coming to the gorge at least 3 or 4 times a week, sometimes more, and running and noticing and writing.

nov 18/RUNSWIM

4.3 miles
marshall loop
35 degrees

The forecast was for 2+ inches of sloppy snow early this morning. Maybe rain too. Completely dry. Everything happened just south of us. Hooray! Great conditions for a run. Not too cold or too windy or too crowded. Today’s mental victory: I ran all the way up the marshall hill, over to the river, and down the summit hill without stopping. Stopped at the overlook on the bridge for a minute to check out the sandbar and the reflections and the smooth surface of the river. Beautiful.

10 Things

  1. egg/breakfast sausage smells coming from Black Waffle Bar — no sweet waffle smell
  2. no more leaves on the trees, all on the sidewalk
  3. cars backed up on lake street
  4. the light at the top of the hill: red
  5. smell: savory, eggs and bacon
  6. a car parked in a driveway blocking the path
  7. the bent and crooked slats from blinds in a garage window
  8. two people standing and looking at a stone wall above the ravine near shadow falls
  9. a roller skier on the path, then on the road
  10. several stones stacked on the ancient boulder

echo / / location

I can’t quite remember how it happened, but I was thinking about my Girl Ghost Gorge poems and echoes and chanting — oh, yes, it had something to do with sound and a call for submissions for soundscapes in poetry. As I thought about my rock river air chants, ECHOLOCATION, suddenly popped into my head!

Echolocation is a great title for this collection. Or, echo location. Or, echo | | location. Or, as Scott suggested, echo / / location. I looked it up and someone has a poetry collection with the title echolocation. Is that a problem? To have the same name? I’m not sure. I like the sound of girl ghost gorge, and a girl (me), her ghosts, and the gorge are the theme that inspired all of the poems. But, being located in time and space — both placing myself and being placed by others — seems even more like the theme. At the very least, I’d like to title the final poem of the collection, echolocation.

Here’s something to read about humans and echolocation: How Does Human Echolocation Work? It’s with Daniel Kish, Batman from an Invisibilia episode.

The rest of today is about studying echolocation!

I mentioned echolocation in these past entries:

update, several hours later: I received an email today from a journal that published one of my poems: I’ve been nominated for a Pushcart Prize! This is my second nomination, which is really exciting! It’s for “The Cut-off Wall” (“The Cut-Off Wall” — Rogue Agent, March 2025).

Also, another cool thought about my collection and the chants in it. I’ve been playing around with making the shape of the river out of words in my river chant:

flow flow flow
slow slow slow

In early drafts, I had the words form the river, but now I’m thinking of making a page of these words and removing some to form the shape of the river/gorge. It’s echolocation with the syllables flow and slow bouncing off the object I cannot see! I’m imagining a sound accompaniment to this, inspired by Diana Khoi Nguyen’s reading of her “Triptych” for Ours Poetica:

inspiration starts 2 minutes in

Nguyen doesn’t remove words, but creates space in-between them where the shapes of her brother would be if he had not cut himself out of the photograph. I need to think about how I want to do it — like in this poem, or by removing some of the chanted words altogether. Maybe I wouldn’t call them chants but echolocations?

I think I’d like to do them for all three of the key “objects/subjects”: rock, river, and air! Very cool. I think this would be a great submission for the poetry soundscapes feature that I mentioned earlier in this post.

This section explores poetry in all its sonic dimensions. Across the premodern world, at a time when books were scarce and costly, poetry was often chanted or sung aloud, and the boundary between song and verse was fluid. Many poems resonate with the sounds of nature, while others pulse with onomatopoeia and sonic texture. Later, poets since the early 20th century have pushed the medium to its limits, exploring how the sonic interacts with grammar, rhetoric and rhythm on the page. 

For a special section of Mantis 24 (2026), Soundscapes of Poetry, we invite submissions  that engage with sound in any and all ways—whether through music, noise, onomatopoeia or rhythm, or even the sound of silence itself.

submission call for Mantis

The only bummer: your submission doesn’t include sound files; it’s only the written word. I’d like to find a journal that also wants the sounds.

swim: 1.5 loops
ywca pool

Another swim! Swam at the y before community band rehearsal. It felt good and it wasn’t crowded. I had my own lane. I felt strong and relaxed and swimming a mile and a half wasn’t hard at all. I tried to think about echolocation while I swam, but I just counted my strokes instead.

nov 17/RUN

4.5 miles
veterans home (reverse)
36 degrees

After 4 days in Chicago visiting my sister, a great run. A wonderful trip and a wonderful return. I felt relaxed and strong and steady. Ran for 45 minutes without stopping. A big mental victory. And I didn’t feel wiped out at the end — a big physical victory. I kept my splits steady instead of speeding up too much in the second and third mile. I think that helped. I should be mindful of the second and third mile in future runs.

I ran south and then, instead of continuing on to the falls, I ran up the wabun hill and by the veterans’ home first. Then over the bridge, through the park, past the falls and up and out of the park. I almost always stop at my favorite viewing spot, but didn’t today. Hooray for mental strength!

10 Things

  1. click clack — roller skiers behind me as I neared the locks and dam no 1
  2. overheard — one roller skier to the other: hey — do you want to go to the falls and then turn around? another skier: sure!
  3. open view: above the oak savanna, near the spot where the hills split and you can see the river
  4. empty benches
  5. the rumble of a jack hammer
  6. a cacophony of chirping birds in the trees between the veterans’ bridge and the falls — such a convention!
  7. the creek was brown and subdued
  8. the falls were flowing, but thinner
  9. on the cobblestones beside the falls: a small stretch of ice
  10. waved to a regular: Santa Claus!

before and after the run

Before the run, I was thinking about chants and remembered the performance of a poem I had seen in the movie, Poetry in Motion. I looked it up: The Cutting Prow: For Henri Matisse/ Ed Sanders. What I had remembered, and wanted to hear again as inspiration was the chanting,

Scissor scepter cutting prow
Scissor scepter cutting prow
Scissor scepter cutting prow
Scissor scepter cutting prow

I’ve been thinking that my rock, river, and air chants should do something like this: repeating the essence/the form of something through the chanting of a few significant words. As I ran, I might have briefly thought about this chant/these ideas/this poem, but not in ways that I can recall now.

After the run, I watched Sanders’ full performance of the poem again and found it online:

THE CUTTING PROW: FOR HENRI MATISSE/ Ed Sanders

“The genius was 81
Fearful of blindness
Caught in a wheelchair
Staring at death

But the Angel of mercy
Gave him a year
To scissor some shapes
To soothe the scythe

And shriek! shriek!
Became
swawk! swawk!
The peace of
Scissors.

There was something besides
The inexpressible

Thrill

Of cutting a beautiful shape—-
For

Each thing had a ‘sign’
Each thing had a ‘symbol’
Each thing had a cutting form

-swawk swawkk___
to scissor seize.

‘One must study an object a long time,’
the genius said,
‘to know what its sign is.’

The scissors were his scepter
The cutting
Was as the prow of a barque
To sail him away.
There’s a photograph
which shows him sitting in his wheelchair
bare foot touching the floor
drawing the crisscross steel
a shape in the gouache

His helper sits near him
Till he hands her the form
To pin to the wall

He points with a stick
How he wants it adjusted
This way and that,
Minutitudinous

The last blue iris blooms at
The top of its stalk
Scissors/scepter
Cutting prow

(sung)

Ah, keep those scissors flashing in the
World of Forms, Henri Matisse

The cutting of the scissors
Was the prow of a boat
To take him away
The last blue iris
Blooms at the top
On a warm spring day

Ah, keep those scissors flashing
In the World of Forms, Henri Matisse

Sitting in a wheelchair
Bare feet touching the floor
Angel of Mercy
Pushed him over Next to Plato’s door

Scissor scepter cutting prow
Scissor scepter cutting prow
Scissor scepter cutting prow
Scissor scepter cutting prow

ahh
swawk swawk

ahh swawk swawk

ahh swawk swawk.”

When I first heard/saw this a few years ago, I was drawn to the sound of the scissors and the words he repeated, but now I’m also thinking about Matisse and the cutting forms. Very cool. I might have to return to shadows, silhouettes, and forms and look into Matisse some more!

an hour, or so, later: Watching Poetry in Motion from the beginning, I encountered this great bit during the opening credits:

You don’t want to lead anyone in any subjective sense, to push anything onto them, you know. I mean, you could say teach in a certain way but it’s like putting light in people’s eyes, you know. Just opening the door but not showing them around and telling them, this is the chair, this is table, but saying, here’s the room and turning on the light.

Poetry in Motion

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.

update, 25 jan 2026: I am assuming I didn’t qualify for the next round of the vision study because no one has ever gotten back to me. I got ghosted. Also, at some point in the months since I submitted poems to a journal, a chapbook to a contest, all of it was rejected. Oh well, writing poetry then trying to get it published involves a lot of rejection.

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.

oct 18/RUNHIKW

3.25 miles
marshall loop
52 degrees

It’s leaf peeping time. Up at the North Shore it was mostly gold, but down here, more reds and oranges. Bright sun this morning and quiet. After hearing Scott talk about how the Marshall hill was helping him get into shape, I decided to try it. I did it! I ran up the entire hill without stopping to walk — a mental victory. The thing I remember most about the run was rowers on the river. Running east, I could see a single shell out of the corner of my eye. Only a dark form moving in the water. Running back west, I stopped at the overlook for a longer view. Another single shell. The person was rowing with one paddle, the other moving on its own.

45 minute hike
minnehaha off-leash dog park
58 degrees

The weekly dog park hike with Delia and FWA. What a morning for a hike by the river! Cool, sunny, some leaves the color of pears, others apples and oranges. Inspired by my mention of the pear, FWA started recounting Annoying Orange stories and the grumpy pear.

10 Things

  1. a hovering helicopter, the loud choppy buzz of its propellers
  2. what were they doing? searching for someone who fell in the river? Nope. Fixing power lines! one dude was hanging off the end of a rope with a ladder
  3. the incessant bark of a far off dog
  4. the flash of white and black — the fur of a fast dog
  5. wore hiking sandals — fine, soft sand right by the river seeped through the gaps in my sandals and gathered under my big toe
  6. a woman picking up a toddler and smelling them, then saying, nope, you must have stepped in dog poop
  7. the river, burning a bright white
  8. Delia stomping through the water, lifting each paw all the way out
  9. a woman in bright red pants, and a bright red jacket
  10. an almost medium-sized dog in a cute/stylish sweater, their owner wearing burgundy tennis shoes and an orange jacket

oct 14/RUN

5.4 miles
franklin loop
48 degrees
drizzle, on and off

Feeling stronger and faster with every run. A overcast, rainy morning. Not gloomy, at least not to me: full of reds and yellow and oranges. Encountered Santa Claus in a bright orange, or was it yellow?, jacket. Heard lots of water everywhere, falling off the trees, gushing in the ravines, seeping out of cracks in the limestone, dripping down the steps on the bridge. I heard a lot of water just before reaching the trestle. I wondered if it was the inaccessible spring that I’ve read about.

When I started my run, the roads and sidewalks felt slippery, but I didn’t have any problems on the trail. I thought about the water section in my GGG collection — what does water do? Today, it: dripped, puddled, pooled, slid, (over)flowed, sprinkled, gushed. And, it exposed things that are difficult to see: cracks, fissures, slightly uneven ground. Water — as puddles or ice or snow — reveals what is normally hidden.

10 Things

  1. the river from the lake street bridge, 1: flat, smooth, pewter
  2. the river from the lake street bridge, 2: leaning over the railing, see the faint brown sandbar beneath the surface
  3. the shorter rock next to the ancient boulder almost looked like a little bear to me as I ran by — the rain had darkened the rock making it look like black fur
  4. still green down in the tunnel of trees
  5. the bright reddish-purple leaves on some trees lower to the ground
  6. empty benches
  7. on the east side, birds were chirping as I ran under the trees
  8. on and off, rain — mostly, I was sheltered from it by the still leafed trees, so it was difficult to tell what was rain and what was drips
  9. some kids laughing and yelling up on the hill
  10. puddles on the franklin bridge

Before sitting down to write my list, I remembered something to add to it, but by the time I started I had forgotten it. What was it? a few minutes later: this isn’t it, but I remembered something from the other day. There was a Palestinian flag made out of yarn on part of a fence somewhere on my run a few days ago. It might have been down near the tunnel of trees. I wonder if it is still there?

GGG update

During my “on this day” practice, I found some inspiration:

1 — 14 oct 2019

Looked up vista and found something interesting: “Vista is generally used today for broad sweeping views of the kind you might see from a mountaintop. But the word originally meant an avenue-like view, narrowed by a line of trees on either side. And vista has also long been used (like view and outlook) to mean a mental scan of the future—as if you were riding down a long grand avenue and what you could see a mile or so ahead of you was where you’d be in the very near future.”

My view is the opposite of these older meanings of vista in two ways: First, the narrow and tree-lined view makes me think of tunnel vision, when you only see what is straight ahead of you in your central vision. I see mostly with my peripheral. Second, my desire for a view is not in the hopes of seeing a specific future. Instead, I want to return to the past, or not the past, but to see a broader and longer view of the now, where everything exists together at the same time — maybe Mary Oliver’s eternal time?

also: there is an avenue (one article about the grand rounds and the gorge called them ornamental avenues) beside the river, but that is only the formal path to take. There’s the walking trail which meanders and (roughly) follows the terrain and is designed, not to get somewhere faster, but to engage with the gorge. And then there are dirt trails, alongside the paved trail, and deeper in the gorge, that don’t offer a clear or direct future. Not sure if this will make sense to a future Sara. I’m also thinking about Wendell Berry and the distinction he makes in “Native Hill” between roads and trails — I’ll have to find it.

Maybe I should do a You Are Here about a view, or I could call it an Overlook? Yes.

2 — 14 oct 2021

Earlier today I was thinking about pace — and only slightly in relation to running pace, more about pacing and restlessness and ghosts that haunt the path. Pace and pacing, like watches or clocks, impose limits and boundaries: a running pace uses seconds and minutes per mile (or km) and pacing involves walking back and forth in a small or confined space, retracing your steps again and again until you rub the grass away and reach dirt, or wear the carpet bare. What to do with that information? I’m not quite sure…yet.

to remember: Scott just told me that the musician, D’Angelo died today from pancreatic cancer. He was 51, my age. Scary and sad. My mom died of pancreatic cancer; it sucks.

oct 13/RUN

4 miles
minnehaha falls and back
55 degrees

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;/lengthen night and shorten day; (Emily Brontë). Ran at noon because I got my hair cut this morning. A great time for a run, at least today. Sunny, calm, cool. I wore my bright yellow shoes and felt strong. Chanted in triple berries, then one of my Your Are Here poems:

Held up by the openness,
Not hemmed in by the trees.

Admired the golden leaves, but forgot to look at the river. Did I notice it even once? If I did, I can’t remember. I did notice the rushing creek and the gushing water fall. Saw a school bus, then heard some kids laughing at the playground by the falls. At my favorite spot, I stopped to look at the falls. Then I walked up the hill and put in Taylor Swift’s new album.

10 Things

  1. bright blue, cloudless sky
  2. the faint outline of the moon above a still green tree
  3. folwell bench: one person sitting there
  4. bench above the edge of the world: empty
  5. benches at the falls: all empty
  6. a runner behind me — were they catching up? for a few minutes I could hear their shuffling feet, then nothing — did they turn off somewhere, or was I just going faster?
  7. something on the bottom of my shoe was making as shshshsh sound as I ran. Stopped at a rock to rub it off
  8. the sweet smell of tall grass near “The Song of Hiawatha”
  9. a leashed dog spinning around and jumping up, then sitting calmly beside a human
  10. puddles on the part of path near the ford bridge — a result of last night’s rain

GGG — before the run

I think I’m getting closer to being done with this collection? One of the poems I still have to write is called “Everything.” It is two pages wide. In the upper left corner of one page is: I go to/the gorge/to witness. In the lower right corner of the second page is: everything. These lines are the rock walls framing the open space of the gorge above the water/ground. In the open space, I’m planning to fill it with things I’ve witnessed at the gorge, culled from the 10 Things I noticed lists I’ve been making for at least 5 years. Just now, a thought: what if I organize the things to reflect the seasons, so the upper right quarter = spring, lower right = summer, lower right = fall, upper left = winter. In theory it sounds good, but what will it look like?

oct 11/RUN

2.8 miles
sliding bench and back
49 degrees

A shorter run before Kona Ironman begins. I have loved watching this race since I was a kid when they showed the hour long recap of it on NBC. Now, I can watch the entire thing — all 8+ hours of it — online. I don’t want to race one, too much time on the bike, but I love watching them.

My run was good. Wore my bright yellow shoes and felt strong and fast — or faster than I have been for the last couple of years. Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker twice. The second time, he wished me happy birthday again! Dave is the best.

10 Things

  1. hello friend! good morning! — greeted the Welcoming Oaks, slower turning golden
  2. 3 or 4 stones stacked on the ancient boulder
  3. a few people walking on the trail in bright yellow vests — were they volunteers or rowers?
  4. some red, some orange, still mostly green
  5. click clack click clack a roller skier
  6. empty benches — the one just north of the old stone steps, above the rowing club, the one sliding into the gorge
  7. a biker handing a water bottle to a runner — what marathon are they training for? New York?
  8. stopping at the sliding bench: on the bluff, the trees were yellow, but down in the gorge, near White Sands beach, still green and thick
  9. tunnel of trees: still green
  10. passing a runner on the other side of the street before starting my run — their breathing was labored, heavy

I don’t remember what the river looked like — did I even see it? Don’t remember squirrels or birds or dogs. Oh — I recall hearing a collar clanging. Did I, or was that only my key in my zipped pocket? One small pack of runners. No coxswain’s voice or sewer smells or overheard conversations. No sirens or honks or geese. Where are the geese? I have heard a few this fall, but not that often. No chants or drums or protests on the lake street bridge, no burnt coffee smells, no Daddy Long Legs or Mr. Morning! or Mr. Holiday or All Dressed Up. Were these things not there, or was I just not noticing them?

oct 9/RUN

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

  1. red leaves
  2. the occasional thump of an acorn hitting the ground
  3. the loud rumble of a school bus approaching Dowling
  4. scales on the river near the locks and dam — no clear reflection of the bridge today, instead more of an impressionist painting of it
  5. the bridge in the 44th street parking lot was empty, so was the one near folwell
  6. a dog’s bark, deep and loud, in the trees near Becketwood
  7. more golden light through the trees
  8. heading north, descending on the path that dips below the road, seeing a big but not the trail — hidden behind leaves
  9. the bench at the edge of the world: empty
  10. 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 not seeing when I’m being seen.

oct 6/RUN

4.3 miles
minnehaha falls and back
50 degrees

The heat broke! Hooray. My run felt so much better, and dreamier, everything fuzzy and soft. My right knee felt a little strange at the very beginning of the run, but better the longer I ran. The air was crisp, the sun was bright, and the leaves were orange and red and yellow. Today I noticed a stretch of yellow just north of 42nd.

Listened to kids biking to school, water rushing over the limestone ledge and the falls, and at least one song out of a bike radio as I ran south. Put in Taylor Swift’s new album, “The Life of a Showgirl.”

10 Things

  1. Nearing a walker, about to pass them from behind, they suddenly spit. It missed me, but I was grossed out and stuck out my tongue without thinking. Morning! Oh no — it was Mr. Morning!
  2. a row of buses lined up in front of Dowling Elementary — another school week begins
  3. remnants of the marathon — not trash, but barricades, waiting to be picked up
  4. more red and orange leaves — not full trees, but slashes in the bushes
  5. the surface of the river was burning white again
  6. a white truck with an arm and bucket parked in a falls paking lot — was it there to clean up after the marathon?
  7. a rushing creek with foam that looked silvery purpley, oxidized green, blue, then pewter
  8. water trickling out of the sewer pipes
  9. empty benches
  10. the sweet smell of the tall grass — a thought today: is this a smell from my childhood in North Carolina?

some things for future Sara

1

Yesterday, Scott and I walked over to the river and watched the first wave of marathon runners reach mile 17. We saw the wheelers — I love seeing the motion of the silver handlebars turning turning and turning. We saw the men’s lead pack, their heels bouncing rhythmically like balls. We saw the lead woman and second place — a runner I’ve been following for 5 or 6 years now on Instagram. And we saw the GOAT of Ultra running, Courtney Dauwalter. I wish I had remembered to where (added the next day: where instead of wear? wow. a mistake, or is it? In that moment, I was, in fact, lamenting, oh, where are my glasses!) my glasses — in addition to losing my cone cells, I’m near-sighted. If I’m standing still, glasses can help see some far off things, like “exit” signs or moving bodies. Scott and I were inspired and have decided that we want to give the marathon another go, hopefully next year.

2

Finished the novel, Victorian Psycho yesterday. The final section was an epic bloodbath. The violence didn’t seen gratuitous, but fit, and it was so beautifully written. Descriptions of scarlet ribbons streaming from throats. After I finished, I suddenly realized that this final section must be a reference/homage to the Odyssey and Odysseus’s slaughtering of the suitors, which was also a bloodbath.

3

When Scott and I walked into Costco, we discovered that they were offering free, no appointment necessary, flu and COVID shots. Nice! We needed them so we waited about 5 minutes and then got jabbed. So convenient! Past Sara, who drove up to Duluth to get her first vaccine in 2021, would be shocked.

Lena Smith Boulevard

Last year — 29 jan 2024 — I wrote about an effort to rename Edmund Boulevard because of its namesake, Edmund Walton, who was responsible for racial covenants in this area and across Minneapolis. The efforts of community members and a community organization worked! The boulevard is being renamed after Minnesota’s first black woman lawyer, Lena Smith. The renaming was approved on sept 11, 2025. When will we see new street signs?

I’m thinking of this renaming today because I’m working on poems related to Air. Ever since I read a few lines in Gorge Management Plan from Minneapolis parks about this boulevard as a threshold space, I’ve wanted to write something about it. Now I want to add in some lines about the renaming, and the ongoing history of this place, and who is and isn’t given access to these open spaces.

Speaking of AIR, I’ve also wanted to write about lungs and breath and idea of room to breathe out by the gorge. A thought just popped into my head: the Canadian wild fires! I’ve been writing about the Air Quality Index and the thick smoke that travels south from Canadian wild fires for a few years on this blog. Maybe that could be part of my AIR section, too?

oct 4/RUN

3.25 miles
2 trails + ravine
72 degrees
dew point: 62

8:30 in the morning and 72? Ugh. I’m glad it’s cooling down on Monday. My IT band felt strange for the first few minutes, but after that I forgot about it.

10 Things

  1. noticed the difference in drips at the 2 ledges — one concrete, one limestone — in the ravine between the 35th and 36th street parking lots — the concrete ledge, which was higher up, dripped less and slower
  2. a greeting from Mr. Morning!
  3. a peloton — 2 dozen bikers? — on the bike path
  4. not much yellow, but lots of red and orange
  5. the Winchell Trail was muddy parts — when did it rain?
  6. almost running into a walker, thinking that I was coming up behind them instead of them coming towards me — sometimes I can’t tell when someone is facing me or turned away
  7. the trail through the oak savanna: only a swirl of leaves and mulch
  8. a little more of a view at the edge of the world and the folwell bench
  9. a thick haze, trapped in the oaks in the savanna
  10. the surface of the river burning white
the surface of the river burning through the trees / Rachel Dow Memorial Bench

I decided to take a video of the river instead of a photo; I wanted to capture the movement of the light on the surface.

for future Sara: Ran past a house all gussied up for Halloween on 34th near Seven Oaks. A figure in black leaning over the fence, graves and skeletons in the front yard. I need to walk by here at night.

Listened to water trickling and voices below for the 2.5 miles of the run. Put in Taylor Swift’s new album for the last bit.

excerpt from Karma Affirmation Cistern Don’t Be Afraid Keep Going Toward the Horror / Gabrielle Calvocoressi

it’s okay. To know you’re part craven smuggler.
Part thief. Maybe if you know your animal.
I mean really know your animal.
You won’t become a builder of factories
or slave ships. Maybe instead of building
a ship somewhere in your body
you just let yourself feel the pain and
humiliation. No need to make it beautiful
for some future reader. Just say how much
you wanted to hurt someone like you got hurt.
And then just watch that for a while. It’s okay
to feel horribly ashamed. Best not to look away.
The gate to joy is past the factory and past
the reader and maybe it’s past your last breath
on this planet. There’s nothing you can do about it.
You come from the cistern of brutality
and hunger. You are the resonator. Just breathe.

Best not to look away. Wow! On the Poetry Foundation site, the poet reads this poem and they do a great job.

oct 1/RUN

4.2 miles
minnehaha falls and back
67 degrees

A good run! I felt strong and relaxed and able to run farther without needing to stop for a walk break. More color on the trees today, lots of orange and red, not as much yellow.

10 Things

  1. workers in bright yellow vests at the Cleveland Overlook next to a big white truck with a long arm and a bucket — trimming trees?
  2. slashes of orange everywhere, not big stretches of it, only a dot here, a dot there
  3. a fine, cool spray coming off of the falls
  4. the smell of fried something at the falls — Sea Salt?
  5. chickadeedeedeedee
  6. kids laughing and yelling on a playground hidden behind trees
  7. a woman walking over to a man near the ledge etched with “The Song of Hiawatha,” saying, I like it here
  8. that tall grass smell that reminds me of cilantro, almost — the common thread: the smell of freshness? and green?
  9. the dirt trail that winds through the small wood near the ford bridge looked muddy
  10. a roller skier on the trail — I don’t remember the click clack sound of his poles, just the fast swinging of his arms as he propelled himself forward

As I ran, I thought about water and erosion and how that might translate into a new form and/or way to play around with my already existing poems. I had a few ideas:

  • water as causing cracks, fissures, splitting words open. New breaks in the lines, in individual words? Making new words out of the already existing ones?
  • water as swirling and falling. A mixing and swirling and wheeling of words?
  • water as wearing down, peeling away layers, condensing forms to their essence

Read (and heard) an amazing poem this morning:

A Bookshelf/ Hua Xi

My father read a mountain aloud.

Opened to a page
where a green bird lands on a thunderclap.

Named for the billowing hands of
brittle blue flowers.

As if the unfinished poetry of the paraffin

is pulled aside like scenery,
so that I may write by the only light I know.

My father read only his one life and recited
the last line over and over.

The book is written in giant letters of fog
that wander like goats across the alpine pastures.

The moon is dog-eared as if the treetops looking up
have studied the idea of love too much.

On a page with some scattered pine needles,
a voice goes on calling out to me.

My father learned to read
in a one-room schoolhouse,

and never read a poem.

A little herd of lightning
gets spoken out loud in the dark.

Change
is scenic and sudden.

One year, I came home
and all the leaves fell off my father.

After that,
he was winter.

I’m thinking about a poem as a life and those last lines about her father and how he became winter. Wow.

sept 30/RUN

4.1 miles
river road, north/south
65 degrees
humidity: 75%

Yesterday, it was almost 90 degrees. It will be in the 80s all this week. Ugh. I’m ready for cooler weather! I felt okay during the run, but now, after it, I’m wiped out. Thankfully, the sun was hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. I ran the entire first mile, then the second with one walk break in the center, and the third: run 3 mins, walk 1 min.

10 Things

  1. 2 packs of male runners, around a dozen in each pack, a gap of 20 or 30 seconds between each — the U of M or Macalester or St. Thomas cross country team?
  2. exchanged greetings with Mr. Morning! He was wearing a bright orange t-shirt
  3. some more red leaves as I descended into the tunnel of trees
  4. 3 stones stacked on the ancient boulder
  5. a steady stream of cars on the road
  6. a man standing above the limestone steps that lead to the Winchell Trail near the trestle, waiting
  7. someone sitting at the sliding bench — have I ever sat on the bench? it looks too precarious, right on the edge of a steep slope
  8. the crack just north of the trestle is still cracking
  9. a bird: cheesburger cheeseburger cheeseburger (a black-capped chickadee)
  10. the Welcoming Oaks are still green

My mom died 16 years ago today. I wanted to think about her on the run, but I was too distracted by my effort and the humid conditions. For the second half of my run and part of my walk home, I listened to my “Doin’ Time” playlist. Some lyrics in the last song I heard made me think of my mom. Time will heal from Time Song/ the Kinks. I thought about how much time has passed since Mom died and how I feel her absence less intensely than I used to. I wouldn’t call it healing; just finding ways to live with the grief.

listing

I want to include some 10 Things lists in my Girl Ghost Gorge collection. Partly because they are part of my practice, and partly because the writing of lists, and the gathering of things noticed that listing involves, is a way to create substance to my ghost-like, untethered self. It is also a way to ease my restlessness. The idea — if I write enough lists, I’ll get tired and/or stop being so restless and unsatisfied. I’m not sure how many lists to do. Maybe 4? One for each season?

sept 28/RUN

3.6 miles
bottom of locks and dam and back
55 degrees

Yes, cooler! An easier run. Calm, sunny. Relatively uncrowded for a Sunday morning.

9* Things

  1. roller skiers
  2. squirrel shadows
    cacophony of honking geese
  3. golden light: sun filtered through light green leaves
  4. open gate — the entrance to the locks and dam no 1
  5. patches of red leaves on the trees (not the ground)
  6. smooth surface on the river near ford bridge
  7. the reflection of the bridge on the water — another portal
  8. jangling collar — someone running with 2 dogs down the wabun hill
  9. an empty bench

*I’m writing this several hours after my run, so I could only remember 8 things.

As I ran down the locks and dam hill, I chanted in threes:

softening/softening/softening/surfaces
softening/softening/softening/underground

Another riprap idea:

Make it into a triptych: 1. the original poem (rock), 2. the new poem composed of words from the old — words reordered (riprap), 3. the faint trace of the original poem with the words from the new poem in their original order

And a palimpsest idea: take one of the poems, and show the different layers or iterations of it over the years, from 2021 to now

squirrel shadow

running south
looking

to my left —
movement

thinking — my
shadow

2 squirrels
running

instead. I
choose to

imagine
believe

make real — my
shadow

burst into
squirrels

sept 24/RUN

2.5 miles
2 trails
70 degrees
humidity: 67%

Tried an experiment today. Instead of running early when it was much cooler, but very high humidity (97%), I waited and ran when it was much warmer, but with lower humidity. The hypothesis: the humidity is more of a problem than the temperature. Observations: fatigue, abundant sweat, slow legs, needing to walk sooner and for longer, not much fun. Tentative conclusion: heat affects me more than humidity. Of course, other factors to consider include: a different time of day, direct sun. My scientific method here might be half-baked, but I’m accepting the conclusion. No waiting until later to run! When in doubt, go earlier.

As (almost) always, I’m glad I went for a run by the gorge. A beautiful fall afternoon! A bright blue sky, rusting leaves, clear paths.

At the beginning of my run, I chanted the opening section of my Running Chant: River — flow flow flow / slow slow slow / flow flow flow / slow slow slow. The goal was to quiet my mind and fall into the rhythm of my feet. An idea: why not have a page filled with these opening words as part of my Girl Ghost Gorge collection?

3 visual options:

  1. a page with a line of flow then a line of the word slow
  2. 2 or 4 columns, one with flow, one with slow — you can read it vertically, down the lines, or horizontally, across the columns
  3. a page of flow flow flow / slow slow slow in very faint print, with only a few of the words in regular (or bold?) print

10 Things

  1. empty bench at the Horace Cleveland Overlook
  2. trickling water at the 44th street ravine
  3. the steady falling of water at the 42nd street ravine
  4. a friendly biker on the walking path below — hello! / hello
  5. 2 people at the folwell bench, one of them leaning over looking at their lap — were they holding a phone?
  6. graffiti — can’t remember color or what it said — on the limestone retaining wall
  7. a squeaking sound from across the river — a bike?
  8. someone squatting at the edge of the 38th street steps, talking on the phone
  9. a trace of color — yellow, pink — on the 38th street steps
  10. kids’ voices drifting over from across the road — recess

sept 22/RUN

4.3 miles
minnehaha falls and back
61 degrees
humidity: 91% / dew point: 64

It rained last night, so everything was wet, even the air. Puddles, mud, slick leaves. Gushing sewer pipes, a roaring creek, fast-falling water.

I’m working on a series of chants for Girl Ghost Gorge. All triples. One for rock (a 2-syllable word/1 syllable word). One for river (3 1-syllable words). And one for air (1 3-syllable word).

During the first mile, I chanted for air: 

industry
convenience
resilience
persistence
underground
neighborhood

During the second mile, I chanted for rock:

paddle/wheel
roaring/creek
paving/stone

During the third mile, I chanted for water:

drip drip drip
drop drop drop
drip drop drip
drip drip drop

My plan for the chants is to use 1, 2, and 3 syllable words from my long poems for the chants. Right now I’m sorting them out.

10 Things

  1. wet red leaves scattered near the trail
  2. the smell of tar as I passed a park worker patching the trail (yay! they’re fixing the terrible spot on the bike path finally!)
  3. one woman to another: my ex-husband makes over a million dollars in his new job
  4. the yellow-vested park working, leaning and looking at his phone while he waited for the tar to be ready to smooth
  5. the squeak of a bike’s brakes
  6. bare branches poking out of the top of a tree
  7. the white froth from the falls
  8. 2 people sitting on the ledge of the bridge, their feet dangling over the falls
  9. a circle of bright water and sky, made by a break in the trees
  10. the smell of almost-cilantro from the tall grass surrounding the stone etched with Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha”

sept 17/RUNBIKESWIM

4 miles
the monument and back
72 degrees
humidity: 80% / dew point: 64

More gnats, more heat, more sweat. Ran over the lake street bridge and up the summit hill to the Monument. Ran the first mile, did 2 minutes running/ 1 minute walking for the second mile, and mostly running, some walking for the rest. My right knee was sore because the kneecap slid out last night. I had to pop it back into place by going up and down the stairs. When it slides out it rubs the tendons or ligaments or something and they’re sore the next day. No big deal.

10 Things

  1. a bunch of kids sitting on the sidewalk outside of the church with the daycare — an adult called out to some other adult, I checked the website. They should be picking them up by 9
  2. a gnat flew into my eye — all the way, now the corner of my eye is sore
  3. no rowers on the river, only small waves
  4. peering over the side on the lake street bridge, checking out the sandbar. How far below the surface is it? How deep is the water around it?
  5. the faint sound of falling water at shadow falls
  6. a railing in front of a neighbor’s house, adorned with garlands and lights
  7. several wide cracks on the trail halfway down the summit hill, outlined in orange
  8. running up the summit hill, hearing a biker slowly approaching then creeping past me
  9. checking my watch during a walk break, the numbers blurred and difficult to see — a combination of my bad vision and feeling slightly dizzy/dazed from the heat
  10. the jingling of my house key in my pack, the thudding of my pack against my shorts

I don’t remember much from the run because it was hot and tiring. What did I think about?

Listened to kids, cars, random voices, and a dog barking running to the Monument. Put in my “The Wheeling Life” playlist on the way back. First song up, “Day by Day” from Godspell. In this song., the wheel is moving forward, progressing towards a better relationship with God. Wow — Jesus-rock was a thing in the 70s. The refrain for the song:

Day by day, day by day, oh dear Lord, three things I pray, to see thee more clearly, love thee more dearly, follow thee more nearly. Day by day.

bike: 7.5 miles
lake nokomis and back
79/75 degrees

Earlier today, Scott and I drove by lake nokomis and we noticed that the buoys were still up, so we decided to bike over to the lake in the late afternoon. If the blue algae was gone, I’d swim. So we did, and it was! The bike ride was great, even if it was windy. The thing I remember most about the bike was hearing the twack of the pickle ball at a pickle court on the way there, and a tennis court on the way back. Also: someone mowing their lawn and kids playing at the lake nokomis rec center playground.

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis main beach
76 degrees

The water was clearer and warmer and slightly less choppy than the last time I was here. Still too many vines reaching up from the bottom. I had to swim farther out in the lake to avoid them. Saw at least 2 paddle boarders, a sailboat, a kayak. No fish, but seagulls. Heard geese honking from the other shore. Some adult was playing with a kid and calling out, Nestea Plunge. Yes! I can still picture the dude standing with his back to the pool, falling back into the water.

Noticed the mucked-up underside of a once red, now pinkish orange buoy. Was fascinated by the bubbles on the otherwise smooth surface of the water. Felt some thin vine tendrils encircling my wrist, some thicker and sharper vines brushing against my leg. I don’t remember seeing any planes, but I do remember some wispy clouds.

sept 16/RUN

3.5 miles
locks and dam no 1
72 degrees
humidity: 84% / dew point: 69

Overcast today. Everything dark, everything gray and deep green. A few sprinkles at the start. On my warm-up walk, I heard The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go” coming from the corner where some workers were making the sidewalk more accessible. Later at the river, I heard some more music blasting out of a bike speaker that I recognized but can’t remember the name of now.

The first almost 2 miles of the run was okay, then it got hard, then I locked in and zoned out and it was no longer hard or easy, it just was.

10 Things

  1. passing an entrance to the Oak Savanna: a deep, dark, green hole
  2. a yellowish-orangish tree
  3. slashes of red on the side of the path, waist-high
  4. more orange leaves scattered in the trees
  5. dozens of small red leaves on the side of the trail
  6. thwack thwack acorns falling
  7. someone took down the sign alerting people to a conservation area and asking them to stay on the paved trail
  8. one car parked at the bottom of the locks and dam no 1 hill, window slightly open, low music playing, the smell of cigarette smoke
  9. bright headlights cutting through the gray sky
  10. the ford bridge reflected in the water looking like a window or a portal
ford bridge window / 16 sept 2025

Vuelta update: Yesterday, the final stage of the Vuelta was shut down when it entered Madrid. Protesters had occupied the course and pulled down all the signs/flags, toppled the barricades. There was no violence, just chanting and holding up signs that said, in Spanish, Down with the State of Israel. There was a large police presence that was attempting to manage the crowd, but they weren’t using force or rubber bullets or tear gas. Very different from what happened here in Minneapolis in 2020.

Today’s thoughts about my Girl Ghost Gorge project:

1 rituals. What rituals do I do during my run?

  • greet the Welcoming Oaks
  • greet the Regulars
  • listen for roller skiers and rowers and water dropping out of the sewer pipe
  • track the changing of the leaves, especially in the floodplain forest
  • make note of whether or not the benches are empty
  • notice the river
  • stop at the sliding bench or at the bench above the edge of the world
  • stop in the flats or at the bottom of the locks and dam no 1 to study the river surface
  • count the stones stacked on the ancient boulder

2 You Are Here: Trestle: In this poem, I’d like to include something about how it’s rarely used for trains. Now it holds electric blue yarn bombs and ghost bikes and flowers for June

sept 13/RUN

3.25 miles
locks and dam no 1 and back
73 degrees
humidity: 67

Typical September weather in Minneapolis: cool, then hot, then hotter. I went out for my run late because I was watching Vingegaard finally show some panache on the final, ridiculously steep, climb of the Vuelta. Perhaps the most memorable thing about the Vuelta this year were the pro-Palestinian protesters. They disrupted several of the stages, resulting in the shortening of at least 2 of them, including the individual time trial. Mostly they peacefully (I think) occupied the finish line or lined the course with Palestinian flags. A few groups were more disruptive: cutting down a tree to block the road, running down from a hill and almost hitting some of the riders, and today, blocking the road and (possibly?) tackling one of the riders. I support the protesters and their movement, even as I disagree with some of their tactics that put the riders at risk.

10 Things

  1. 2 runners ahead of me, one in an orange vest. when I passed them, I overheard one say to the other, only 1.3 miles left. we can do it.
  2. same runners, later, walking, one to the other: you go ahead, I’m walking the rest
  3. the wheels of a roller skier, sounding rickety and rusted — or was it the uneven asphalt?
  4. leaves floating in the wind, looking like flying birds
  5. pale blue water below
  6. encountering a guy with a dog: excuse me / oh — you scared me, you’re quiet / I’m sorry / no, that’s a good thing I thought: me, the running ninja
  7. a coxswain’s voice below — rowers!
  8. a small peloton on the road
  9. an organized run, probably a 20 miler for the upcoming marathon — participants were wearing orange vests
  10. the tree that was blocking most of the winchell trail has finally been moved

It was tough out there. I chanted a reminder in triples: in the heat/time on feet. Because it’s so hot, I’m not worrying about how slow I’m going, or how much of it I’m walking instead of running. It’s all about just getting out there and spending time moving.

Just discovered this book! I’m hoping I can find it in a library somewhere:

Out the front door, across the street, down the hill, and into Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx. This is how Ben Ratliff’s runs started most days of the week for about a decade. Sometimes listening to music, not always. Then, at the beginning of the pandemic, he began taking notes about what he listened to. He wondered if a body in motion, his body, was helping him to listen better to the motion in music.

Run the Song: Writing About Running About Listening/ Ben Ratliff

update 28 dec 2025: A few days ago, I picked up a hard copy of this book from the library. I haven’t had a chance to read it. Part of my reluctance might be that it’s a lot of text, and there’s no table of contents or chapter titles. Difficult to get a sense of the book without those, especially for me with my limited vision.

sept 10/RUN

4 miles
river road, north/south
65 degrees
humidity: 87%

Went out for my run later than I’d like because I was watching the final climb on the Vuelta. I was hoping Vingegaard would do something special but sadly he didn’t have the legs (as commentator Christian likes to say). Other favorite phrases from Bob and Christian on Peacock’s coverage of the tour: going from strength to strength, fire power, full cry, and Jonas & co..

The run was a little difficult, partly because of the humidity, partly because of my need for a port-a-potty. Sigh. Oh — and the front of my left knee felt weird — tight? — for the first 5 or so minutes. Even with the difficulty, there were moments I felt strong and bouncy. I did a few strides (sprints, fast bursts) at the end.

Thinking about Girl Ghost Gorge some more, working on triple chants related to rock.

st. peter sandstone
st. peter sandstone
st. peter sandstone
limestone shale

platteville limestone
platteville limestone
platteville limestone
shale sandstone

10 Things

  1. a big orange X spray painted on a tree
  2. another orange x, smaller, painted on another tree
  3. gushing ravine
  4. more yellowing trees
  5. hello friend! to the still green welcoming oaks
  6. tunnel of trees — red leaves on the path, green on the branches
  7. orange construction signs — road closed ahead E. Franklin
  8. click clack click clack a roller skier
  9. ghost bike for June hanging high in the trestle — dried flowers wound through the spokes
  10. the sharp bark of a dog below, on the winchell trail

sept 8/RUNSWIM

4.3 miles
veterans home and back
61 degrees

Fall! Noticed a few more slashes of orange and yellow and some red leaves on the ground. More acorn shells on the trail. At the beginning my knee — I can’t remember if it was the left or the right one — hurt, a dull not sharp pain. I can’t remember when it stopped. Maybe it was when I started feeling the rumbling of unfinished business. When I reached the falls, I went to the bathroom. I’m ready to be done with perimenopause.

Running south, I listened to chickadees and music blasting from a bike radio — I recognized the 70s or 80s rock song, but now I’ve forgotten what it was. Just past the Veterans home, I put in my “the Wheeling Life” playlist.

10 Things

  1. the sound of the rushing creek, 1: just before it falls over the limestone ledge
  2. the sound of the rushing creek, 2: far below, as I ran over the bridge to the Veterans Home
  3. a soft mist rising from the falling water
  4. a half-filled parking lot at the falls
  5. a full parking lot at the Veterans Home
  6. an empty parking lot at Locks and Dam no 1
  7. above on the bluff at Waban Park, a view of the river, the water rushing over the concrete, one white buoy, several redorangepink buoys
  8. an American flag waving near the Veterans Home
  9. strange flashes and a distorted view out of my central vision as I ran across the bridge — a result of facing the sun, I think
  10. soft shadows from the chain link fence on the bridge

While I ran, I chanted in triples. I was hoping to center or ground or locate myself in the time and place. First, berries, then:

I am here/I am here/I am here
I am now/I am now/I am now
I am here/I am here/I am here
It is now/It is now/It is now
here here here/ now now now/ here here here/ now now now

Then, I added a condensed version of some Emily Dickinson:

Life life life/death death death/bliss bliss bliss/breath breath breath

Then:

I am here/I am here/I am here/Here I am
123/123/123/123

Throughout the run, I thought about locating myself and how I might translate that for my project. A list of surfaces? my landmarks? a topographical map?

Reviewing old notes and entries, including 19 may 2025, which includes a bit on context, I encountered the phrase, there or there abouts. I had written it in my notebook after hearing it several times on the TNT coverage of the giro d’italia (the tour of italy cycling race). Yes. When I locate myself, it’s not here! or there. but there or thereabouts. Maybe that could be the title of a poem for the collection?

there or thereabouts

double bridge
old stone steps
ancient rock / stacked with stones
sliding bench
near the fence
under tree
on the edge (of the world)
high above
down below
in the flats
past the creek
wrapped in green
off the ground / in the air
deep in oak
riverside
locks and dam
sewer pipe
steep ravine
brand new trail
snowy path
in the groove
seeping hill
leaking ledge
eagle’s perch
spreading crack

Do I want to do this poem in triples? Not sure. It is how I locate myself sometimes — by chanting in triples about what’s around me. This syncs up my feet with my breath and my surroundings. But, how does it sound? And does it work as a poem?

A new poet to read and podcast episode to listen to!
Translation of the Lilies Back into Lists/ Laynie Brown
Laynie Brown: Apprentice to a Breathing Hand (tinhouse podcast)

swim: .75 loop
lake nokomis main beach
76 degrees
wind: 29 mph gusts

Another swim! When RJP told me the buoys were still up I knew I needed to swim again. Wow, it was choppy, and wow, that water was cold, but it wasn’t too cold and the choppy water was fun. I think there were whitecaps. In one direction, I could mostly ride the waves, the other direction, I punched water. Both fun, but in different ways. Speed from one, power the other. Got tangled in some vines, but nothing I couldn’t get out of. Noticed: soaring and hovering seagulls, held up by wind; planes, bobby buoys, voices, and water rushing over me, water crashing into me, water dragging me forward and sideways. I wouldn’t want to swim in water like that every time, but it was fun today.

sept 7/RUN

3.5 miles
bottom locks and dam no 1
60 degrees / humidity: 59%

What a difference low humidity and less direct sun makes! Today’s 61 felt much cooler. A wonderful, early fall morning. Often September still feels like summer — that is, it’s uncomfortably warm — but this year it definitely feels like fall. It looks like it too. Leaves changing color already. At the bottom of the locks and dam, looking over at the east bank of the river, I think I noticed changing leaves. Not sure what color, just the sense that they were no longer green green green.

10 Things

  1. at the bottom of the hill, the surface of the river was covered with swirls of green-tinged foam
  2. the pedestrian gates to the lock and dam were open — I thought it was closed?
  3. encountering an adult and a kid on bikes having just crossed the road. The kid: why didn’t they stop? the adult: because they were breaking the law
  4. running parallel to a runner slightly slower than me. me, on the dirt trail in the grassy boulevard, them, on the river road trail
  5. down on the winchell trail, admiring the color of the river: light blue and only partly visible through the green leaves
  6. no puddles, but patches of soft dirt and mud from yesterday’s multiple rain showers
  7. near the 38th street steps, another runner emerged from the trees and the part of the winchell trail that travels down to the oak savanna
  8. the strange shuffle of someone’s feet — part-walk, part-run, part-skip
  9. lots of cars parked on the street, lots of people walking towards the river — longfellow’s annual clean up the river event
  10. water streaming out of the 42nd street sewer pipe

girl ghost gorge

It’s fall, so good-bye my obsession with open swim, hello girl and ghost and gorge. I’m hoping to build on the dozen poems I wrote last year and create a full collection. I want to add some different forms and approach my obsessions from different perspectives.

On the way home, a thought, partly inspired by W Berry’s reversal of wild and domestic: my collection of poems / hybrid pieces is about locating myself and making a home beside/above/near the gorge. In a disorienting time — for many reasons, including my vision loss — I’ve been running by the gorge to orient myself, to find a home space, to establish an enduring location.

connections and re-connections: place, family, others, a larger history, the non-human world, my body, a nation (not sure if nation is the right word here, but I’m thinking about the park system and public works projects in the US), past and future Saras.

a flash: somehow bring in the unigrid brochure that I did, or something like it, into the book — a map, a nod to the national parks — would this fit in this collection, or should it be a separate project? If not the unigrid brochure, take some inspiration from the WPA poets hired to write guide books, like Lorine Niedecker. Add in a few entries inspired by that?

Back to the connections/being located thread: I wrote in my Plague Notebook vol. 26: Locating myself on eroding, shaky ground. Too unstable for a foundation? No, but offering a new way of thinking about location and connection and where I might root myself. Not just rooted in the ground, but connected to water and air — the river, the gorge. The location is and is not a place: a specific location with paths and forests, a river, limestone and sandstone walls AND the absence of land that the gorge frames — space, air, Nothing.

sept 6/RUN

5.1 miles
bottom of franklin and back
53 degrees

Another cooler run. Shorts with my bright orange sweatshirt. Ran to the bottom of the franklin hill before I stopped to walk and use one of the few port-a-potties on the route. There used to be at least one more under the lake street bridge, but they removed it. Chanted in triple berries to keep steady and distracted, or focused, depending on your perspective.

Listened to rowers and a beeping bike that I thought might be a bird before I saw it and striking feet, all around. Lots of runners out there this late morning. Listened to my “Moment” playlist once I started running again. It started with U2’s “Stuck in the Moment” and I thought about my latest insomnia rut.

10 Things

  1. a greeting from Dave, the Daily Walker: Happy 100 days after your birthday! Dave is the best — well, maybe not with his math!
  2. dark and green in the tunnel of trees, a circle of faint light up on the hill
  3. at least one yellowish orangish tree
  4. down in the flats the river’s surface was laced with grayish-white foam
  5. someone sitting on the sliding bench as I ran north, their bike propped behind the back of the bench
  6. returning south, the sliding bench was empty so I stood behind it and assessed the crumbling hill and the block view of the white sands beach
  7. finally took the dirt path that cuts behind some benches just south of the trestle
  8. 2 people walking 2 dogs, one person saying to the other something about an unwalked dog needing to be walked
  9. 2 women walking in the flats, one of them to the other: It’s by Ann Patchett. I wish I would have written down the passage.
  10. running on the north double bridge — just past the old stone steps — something caught my eye on the fence. On the way back, I remembered to stop to check it out. A small cut-out of Frump’s head on a popsicle stick with a caption: ‘tator on a stick. I took a picture, but decided not to post it*

*it took me a minute to understand fully the meaning here — at first I was thinking of the state fair, but finally it hit me that tator = dictator. Memories of reading Simon Schma’s Citizens about the French Revolution and heads on pikes being paraded around Paris. A sad and scary time in this country to have a president who foments such violence and violent responses in others.

You

1

A line from Endi Bogue Hartigan’s poem “Running Sentences”:

First the cloud of gnats first the movement through the cloud
and then the body, not a cloud

Something about running through gnats — which I’ve done many times — and the body as not a cloud, triggered past thoughts about encountering someone on the trail and what happens to the You in the time/space between my Thank you and someone else’s You’re welcome when I thanked them for moving over.

2

These were the original thoughts, from a 31 may 2023 log entry:

I had a breakthrough in the second mile as I passed a walker and a dog on the Winchell Trail. They noticed me before I reached them and moved to the side. I said thank you and the woman replied you’re welcome. As I continued running on the steep-ish trail with no railing I thought about how when I said thank you, I was the I, she was the you. But when she answered you’re welcome, I become the you and she the I. Each of us both. Then I started thinking about the space and time between when we each embodied the pronoun, before my I turned into a you or her you into and I. This is the space of possibility where unhitching can happen, when we can be both a you and an I or something else that doesn’t divide and separate or assign us a fixed role — as active I or passive you. A moment when we can experience or behold the is below the threshold of thought, over and above society and its constructs.

31 may 2023

3

And here’s an excerpt from the draft of the poem I wrote:

first movement,
a making

space for each
other, then

a cloud of
Yous to pass

through. Bodies
enter cloud,

cloud enters
bodies

sept 4/RUN

4.2 miles
minnehaha falls and back
53 degrees

Cool enough today for my bright orange sweatshirt! Excellent running weather. I felt strong and was able to push through a few moments when I wanted to stop. Thought about the perception of time during difficult moments, particularly in terms of how to endure it — learning to hold multiple perceptions at once: time on a short scale, day by day, minute by minute, step by step / on a long scale, think beyond this moment to a bigger goal / as in flux, this feeling can/will change again, and again

10 Things

  1. a cool, dark green
  2. far ahead, tunnels of bright light
  3. birdsong — difficult to identify
  4. a coxswain — rowers down below!
  5. kids arriving at school — heard, not seen: excited voices
  6. a roaring creek
  7. every bench, empty — a stone wall, occupied by a person leaning and looking at their phone
  8. tall grass smell: almost like cilantro
  9. sharp, yippy barks at the falls — two little dogs greeting each other
  10. Hi Sara! / Hi Dave!

After stopping at my favorite spot at the falls, I put in my “The Wheeling Life” playlist. Most memorable song today: “Windmills of my Mind” and these lines:

Like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream

I thought, ripples. Such a great word and image on the surface of the water, or from tall grass in a field, or through the thick leaves on a tree. Later, on my walk back, I thought more about ripples and triples and inklings:

  • an inkling
  • a ripple
  • a flicker
  • a ruffle
  • a whisper
  • a rumor
  • a tumor — where did that come from?
  • a lurking
  • a leaking
  • a speaking — soft, slow, barely audible

added a few minutes later: Early this morning, 5:30 am, I briefly woke up to stretch my restless leg. I noticed a flashing light through the blinds. An ambulance? The police? A fire truck? No. A runner with a flashing headlight running in the street. I’ve never seen that before, but that’s probably because I’m hardly ever up this early. Would I see it more if I were up this early? Probably.

sept 2/RUNBIKESWIM

5 miles
franklin loop
70 degrees

I was planning to bike over to the lake and swim this morning but it looked gloomy and ominous, and then started raining and thundering for several hours. Bummer. By the time it stopped raining it had warmed up and the sun came out. Even so, I went for a hot and humid run. Everything was wet. A slick trail, dripping branches, wet shoes and shirt.

10 Things

  1. someone covered over the graffiti on the steps that read, stop hate, with blue paint
  2. sky, part 1: gray, heavy
  3. sky, part 2; blue and cloudless
  4. empty river
  5. white foam on the edge of the east bank near the franklin bridge
  6. kids laughing on the playground at the church daycare
  7. some orange and red leaves beyond the fence near east river road
  8. the squeal of tires near the trestle — what happened?
  9. orange cones lining the path: there must have been a race or a sponsored bike ride this past weekend
  10. the sliding bench was empty of people but close to a thick veil or green

Listened to voices, cars, and drips for the first half of the run, my “Doin’ Time” playlist for the second half. The song I remember the most was Peter Gabriel’s “Playing for Time.”

Oh, there’s a hill that we must climb
Climb through all the mist of time
It’s all in here what we’ve been through

Not a fan of the phrase, mist of time, but these lyrics reminded me of a few lines from Mary Oliver that I read right before heading out for my run:

Slowly
up the hill,
like a thicket of white flowers,
forever.
(The Leaf and the Cloud/ Mary Oliver)

The lines just preceding these were a series of good-byes to the world: the swaying trees, the black triangles of the winter sea, oranges, the fox sparrow, blue-winged teal, lettuce, turnip, rice fields, the morning light, and the goldfinches.

Down, I’m getting it down
Sorting it out
So everything I care about
Is held in here
All of those I love, inside

Listening to these lines, I thought about Oliver’s deepening of the spirit. I thought about the interior and moving inside of yourself and of burying memories and ideas not as a way to avoid them, but to protect them. I also thought about someone growing older and having memory-loss and trying to hold onto faces and names and experiences. I weighed the possibilities and limitations of going deep inside as compared to opening up to the outside. All of these thoughts came at once — not in a linear progression — in a burst which lasted until I heard these lines less than a minute later:

There goes the sun
Back from where it came
The young move to the center
The mom and dad, the frame

I just remembered: at the start of my run, I was thinking about the difference between ordinary and extraordinary time, which was a continuation of thoughts that began earlier this morning. Habits, routines, activities/events experienced again and again — the mundane — versus the scattered, sporadic occasions that break up the routine. While meaning and memories are often found in the singular moments, I’m drawn to the rituals and repetitions and daily events as where imporant meaning dwells.

Everyday. everyday = ordinary / every day = each day, daily.

Everyday—I have work to do (“Work” in The Leaf and the Cloud/ Mary Oliver)

I love that she writes everyday and not every day, so it’s not, each day I have work to do but, ordinary, everyday life: don’t bug me, I have work to do!

bike: 7.5 miles
lake nokomis and back*
75/71 degrees

*instead of the river road trail, we took 44th until the falls park, which is shorter

A good bike ride with Scott. As usual, better on the way back — easier, more relaxed. On the way there: wind. No problems with panicking about not seeing. The ride home was great: the sun was setting soon. Passed by adults playing soccer or flag football or some team sport in the field by the duck bridge, and kids playing soccer at Hiawatha school. RJP and FWA both played for a season at Hiawatha. I played for 5 or 6 years when I was kid in Northern Virginia. I loved it; they didn’t.

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis main beach
74 degrees

Only 4 other people in the lake, and none of them were swimming laps, just standing around and talking — brrr, I bet that was cold! I swam far from the white buoys and almost completely avoided the milfoil. Only a few times, I got too close and felt the vines on my toes and wrists. For most of the swim there was wind and choppy water. In one direction, it pushed me along. In the other, I got to swim straight into it, which I liked doing. Mostly, a fun swim. The vines were the only bad thing about it. They were too thick by the one buoy so I didn’t want to circle around it. This made it much harder to loop, so I mostly stopped and twisted around. I noticed some birds in the sky and a few planes. Trees on the distant shore were looking less green — were any of them changing?

I thought about how this might be my final swim of the season. It’s cooler for the rest of the week — highs in the 60s, so they might take down the buoys soon. It’s been a great season. I swam for longer, both distance and time. And, I had fun reciting more water lines in my head and writing about water.