Tag: echolocation

aug 30/RUN

16 miles
lake harriet and back
68 degrees
humidity: 90%

16 miles! It was warm. That humidity! As I’ve heard several pro runners (on youtube or podcasts) say, humidity is the poor man’s altitude, which means I could expect to go slower — in fact, I should go slower — to account for the extra effort that hot and humid air demands. Before I started, I reminded myself that this run would be harder because of the humidity so I should take it easy. A mantra: if you’re not going slower, you’re going too fast. I also told myself that I only needed to worry about the first 8 miles to lake harriet because once I did that I was halfway and would have to run and/or walk another 8 miles back. Keeping my expectations low and being kind to myself helped.

I drank a lot of water, chewed on 6 or 7 Cliff blocks and sweat a lot. Somewhere between miles 10 and 12 I realized that my shirt was completely soaked and sticking to me. It was so wet that I was almost able to wring it out. Other than the humidity, the thing that made the run the hardest was my sore legs, especially my knees. I think that was partly due to all of the walking at the state fair we did 2 days ago. My knees felt stiff and sore even before I started!

3 things I did well: 1. even though I know I had unfinished business, it wasn’t a problem at all — no cramps, no need to stop at a port-a-potty!; 2. a steady pace for the first half + never totally going off the rails for the second half; and 3. believed I could do it the whole time and never gave into negative thoughts.

3 things to work on: 1. eat a bigger breakfast + drink more water before; 2. keep a steady pace with consistent run/walk sets when it gets tough — instead of taking a walk break, do easier run/walk sets, like 1 min run/ 1 min walk; and 3. try drinking electrolytes, and not just water, during the run.

16 Things

  1. rowers on the river! I could hear the coxswain barking out instructions at the start of my run
  2. minnehaha creek was so low, pt 1: near the duck bridge, there has hardly any water, but lots of green aquatic plants
  3. minnehaha creek was so low, pt 2: under the echo bridge, a huge sandbar (or, dirtbar?) in the middle of the creek
  4. a biker, biking slowly, and singing to herself, I am so tired
  5. minnehaha creek was so low, pt 3: mostly, the creek was quiet and still, with only the occasional whisper/babble
  6. running under the freeway, where the walking path is on the other side of the creek, I could hear something hissing and squeaking above me — bats?!
  7. thud thud –– the steady feet of a fast runner behind me, then beside me, then in front of me, then gone
  8. thwack thwack thwack pickle balls being hit hard on the pickle ball court near lake nokomis
  9. the strong gust of water coming out of the water bottle refill fountain — nice!
  10. reaching lake harriet to an empty beach with inviting water — I briefly thought about cooling off for a few minutes, but decided against it — too much sand in my shoes on the run back!
  11. lake harriet trails were crowded — lots of runners and bikers and walkers (and talkers!)
  12. a BIG peloton (30 or more riders) on the road
  13. mostly cloudy, every so often, sun
  14. orang spray paint, painted in zigzags over cracks and craters and bumps on the path that need to be fixed — there was a lot of it near the Rosie and Fletcher bridges
  15. people packing up after a church service at the falls
  16. one roller blader spotted near the beginning — I can’t remember if I heard their poles clicking, I just remember that they passed me on the trail

For the first 12 miles of the run, I listened to the world around me: hissing bats, rushing cars, a crying baby, laughter from kids somewhere beyond what I could see; moving water. For the last 4 miles, I put in my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist.

During the first few miles, I thought about part of a poem I’m working on. It begins with a quote from a PBS video about echolocation:

There’s sound and

there’s a lack
of sound, and
a lack of
sound still makes
noise. We call
it a sound
shadow.

As I ran, I thought about this pair sound/lack of sound and other pairs I encounter at the gorge, like space/lack of space, or ground/lack of ground (gap/gorge). Sound shadows are also called acoustic shadows. I looked them up and found an article about bats, accoustic shadows, and echolocation: Acoustic shadows help gleaning bats find prey

“We propose that bats perceive a change in depth profile and an ‘acoustic shadow’ cast by prey. The shadow is more salient than prey echoes and particularly strong on smooth surfaces.” Wow, I’m just thinking about how there are echoes, and there are acoustic shadows, but I’m still not sure I understand acoustic shadows.

Here’s the wikipedia definition:

“An acoustic shadow or sound shadow is an area through which sound waves fail to propagate, due to topographical obstructions or disruption of the waves via phenomena such as wind currents, buildings, or sound barriers” (source).

The deeper I dig into this, the more I think it is for a future project that explores echolocation more broadly.

Found this poem in the July/August issue of Poetry:

Not the Almost-Right Word / Jack Kirby

For Jack Gilbert

A friend tells me he was holding
his mother’s hand as she lay dying.
At the end, her final words were,
“I’ll find Dad and tell him you said hello.”
“Find,” she said. Not “I’ll see him”
or “we’ll be together again”
but “I’ll find Dad.” How astonishing
that language almost means
then frightens us when it doesn’t—
love, we say, God, we write,
and the words fall short. We dream
of  lost vocabularies, and from nowhere,
a word is worth a thousand pictures.
What you say doesn’t have to be true.
It only has to be imaginable.
Where is my friend’s father?
In the kitchen of that big house making coffee, say,
or sorting nails in the workshop.
Or in the yard, unlearning
the constellations so he can see the stars.

Notes: 
This poem includes lines from Jack Gilbert’s “The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart” and “Tear It Down.”

—

I like this idea of putting in two lines from these Gilbert poems for a few reasons: he doesn’t italicize which lines and it’s an invitation to find and read 2 more poems and put them into conversation with his poem. I want to try this out for my poems — the ones I’ve already written using others’ lines + the ones I’d like to write using those lines.

the bells: another meaning: the bell announcing the final lap of a track race

One of my favorite runners said the following in an interview after winning UTMB’s OCC (50k) race this past week:

The most played out race strategy of all time in the 1500. It’s like the bell rings and everybody goes with 400 to go.

I’m like this is such a predictable strategy. Everyone knows this is going to happen. But it’s kind of like what happened yesterday where it’s like something about crossing over that bridge and hitting the town and that’s like the bell ringing and something changes and your adrenaline spikes and you can actually like will the last bit of yourself.

Lauren Gregory

I wanted to archive this quotation as another meaning for bells. And here’s what she’s talking about in the race:

aug 22/RUN

3.35
monument / loons
65 degrees

Ran with Scott through the neighborhood, over the lake street bridge, up the hill beside Shadow Falls, over to the Monument, up to Cretin, down the Marshall hill, back over the lake street bridge on the north side, to Loons Coffee.

A goal for today’s run: find the sign for Shadow Falls that tells its history. I read about it on someone’s blog yesterday. I thought it would be at the top of the hill, at the (relatively) new entrance to the ravine. It was not. Next, we thought it might be near another entrance, next to the monument overlook. It wasn’t there either. Maybe St. Paul Parks removed it since the blog entry was written in 2021? No worries; I found the text online on the very helpful Historical Marker site:

Shadow Falls are hidden in a deep ravine north of Summit Avenue, where Shadow Falls Creek flows over layers of limestone, shale, and sandstone. The layers expose the recent geological history of the Mississippi River Gorge, and are part of the story of Glacial River Warren and the retreat of St. Anthony Falls more than 11,000 years ago. Shadow Falls is one of several small waterfalls cut into ravines along the sides of the gorge. When the soft St. Peter Sandstone was eroded by the seepage of groundwater springs, the ravine and waterfall were created by collapse of the overlying layer of hard Platteville Limestone. The Decorah Shale layer contains excellent examples of Ordovician fossils deposited more than 400 million years ago, including bryozoans, crinoid columnals, brachipods, and gastropods.

Historical Marker

layers of limestone, shale, sandstone / a rare location for exposed shale / Ordovician fossils (400 millions years ago)

The Falls were a very popular destination for picnickers, hikers, and riverboat tourists. In the 1880s investors proposed to build a summer resort. Landscape designer H. W. S. Cleveland, however, encouraged the cities of St. Paul and Minneapolis to preserve the forested bluffs of the gorge for public use. Early park planning focused on development of Mississippi River Boulevard from the Minneapolis border to the Fort Snelling Bridge.

a summer resort proposed in the 1880s / Horace Cleveland and his boulevard

Shadow Falls Park
In 1899, John Ireland, Archbishop of the Diocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis, donated 18 acres of land to the City of St. Paul, including Shadow Falls. The parcel extended from Summit to Marshall Avenues. It was the first major acquisition for the future river boulevard. Shadow Falls Park was created in 1902. The ravine and riverbank were left in their natural state, although Shadow Falls Creek was combined with several other small streams to ensure maximum flow over the ledge. The maple-basswood forest around the falls still shelters plants such as wild ginger, Solomon’s seal, leatherwood, and smartweed. Many plants are valued by native people who use them for cooking, medicinal, and spiritual purposes.

1902 / first acquisition for boulevard / Shadow Falls Creek combined with other creeks / maple-basswood / wild ginger – Solomon’s seal – leatherwood – smartweed

Nearby, in 1923 the St. Paul Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution placed a memorial dedicated to the soldiers and sailors of World War I at the foot of Summit Avenue. The 36-foot octagonal monument is carved in granite quarried near Cold Spring, Minnesota. It was designed by St. Paul architect Thomas Holyoke (1866-1925) of the firm Holyoke, Jemne & Davis.

So, the Monument was created out of granite? I should put that in the poem! Maybe I’ll reference EDickinson’s “granite lip”?

If I shouldn’t be alive/ Emily Dickinson

If I shouldn’t be alive
When the Robins come,
Give the one in Red Cravat,
A Memorial crumb – 
If I couldn’t thank you,
Being fast asleep,
You will know I’m trying
With my Granite lip!            
– F210 (1861)  

This is among Dickinson’s most droll poems and one of my favorites. Thinking of a grave stone as a “Granite lip” has changed the way I view cemeteries. It’s as there is a subterranean crowd all trying to speak but struggling to get the sound out (the Prowling Bee). Oh — I like this ida of imagining the monument as a granite lip, with its subterranean crowd!

It was a great, easy run. I greeted people as we passed them: good morning! a beautiful morning! morning! We ended in the middle of the bridge and stopped at the overlook to admire the rowers below. Half a dozen rowing shells congregated near the rowing club dock, while three more appeared from under the bridge. One of the shells held at least 8 rowers. Scott remarked on how wide the river is at this point and wondered how the surface area of the Mississippi River as it runs through the cities compares to the total surface area of all the cities’ lakes.

added on 23 aug 2026: While I was doing my 14 mile run today, I remembered something else Scott had talked about on the run. As we walked up the Summit Hill, was passed a rectangular block that was part of some utility thing. Scott said, let’s start running at the lego. I asked if it was actually and lego and he said no but then explained how/why it looked like one. He noticed that someone has spray painted a smiley face on it and said, If I had spray painted on that, I would have done the Lego logo, but I’m a nerd.

an hour later: a series of thoughts — I should write a poem that refers to/uses the 2002 Minneapolis Park plan for the stretch of trail that I run on the most. I should take phrases from it and turn them into a cento. I should also find phrases from the 2020s Park plan and turn that into a cento. And, I should find early text from Cleveland (and Theodore Wirth) about the planning of the river gorge park area) and turn that into a cento. A triptych cento poem!

aug 20/RUNSWIM

9 miles
the confluence
62 degrees

9 miles, and it’s not even my long run for the week. I’m deep in the marathon training. For the first half, I ran 3 minutes, then walked 1. When I reached the Confluence, I took a 3 or 4 minutes walk break, then I did 4 sets of 90sec r/30 sec w, then a mix of 2 or 3 mins of running with 1 min of walking. Finally, I ended strong, with the help of a few upbeat songs, to run/walk my fastest mile of the run. Nice!

Early on in the run, I started thinking about my poetry manuscript. In particular, I thought about the series of poems, sprinkled throughout, that feature a specific location (a few possible titles: You Are Here, Echo Locations). The current form for each of them is: a brief description of location in 3 beat lines or 3 / 2 beat lines, then ending with a rhyming verse, roughly formal, but not in any specific form. I like the rhymes, but I’m not satisfied with them. Are they too rhyme-y? As I ran, I thought about taking the feeling that the rhyme creates, but getting rid of the rhyme — could we call this an echo? — Condensing the idea, eliminating excess words. I thought about my Tunnel of Trees poem. Here’s the verse:

Oh, where is the sky?
And where is the ground?
Neither can be seen.
Moving feet strike only air,
and eyes see only green.

What about this instead:

sky ground gone
only green
green green green

Well, this is what I thought as I ran, but I don’t think it quite works. The idea that feet feel air, eyes see green is missing. I’ll work on it some more. Other related thoughts: should I make this haibun-esque, with a prose poem description poem and the condensed haiku at the end? I’ll try it. I like the condensed version of the rhyme part, because it feels more accurate to how I chant when I run — not in rhyming verses, but in single words repeated and ringing out.

I also thought about a poem I’m writing about the spot, on the edge of Wabun park and above the Locks and Dam no. 1. From it, you can see across to the abandoned ford power plant. My thought: perhaps I should add in some more details about that plant now that I’ve hiked among its ruins?

11 Things

  1. passed a regular: shorts with sandals
  2. view of river, ford bridge: a flat, smooth surface reflecting pale clouds and abruptly ending at the edge of the dam, looking like an infinity pool
  3. a tent set up on the grassy hill next to the ford bridge — a wheelchair in front of the tent’s entrance — the tent wasn’t hidden, but it was mostly sheltered and obscured by its position on the hill
  4. a VW van, almost looking like the Mystery Machine: green! A guy sitting in it, taking out some stuff — parked near the tent — is he sleeping in the tent?
  5. one skate boarder at the skate park — he was skilled — as I ran by, I admired his grace as he went up a ramp
  6. the gate that was closed and that trapped me and my friend 2 weeks ago, was wide open today — I wondered if it’s usually open on weekdays and closed only on weekends? I’ll try to remember to check next time I run by it
  7. the soft falling of water at Hidden Falls1
  8. my new favorite bench: empty and in the shade
  9. just before I reached my bench, I heard a dog bark at the off-leash park on the other side of the river
  10. there were no stones stacked on the top of the ancient boulder, but little pebbles piled in several indentations on the boulder’s side
  11. walking through the alley, almost home, I could hear acorns hitting garage roofs and see little leaves falling — fall is coming

see footnote below: I thought I had written about the history of Shadow Falls before on this log, but I can’t find anything. So, I googled it. First, I found this, about a nearby and now gone falls:

Kavanagh Falls were a cascade over several steps of rough limestone ledges named after the former owner of the land these falls were once on, the land today is now in the grounds of the Town and Country Club. In an 1891 article, a columnist wrote of Kavanagh Falls, “The plateau falls abruptly away to a picturesque glen or gorge, through which a brook purls to the level of the lawn, and then leaps laughingly to the river below. To make travel in the area easier, a bridge once spanned the Kavanagh Gorge. The spring that once fed Kavanagh falls remains on the grounds of the Town and Country Club. However, the bridge and gorge that these falls once tumbled into has since been filled to provide additional parking spaces for the Town and Country Club members. 

The Cascades of Minneapolis and St. Paul

Then I found another source, Equatorial Minnesota, which I’m pretty sure I read before. Among other interesting things, including a reference to “goat trails on the bluff”!?, they refer to Shadow Falls Creek. They also write this, “Today if you stop by, though, there is a panel of information detailing its history and geology (source).” I’ve never seen this info! I wonder if it’s at the entrance at the top of Summit Hill? I’ll have to look next time I run there! I’ll have to return to this blog; it’s a great resource.

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
48 minutes
79 degrees

The final open swim, and I was able to do it! Sara-from-a-week-ago would have liked to swim for the full 2 hours, but after my congestions or bacterial infection or whatever it was, I am very excited that I was able to swim 2 loops. The water was some of the choppiest I’ve ever swum in, which was fun. Only a few waves crashing directly into me, mostly water pushing me around and rocking me back and forth. I liked it!

Only 3 buoys today, so had to swim straight across and back. I think that swimming to the little beach and back is actually longer than the typical 5 buoy triangle. How is that possible? I’m not quite sure. But, this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed it.

Oh, how can open swim be over already? In a better world, I’d be able to swim every day of the year, or at least more than just 10 weeks in the lake. Will I join the Y this winter? Wouldn’t that be wonderful.

lifeguards on kayaks / 2 buoys

Sitting at Painted Turtle and drinking a beer after I was done, Scott took a picture of the lake. He had to zoom in a lot. It’s funny how the water doesn’t look nearly as choppy as it felt.

  1. As I listened to Hidden Falls Creek fall over the ledge, I wondered if the water at Shadow Falls, which is the subject of one of the poems I was thinking about, was called Shadow Falls creek. I’ve looked it up before, but I can’t remember; I’ll have to find the entry in which I wrote about it….I looked, but couldn’t find anything. Did I write about the history? ↩︎

aug 18/RUNSWIM

4.1 miles
wabun / edge of falls / river road, north
67 degrees / humidity: 90%

Something different today: a little more speed. 2 miles steady at a moderate pace / 5 min walk / 1-2 minutes fast run, 1 min walk (5xs). It felt good to move faster — more like flying and with better form.

For the first 2 miles, I (almost) finished my Hello, Goodbye playlist. The most memorable songs: the beginning of “Never Can Say Goodbye” when it sounds like Michael Jackson says, Never can STAY goodbye — at least to me; and the slow and long wind-up of Barbara Streisand’s “Hello Dolly.” After the 5 minute walk, I switched to my “Wheelin’ Life” playlist. My favorite fast song on that playlist was: “Proud Mary”/ Ike and Tina Turner. It’s really fun to sprint to.

10 Things

  1. buzzzzzzz of cicadas
  2. a faint voie down below — the coxswain instructing the rowers
  3. waving to Santa Claus and to Mr. Morning!
  4. 2 different birds — one was a bluejay, I think — squawking at each other: what? / WHAT!
  5. puddles on the trail from last night’s rain
  6. empty benches
  7. park workers mowing a stretch of grass near the road
  8. some faint moaning sounds coming from a house near 7 oaks — was it a dog, or a person?
  9. my shirt, soaked with sweat — not sticking to me1, but saturated, making the color of it a deeper blue
  10. the pulp of all the acorns that have fallen in the alley and been crushed by car wheels — turned into paste from last night’s rain — in a thick layer on the asphalt

lake water congestion update: My sinus are no longer inflamed, my throat doesn’t hurt, and I can breathe easily through my nose. Hooray! But, I am full of snot, I have crud in my chest, and my cough sounds scary. Boo. Open Swim ends on Thursday. Will I feel good enough to go for a swim before it ends? I hope so, but I’m not sure.

echo locations

Fall has started early, I guess. At least for me and Scott. Last night he said, let’s make today the official start of Halloween season? Yes! To mark the occasion, we watched, “Thriller” and I attempted (badly, I’m sure) the zombie dance near the end. Another marker of fall: working on my river running manuscript. Its first name — Haunts, then, Girl Ghost Gorge, then, Echolocate || Echolocated, now, Echo Locations. I decided to look up “echo” on Poetry Daily. I found this wonderful poem from A.E. Stallings:

Echo/ A.E. Stallings

What tales we tell what tales
About the girls gone quiet
The story-telling ones
Who entertained the heart
Till suddenly they ceased.
What makes the tongue inert?
What turns the voice to swords
Cutting the throat? What takes,
The name from the alibi
Of the body? We were stern:
Stories, we said, are lies,
We told her, don’t repeat them.

What ails?
Yet
once
art
eased
hurt.
Words,
aches,
I
turn
ice
eat them.

I love the different echoes in this poem! Some rhyme, some almost rhyme, some almost sound the same, and some are almost, but not quite, the same. Fun!

Looking through my tags, I noticed several for “echolocation” and one for “echoes.” When I clicked on the echo entry (from 1 sept 2025), I discovered these wonderful ideas about echoing a favorite poet:

The Poetry Daily’s poem-of-the-day is I, Lorine Niedecker. Very cool and difficult for my cone-compromised eyes to read, I’m glad they included an essay by the author about the process of writing the poem. 

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 then. 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 on Writing

After their explanation, Rao offers a writing prompt: 

Pick a poet who moves you, isolate their characteristics, and apply this to their work. Using words from within their own work, write the narrative of their poetics or/and biography. Example: Get romantic and didactic with Wordsworth, apply surrealism on André Breton … 

Imitation is the best form of flattery, but also of ridicule—so this kind of repetition can function as a spotlight or a spoof. I suggest choosing a poet you absolutely adore, as it’s better to have such a voice under your skin.

Mani Rao on Writing

I’m not sure if I want to follow this prompt, but her suggestions about echoing a favorite poet have me thinking, and wanting to experiment more with how I can create echoes out of my favorite poems, poets, words. Last fall, I tried “quarrying” 2 favorite Emily Dickinson poems, “Before I Got My Eye Put Out” (13 dec) and “We Grow Accustomed to the Dark” (14 dec) —

An experiment with quarrying words. Find all of the one, two, and three syllable words in a favorite poem. Turn them into a new poem that offers echoes of the original (13 dec 2025).

Maybe I should try one with “I Felt a Funeral in my Brain”?

swim: 1 loop
lake nokomis open swim
23 minutes
80 degrees

Open swim! After all of my congestion and having trouble breathing and coughing, I wasn’t sure if I would feel okay enough to swim across the lake another time. But, I’m feeling better today and when I saw the forecast for the last open swim on Thursday — 40% chance of thunderstorms — I decided I better go tonight and say goodbye to the lake. Maybe I’ll be able to swim again on Thursday, but if not, I did it tonight, and that’s enough. I was a little scared, worried that I might trigger my congestion, but I decided it was important to risk it. As I swam across the lake, I tried hard not to swallow any water and wore my nose plug (which I’ve been doing for at least 10 years). The course was short because many of the college aged lifeguards were already back at school, so there were only 3 buoys. No triangle, just a straight line with the buoys always on your left. There was wind, so the water was choppy. I tried to think about MO and “Swimming, One Day in August,” but I was distracted by my effort to not swallow water. When I returned to the big beach, I floated on my back, using my yellow buoy as a pillow, and recited the poem in my head.

After exiting the water, I met up with Scott and had a beer. We talked about marathon training and how much we love running. Then we walked over to a bench and looked out at the sailboats on the lake — very Sailboat (as in, the Platonic form of a sailboat). I told Scott about how happy I am to live in the midst of water — a mighty river, a creek, this wonderful lake.

It was a wonderful night — a reminder of how great it is to live where we do.

  1. Yesterday, while reviewing “circumambulation entries”, I reread my discussion of a Forrest Gander poem in which the narrator is running with a sweaty shirt that clings to his torso. I mentioned that, even as I sweat a lot, my shirt rarely clings to me. ↩︎

aug 17/BIKE

7.5 miles
the bench above the dog park and back
72 degrees

A bike ride! I haven’t been on my bike that much this summer. Too busy swimming and running. Since it was a beautiful morning, I decided to bike to my new favorite bench to sit and write and read for a few minutes. One small motivation: I wanted to find out how far it is to the bench and back because I’d like to make it a regular running route. It’s 7.5 miles, which is a great mid to longish distance for the fall, especially post marathon.

While I’ve run on this trail several times, I rarely ever bike it, so it was more uncertain than my usual bike route to the lake. A few notes:

  • the entrance to the trail turning on Godfrey up to Wabun park and the Ford Bridge were very difficult to see — I hit the curb twice. I recall that happening before, so there must be something about these curbs that makes it harder — are they narrower?
  • the new stretch, next to the highland bridge park, is smooth and wide and fast — no obstacles or big cracks or parts where the path cuts in sharply
  • the trail slopes down to the right, with tons of cracks, between hidden falls and the bench — when I run there, I should try to memorize the trickiest parts
  • there are bike lanes on both sides of the road — should I try them, or are they really cracked? again, when I’m running, I should check it out

There was no real danger, at least I didn’t feel that there was; just feeling unsettled and uncertain for long stretches of the ride.

When I reached the bench, it was in the sun, and the sun was warm. Not yet hot, but getting there. I sat down anyway. I heard a few barks from the dog park, which was below me and on the other shore. A few ruffs and a constant and loud noise by one dog — was it baying or bellowing or what? Looked it up and found something about beagles and how they bark, bay, and howl:

Beagles’ iconic baying sound is a prolonged howl-bark hybrid historically used to guide hunters through forests and is deeply rooted in their breeding as pack hounds.

Beagle howling and baying are natural breed behaviors driven by scent instincts, pack mentality, and responses to triggers like sirens or loneliness rather than behavioral problems.

source

Was it a beagle I was hearing? side note: I’m glad Delia is not a beagle. I don’t know if I could handle that noise often, although, I do wish she would make some noise. The only times she barks is at the mailman.

I saw some long birds flying over the gorge. One was flapping its wings so frantically that I could hear the wings — no elegant swish, more like the awkward thwack of those plastic hands that you can clap by shaking them (thanks to the Kalahari waterpark and skeeball tickets, we own a giant pair that have been relegated to the garage). Speaking of birds, as I got my bike out of the garage, I heard a cacophony overhead — honk honk honk — a V of geese high above me, using their honks to stay in formation!

While I sat on the bench, I wrote about echo locations and locating/being located at the gorge. And I read “Paean to Place” by Lorine Niedecker. Such a wonderful poem!

july 28/RUNSWIM

6 miles
hidden falls and back
69 degrees
AQI: 67

A little cooler this morning. The AQI wasn’t that high, but there must have been some smoke in the air because the spots of light on the path looked pinkish-orange. A steady run. Felt strong, sweat a lot.

10 Things

  1. rowers’ voices, down below
  2. click clack click clack — a roller skier’s poles hitting the sidewalk
  3. running parallel with another runner — I was on the paved path, they were on the dirt trail near folwell
  4. 2 women sitting on the curb at the top of the locks and dam hill — taking a break after doing a hill workout? waiting for someone? just sitting and talking?
  5. running under the east river road at hidden falls, listening to the creek water rushing down then over hidden falls — what creek is this again? looked it up: Hidden Falls Creek — but, actually, it’s not a creek but a stream of storm water*
  6. minneapolis park workers, mowing the grass beside the trail, stopping and waiting for me to pass
  7. the smell of freshly cut grass
  8. the river, below me on the ford bridge: flat and still and empty
  9. spots of sunlight on the trail, stained orangish-pink
  10. dust or smoke, stirred up by work they were doing at the old power plant near the locks and dam

*When I looked up the name of the creek at Hidden Falls, I found a Hidden Falls Resource Management Plan from 2004 and this description:

Today, Hidden Falls Regional Park encompasses 130 acres andn1.6 miles of shoreline and is an important natural area within the Mississippi River Corridor Critical Area and the Mississippi National River and Recreation Area. It is an oasis of floodplain forest along the Mississippi River visited by local residents and visitors using the park’s trails throughout the year. Visitors utilizethe park for hiking, fishing, running, bicycling, dog walking, birdwatching, wildflower watching, picnics, and boating. The park is a significant stopover place for migrating songbirds and waterfowl traversing the Mississippi Flyway. The park also serves as an outflow for storm water from adjacent neighborhoods north and west of the park via storm sewers that end in the bluffs along the park’s eastern edge.

Hidden Falls Resource Management Plan, 2004

And here’s a description of where I ran as I followed the creek to an overlook of the falls:

For decades, Hidden Falls has been a nearly inaccessible trickle dripping out of a culvert behind the Ford Plant in St. Paul’s Highland Park neighborhood. Bounded by a tight curve in the Mississippi River Boulevard (MRB), the falls offered visitors two options: a steep climb down crumbling limestone stairs or a rocky hike up from the Hidden Falls Park picnic pavilion.

This month, with the opening of a new tunnel and walkway under MRB, a new viewing platform and the partial daylighting of Hidden Falls Creek, the falls are ready to be discovered by many more visitors.

Originally, Hidden Falls Creek was fed by a natural spring located near Cleveland Avenue and Ford Parkway. The creek above the falls was buried into a culvert sometime in the past century during the development of Highland Park. Now, the falls are connected to a whole new source of water via the Highland Bridge development’s massive stormwater management system, creating a consistent flow of water over the falls.

Hidden Falls, Hidden No More

A creek, daylighted! Reading a little further in the article, I found a video from Dr. Greg Brick (I’ve read and enjoyed his great book, Subterranean Twin Cities) at the site as they were working on it a few years ago:

the video ends with a useful note: the only parts of the site that originated with the WPA are the fire pits. The steps came later.

It was cool to watch this video and think about it the history of where I ran this morning. It’s easy to not notice or reflect on the spaces you’re moving through. Now, five years later, the evidence of the planning and the labor done to create the path under the road, the overlook on the edge, and the daylighted creek are hidden to those not giving attention.

echoes

Thinking about the daylighted creek and the work done to restore/open up the area around Hidden Falls, I’m wondering about echoes beyond the definition of sound bouncing off an object and returning to a listener. Echo as trace, vestige, evidence of what came before. My collection of poems is filled with traces/evidence of what was/is there before me: countless other living things, human and non-human. I am not alone.

Echolocation is a practical tool for navigation; using echoes/changes in sound to gain a sense of the terrain — hearing where a tree or a car or a drop-off is. I use sound in this way to supplement (enhance?) my weak central vision. But echolocation, as in, locating the echoes-as-traces-as-evidence-as-proof that others are there or have been there, is also important to me.

swim: 3 loops
lake nokomis open swim
87 degrees
AQI: 70

3 loops! No pain in my shoulder! No panicking in the middle of the lake! Only a near foot cramp at the end of loop 3 and misjudging where buoy 4 was on the first loop. A good swim. I felt strong and steady and mostly breathed every 5. There were a few patches of cold water but also patches of very warm, almost hot, water. It was 100 degrees yesterday, so that must have hotted up the lake. It was crowded — on the course, all around the beach, at Painted Turtle. I saw my sparkle friends, noticed that the water was a pale green, felt something touch my toe (a fish, I think). Heard sloshing water and other swimmers chatting near the final buoy; I was treading water to assess my cramped foot.

Overheard: one swimmer to another near the 5th buoy — I feel like I was all over that course!

Overhear: one swimmer to another, on the beach — what do you do if you can’t quite do another loop? I wish there was a half loop option!

The sky was a pale blue with a few clouds. There were kayaks and paddle boarders and a few menacing swans on the edge. No sail boat — probably because there was hardly any wind.

Swimming one day in August is coming and I think I’m ready for it!

july 27/BIKESWIMBIKE

bike: 8.7 miles
lake nokomis and back
84/88 degrees

As the European grand tour cycling announcers say, it’s hotting up out there. Scott said that the dew point was 81 at the airport this morning. The record (for all recorded weather here) is 82. Yikes. Instead of running, I decided to bike to the lake and swim. I haven’t biked over to the lake when it wasn’t an open swim this summer for several reasons: 1. the milfoil around the buoys made it too annoying (and dangerous) to swim; 2. I was swimming a lot already at open swims; 3. and because I was already swimming too much, I injured my shoulder. But, the milfoil has been removed, or at least thinned out (hooray!): I can’t do open swim at cedar tonight; and my shoulder is feeling better. Another reason to come over here on my bike besides the facts that it’s too hot to run and I haven’t driven a car in 5 years: my Apple watch activity challenge for July is 5 bike rides of 5 minutes or more. Even though that’s not a challenging challenge, I haven’t achieved it yet this month because it’s been too hot, too smoky, and I’ve been too sick.

The bike ride was easy. I didn’t have to try and pass anyone and I could see well enough to navigate. The paths were not crowded. No big groups of kids or silver riders. No packs of runners. Part of the trail was closed, but I could see and follow the detour signs.

10 Bike Things

  1. the parking lot at the falls was almost empty, one 1 or 2 cars
  2. a bird near the lake — cheer up cheer up — a robin
  3. thwack thwack — the pickleballers are at it again, playing on the court at the rec center, no shade anywhere
  4. a handful of single runners sprinkled throughout my ride
  5. the creek under the echo bridge was low and bright and still
  6. an adult with a kid in a seat sped past on an e-bike
  7. orange paint around the cracks on the trail near my favorite part of the path
  8. just past that: trail closed for road (or sewer?) work on nokomis
  9. biking over some bumps on the part of the path sandwiched between the light rail and the creek, my chain was jammed — I slowed down, preparing to stop and fix it, but it unjammed itself
  10. minneapolis park workers out doing some work — mowing? cutting down limbs? I’m no sure

swim: 1.5 loops
lake nokomis, main beach
86 degrees
AQI: 57

A wonderful swim! The water was calm and not too warm. Only one other person was swimming loops, and they were doing it much closer in. No boats or paddle boards to watch out for. Hardly any milfoil, or the usual (from past years) and manageable amount of ghost vines reaching up from the bottom. A few more vines floating free near the surface. I swam at a relaxed pace, stopping to notice the quiet lake at the end of every loop. I listened to a dad talking his little kid — kid: am I going to grow taller? Dad: yes, you just need to keep eating your growing up food. I exchanged something (not words, but a feeling, mutual acknowledgment/recognition?) with a seagull that was perched on the far white buoy for the entire time I swam. Hello friend — are you waiting to catch a fish? A brief thought: how many fish are beneath me right now?

As I stroked beside the white buoys, I thought about how swimming in this deep-ish water off the big beach is a different experience than swimming across the lake. Here, with the shorter loop and the buoys beside me, I hardly have to sight. I can just swim until I reach a far buoy, then loop around it, and swim until I reach the other far buoy. Here, I barely need vision. For that reason, and because I’m not swimming far out into the middle of the lake, you might think that swimming here would be less scary. But, I’m always a little more on edge during these swims than the ones from shore to shore. Will I get too tangled in the vines? Are there fish lurking under the buoys?

At the end of my loops, I swam in between the faded red buoys and floated, my head resting on my yellow buoy. Then I sunk under the water and swam with my face just above the lake floor, studying the brown, sandy bottom. Ah! What a way to start the day!

Today’s color palette: white cylindrical buoys, faded pinkish-reddish spherical buoys, pale green water, bright blue sky, the clear bubbles and underside of water’s surface, a light brown sandy bottom.

(l to r) blue sky, brown sand, white buoys, faded pink buoys, clear bubbles, green water

a return to echolocation

Even as I’m trying to think about water and swimming, I’ve also returned to my manuscript from last year, which has gone through a number of names: Haunts, then Girl Ghost Gorge then Echolocate || Echolocated and now Echolocation. I was compelled to return to this project 2 months early (usually I work on it in the fall) because I noticed a call for manuscripts at one of my favorite presses. And I’m writing about it here because I realized, as I searched for past thoughts and words about this project, that even as I remember thinking about some poem or essay or fact that I’ve come across, I can’t find it on this log1. Did I write about it in a pages document or in Plague Notebook entry? If I don’t post it here, it’s more likely to get lost. So, more posting here.

As I fine-tune my manuscript, I want to weave in more direct references to echolocation and what I mean by making it the title of my collection. It’s literal and figurative. I’m writing about the location of echoes (the gorge and the trail above it), where echoes = the bouncing back of sound in wide open spaces and traces of the past/ghosts. I’m also writing about the act of echolocation, which is used by blind and low vision people to navigate the world. I’ve read about passive echolocation (hearing sounds/echoes that already exist to navigate) and active (creating sound with tongue or cane clicks or footsteps to bounce off of objects. I’m also interested in a third version of this, which is both (or neither?) active and passive: being the object or the solid thing in the world that can be located by others’ sounds. Does that make sense? Here’s a video that I just found that I’d like to archive and use to think more about echolocation:

passive and active echolocation
  1. Not being able to find past essays/histories that I know I was reading and thought I was writing about has also come up with my “this isn’t the sea” project. I was almost positive I wrote about Dr. Christian Lambertsen and his SCUBA testing at Lake Nokomis but, after a long search, I couldn’t find anything. ↩︎

feb 21/RUNGETOUTICE

4.25 miles
minnehaha falls and back
18 degrees / feels like 6

After a week of warmth, winter is back and this time the paths are clear! Hooray! It is (almost) never the cold but the uneven trails that bother me in January and February (and March and often April). I felt good as I ran south and even better as I ran back north. As I ran, I thought about how I was wearing my dead mother-in-law’s purple jacket and my dead mother’s teal cap with the tassels. I liked feeling as if they were both there with me. I also thought about #2 (see below) and what it means to be good at something. I imagined it not as something you are, I am good at x or y or z, but as a moment you experience or as a means to a deeper end: to feel free or satisfied or joyful — because I can run well, I am able to float on the trail and devote more attention to this place or to travel farther on this trail or enter the flow state and feel closer to the earth, the air, the water.

10 Things

  1. a flash or a slash or a blur of bright red below me — with a second glance I saw that it was a person with a red coat walking on the winchell trail
  2. a BRIGHT dot and a thought whispered in my head — yellow — an instant later recognition, a crosswalk sign
  3. thump thump thump the deep bass of a song exploding out of a car
  4. another car, more music — a song that I could almost but not quite hear — I strained my ears to identify any lyrics or a melody, but couldn’t
  5. the faint echo of the train bells near the falls
  6. the falls were still gushing from behind the ice columns, the dark water of the creek was rushing
  7. a group of people standing at the wall, looking down at the falls — they were laughing and cheering as they threw something below — I think they were snowballs
  8. the river was completely open and was mostly a deep brownish blueish dark gray — it stretched wide and far and looked more like a wall than water
  9. my feet slid (but didn’t slip) on the grit on the trail
  10. the paths held a range of people — single walkers, walkers with dogs, running pairs, running trios, adults and kids walking single-file — but the benches held nothing — they were empty

some things to remember

1

For almost a year now, I’ve been jumping from project to project. In the spring, it was color, then in the summer it was water and inklings, in the fall my book manuscript on echolocation and the gorge, and this winter it has been love. So many projects! And I have more big ideas that have been simmering for years and waiting for the light of my attention. But, I also like wandering without a clear purpose or goal. I like devoting a month to a random topic, like shadows or windows or wind, making a playlist for it, exploring new things that I haven’t encountered before. It’s difficult to balance a desire to wander and experiment with the need to turn it into something.

And right now, the need to turn it into something is winning. Even as I write this, I’m thinking of another project which would be part of a larger manuscript on how I see. So far, I have written about how I am seeing color (inner and outer color), how I navigate, looking at the world as if through water (inklings), now it’s time for another section/chapbook of this — thoughts? Optical illusions or hallucinations or mistaken identities? I’m imagining this might include examples from my log of seeing something in a very WRONG way — like disembodied legs walking toward me on the trail.

My starting point could be to gather: examples from past entries; lines from poems that speak to/of the beauty and the danger of these illusions; some research on illusions by scientists and psychologists; excerpts from essays by G. Kleege and Naomi Cohn; examples in art — like Monet and Magritte. Along the way, I want to turn this work of gathering into a resource page for others.

2

In my post from 21 feb 2017, I posed the question, what does it mean to be good at running? What does it mean to be good at something? And now I’m wondering, what does it TAKE to be good at something? The word excellence echoes in my head as I think about my studying of Aristotle and the figure skating in the 2026 winter Olympics. Two different models: Ilia Malinin (the quad god) and Alysa Liu. And I’m also thinking about the idea of needing to suffer for your art and where joy fits into your practice. And, another question — is the goal always to be good, to excel, to master?

3

A book to buy, or to check out of the library: Against Breaking — the power of poetry / Ada Limón

4

A mural to find:

a storm drain mural for water quality, designed and painted by local artist Precious, shows a sunset over a cityscape in vibrant colors. You can see it at the Mississippi River Gorge scenic overlook along Mississippi River Boulevard in Highland Park.

FMR

5

a poem to read again and to place beside my restlessness, my desire for movement, and my desire to find new ways to understand stillness:

The Art of Silence / Christine Anderson

a Buddhist monk taught me to sit silently
be the moon floating over my back field
a buttercup cradled in a clump of spring grass
sit hushed
as the broad shoulders of granite mountains
in their shawl of clouds—
sit despite
an unquiet morning
that buzzes and twitters and zips
sit to be a dewdrop
in the garden
a perfect pearl of daybreak—
a Buddha
sitting.

Get Out Ice

Found a substack list of LOTS of anti-ICE stuff happening around the cities. This one seemed particularly fitting:

We want ICE OUT!!! Of our city, our state, our community, and for one night only, out of our margaritas.

Celebrate National Margarita Day this Sunday 2/22 at Hai Hai with NO ICE margaritas to support our restaurant community. ICE doesn’t belong here anymore and we are pulling frozen water out of our favorite cocktail to prove it. A portion of each No Ice Marg sold will be donated to @thesaltcurefund for restaurants in need. If and when ICE leaves, restaurants will have a long way to go to recover from the impact their occupation has had on our community, join us for a drink and some laughter and help us take one step forward towards recovery.

Hai Hai Instagram post

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 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 14/SWIM!

1.5 loops
100 laps
outside: -5 degrees

I swam 3 times this week! Scott and I decided to go early, before the water aerobics class. For almost the entire swim, I had the lane to myself. In the last 5 minutes, a woman (I think) I shared a lane with earlier in the week joined me. I did my usual swim of continuous 200s, broken up by breathing, but I added a twist in the middle: for a 600, or maybe an 800?, I swam faster and kicked harder on the even 50s (when I was breathing every 4 and 6 strokes). It felt fun to go faster.

Today’s pool friends: shimmying shadows on the pool floor, making everything look strange and off-kilter; the older woman in the pale blue suit who is not particularly fast, but is a strong swimmer; a guy in black trunks who was also a strong swimmer; a guy in olive green shorts walking and stretching the length of the shallow end; my squeaky nose plug; a guy in black shorts with a belt on, aqua jogging in the deep end. No fuzz or unsettling floating things.

I tried to think about my echolocation hybrid piece, but I struggled to keep a thought in my head. Instead I counted strokes, and noticed other people, and turned off most of my conscious thought.

Earlier this morning, I quarried another Emily Dickinson poem: We Grow Accustomed to the Dark:

one syllable: We grow Dark when light put holds lamp Her step night then fit meet road those brain not moon sign star come out grope hit tree in but They learn see sight life straight

two syllable: away neighbor witness goodbye moment newness vision erect larger evenings disclose within bravest  little sometimes forehead either darkenss alters something adjusts itself midnight almost

three syllable: accustomed uncertain directly

my poem:

Brain alters —

gropes the Dark,
hits lamp light,

and meets night
directly.
Away moon!
Away stars!
Goodbye sight.
The moment
adjusts — they
learn larger
uncertainties,
witness newness
within, fit
vision into
the almost,
then meet the
evening erect,
but not straight.

The other day, I came across a powerful poem by Pat Parker on poems.com. Wow!

excerpt from One Thanksgiving Day/ Pat Parker

One Thanksgiving Day
Priscilla Ford
got into her
Lincoln Continental
drove to Virginia Street
in downtown Reno
and ran over thirty people.
Six of them died.

One Thanksgiving Day
Priscilla Fordgot into her
Lincoln Continental
drove to Virginia Street
in downtown Reno
and ran over thirty people.
Six of them died.

. . .

Priscilla Ford
got into her
Lincoln Continental
drove to Virginia Street
in downtown Reno
and ran over thirty people.
Six of them died
and now Priscilla Fordwill die.
The state of Nevada
has judged
that it is
not crazy
for Black folks
to kill white folks
with their cars.
Priscilla Ford
will be
the second woman
executed in Nevada’s history.
it’s her highest
finish in life.

dec 13/BIKERUN

bike: 36 minutes
basement
outside: 2 degrees / feels like -6

Feels like -6 isn’t too cold for me, but I’m still trying to be careful with my right glute/hip and the snowy, uneven paths seemed like a bad idea. So, I biked and ran in the basement instead. While I biked, I watched the Brooks High School Girls Cross Country Championships. Wow, those girls are fast! And mentally tough. The hills on that course look awful.

As I finished my bike, RJP came down the stairs. She comes over almost every day (from her apartment) to say hi and see Delia. I took a break and we had a great talk about her latest success with knitting and using breathing patterns in deciding how often to knit and purl and the value of small goals that are designed to be about cumulative success instead of one big achievement. I mentioned SWOLF and asked her if she had any good acronyms for it:

Swimming with octopi, looking for fish
Sara wishes October lasted forever

run!: 1.25 miles
treadmill

Last week, Scott tried the treadmill and the belt wouldn’t move, but it did today. Hooray! And I ran without pain during or after the run. Excellent. Did my old treadmill routine of listening to the first few songs of Taylor Swift’s Reputation as I ran. I listened to “Look What You Made Me Do” on my cool down walk and decided that it would be a good song to listen to on the track while doing some speed work. Moderate pace in the verses, much faster in the chorus. I’ll have to try it next week.

Echoes, a Quarry and hybridizing echolocations

A few hours earlier, I came across and wonderful submissions call for the journal, Waxwing:

 Send us your work that hybridizes, blends, resists the boundaries between fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and art.

Waxwing wants to publish fiction and nonfiction that can stand alongside poetry: stories and essays where language is the primary concern. We seek writing that is like the characters and creatures we named the journal after—Daedalus made something that had never before existed, Icarus joyfully dared to do what hadn’t been done, and the eponymous birds seem to be what they’re not. We’re interested in narratives that risk, that come close to failing but land on the other side, not in the sea, and like the red tips of feathers that look like sealing wax, we love flourishes. We’re not interested in virtuosity that pleases the masses, but we do crave intensity, and stories that feel a little dangerous. We seek to showcase the particular and the peculiar, the odd and the revelatory—we want to read stories and essays that make us feel like we are learning something, even if it’s something we can’t quite explain. 

Waxwing Submissions

I’m trying to put something together from my manuscript and my echolocation project. At the end of my draft, I have a piece titled, “Echoes: a Quarry.” It is a list of all of the one, two, and three syllable words from my poems. I collected them and used them to create my rock, river, and air echo/chant poems. I want to do some thing with sound (me reading the words altogether, and online — Scott said he could do write code that would scramble up the words to make new chants) and with visuals (a map locating the echoes. I’ll spend the rest of the day trying to think through it.

An experiment with quarrying words. Find all of the one, two, and three syllable words in a favorite poem. Turn them into a new poem that offers echoes of the original.

Before I got my eye put out/ Emily Dickinson

1

I
got
my

eye

put

out
liked
well
see
have
know
way
told
me
might
Sky
mine
tell
heart
would
split
size
stars
much
noon
take
could
birds
road
look
when
news
strike
dead
so
guess
just
soul
pane
sun

2

before
other
creatures
today
meadows
mountains
forest
stintless
between
finite
motions
dipping
morning’s
amber
safer
upon
window

3

incautious

My poem:

Today stars
are in 

motion, in-
cautious

of birds, Sun.
I see

my way split
before

the noon sky.
Tell me,
dead eyes (mine) —
finite,

dipping be-
tween soul’s

meadow and
heart’s forest —
when it
is safer
to look.

dec 2/RUN

4.5 miles
minnehaha falls and back
16 degrees
75% snow-covered

Running in the snow! I love it, especially with my new Yaktrax. Bought 2 pairs at Costco yesterday. The technology of them has improved since I bought my last pair a few years ago. My old pair has coils, almost like the spiral in a spiral notebook — and unfortunately like the spiral in a spiral notebook, they can get twisted and uncoil and poke you with their sharp ends. The new version has plastic knobs with metal, so no un-spiraling. Future Sara can discover the limits of this technology after we’ve run a hundred or so miles in them.

The river was completely covered with snow and ice. Closer to the falls, it was all white, closer to home, it was more gray. The falls and the creek were still flowing.

I wore more winter layers than I probably needed. I had on my below 0 layers: 2 pairs of black running tights, 2 long-sleeved shirts — one black, one green, a purple jacket, a gray buff, a black fleece-lined cap with ear flaps, 2 pairs of gloves — black, pink and white striped, hand warmers — they’re called “Little Hotties”. I probably wouldn’t have worn the hand warmers if FWA hadn’t opened a pair for his Delia walk, but it was nice to have them.

The view of the river, the gorge, the bare trees, the other side was beautiful. The air was a satisfying and sharp cold. Even better than that though were the birds. My favorite part of the run. Tiny birds, black blurs springing up from below as I stood above the waterfall and the creek below. Movement everywhere, flitting up and down and over and out. One time, a leaf imitating a bird. Running on the path, something landed just in front of me. I thought it was a bird, but it was a dead leaf that had been lifted then dropped by the wind. Another time, a tiny bird trying to outrun me on the ground, then leap-flying, then giving up and flying away.

Standing behind the Rachel Dow Memorial Bench, I witnessed another bird land on a tree branch. I only saw it by its movement, and then when it stopped, I believed it was still there. I think I could still see it there for a moment, but I’m not sure.

echolocation, again

One more manuscript to submit — the big one — by the end of this month. Trying to add a little bit more that’s explicitly about echolocation to reinforce it as the thread that stitches it all together. Decided to look up echolocation in the OED (online through my local library, which is awesome):

1944– The location of objects by means of the echo reflected from them by a sound-signal

Coined in an article from 1944 for Science, “Echolocation by Blind Men, Bats, and Radar” by Donald R. Griffin. Was able to get a pdf of it, thanks to RJP’s access to it through school. Maybe I’ll take a phrase from it, or I’ll make an erasure out of it, or? A few minutes later: I read it; it’s short, so I’m not sure about using it. I’ll read it again while I wait for Scott to be done with jazz band rehearsal tonight.

I’m also thinking of offering definitions at the beginning of echolocation, or maybe offering them at the end. Echolocation: locating objects by their echoes / echo location: locations where echoes dwell / echolocate: the act of using echoes / echolocated: the object/subject/something that has been located by echoes

nov 25/SWIM

1.5 loops
100 laps
ywca pool

Another great swim, another 1.5 loops to add to my tally of loops swum in 2025! The pool wasn’t too crowded. At one point, I was the only one in the water. When another swimmer arrived, she called out, we’ve got the whole pool to ourselves! I noticed the shadows on the pool floor flickering. A swimmer next to me, in a black t-shirt and green with a blue pattern, or blue with a green pattern, swam some freestyle, some breaststroke for the deeper part of the lap, then aqua jogged in the more shallow part. There was another male swimmer on the other side of him, swimming freestyle. At first I thought he was fast, and that it might be fun to race (in my head), but he turned out not to be fast enough to make it fun.

I wasn’t planning to, but I decided to do 2 sets of faster 200s: 3 x 200 on 3 min, with 30 sec rest. By decide I mean, the idea of swimming a faster 200 with the clock popped into my head early in my swim, so I did it. As I swam I thought, I should turn this into a set of 3. Then, in the last of the 3 I thought, I should do an easier 800 then do the set again. There was never really a plan, and even though I did choose to do it, I didn’t really; it just happened. As I swam, I thought about how it might help me mentally — specifically for endurance, but also for overall well-being — to add some harder swimming sets this winter instead of only moderate and steady lap after lap.

Anything else about the swim: as always, I saw orange everywhere. No fuzzy friends, I recall staring down at the drain and recalling how past Saras would imagine, only in a fearful flash, that Jaws would pop out of it. I lost track of my laps during a 200 and thought about how ridiculous it is that I can get off track just counting 8 laps — my miscounting today was not my first rodeo (the first time I remember hearing this delightful phrase was when my PT was letting me know that my kneecap had probably suffered a subluxation many times).

a draft almost done

The goal: be finished with this manuscript before the end of 2025. A thought this morning as I read through it and reflect on echolocation: it’s all about locating and being located in this place, in time and space. That locating involves:

  1. being the someone that makes sounds that will bounce off something else to create an echo, and the someone that listens for echoes made by others to locate something
  2. being the something that is located/placed/found
  3. being the echo that is created by one subject’s sound being received by another subject

Always, three. Immediately, I ‘m thinking about my poem, “An Exchange on the Winchell Trail” which involves a walker, a runner, and the You (in thank you/you’re welcome) that passes between them. And then I’m thinking about a line in my poem, “Everything”:

trinity: a baby owl in the hollow of a tree, the woman who points it out, the girl who stops to look

other threes: rock, river, air / girl, ghost, gorge / triple chants — 3 beats / grandfather, mother, daughter

Another think I’m working through: the little poems in which I take the words of another — mostly poets — and fit them into the form of my breathing pattern: 1 2 3 breathe / 1 2 breathe. The original name: form fitters. Can I think of a better one? Breaths? Breathing (with?) [author’s name]?

during the swim

Every so often, as I swam, I thought about naming my form fitters, “breathing with . . .”. I wondered if I should use only the poet’s first name, as a way to indicate more familiarity. Later after the swim, I mentioned it to RJP, and she thought “Breathing with Emily” sounded a little cheesy. I guess I agree and am thinking that “Breathing with Emily Dickinson” sounds better. Does it?

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 20/SWIM

1.5 loops
100+ laps
ywca pool

Any day I get to swim is a great day! Another good swim that started with my ritual: push off from the wall and swim just above the blue squares on the pool floor until I reach the deep end, which is about 2/3rds of the way, then surface. Today I shared the lane with another good swimmer. She was using pull buoys and hand paddles and had a strong freestyle stroke. Nice. As I swam, I thought about my latest visual, echolocation poem and wondered if I could figure out a form to read (not listen to) that prioritized aural over visual. Saw lots of orange — orange cones off to the side, orange cones ahead of me, blocking off the hot tub, orange swim trunks on Scott. No pool friends — fuzz or clumps or bandaids. Also don’t remember seeing any dancing shadows. Only the intense smell of chlorine and the almost leaking of googles and the familiar feeling of stroking and breathing and flipping at the wall.

This poem-of-the-day on poets.org! All of it is wonderful, but since it’s long, I’ll post only the second half. I love a great winter poem!

from Posture of Devotion/ Kimbery Blaeser

But, in January, we hold this promise. 
While lake ice shifts, dark a murmur, 
a creak. Now moonlight falls on snow crusts— 
always where two touch, night glistens. 
When distant wolf howls, answer comes.

Imagine the upturned muzzle, body  
a triangle of sound. Hazel eyes  
mere slits. This reverence—an ancient hunger 
for pack. See, too, each black branch; 
limbing—bare, suspended in soon.

How pristine the listening posture 
of pine marten, of fisher, of fox— 
each body cocked. To pounce, to dive 
nose-first into snow’s secrets, 
to search winter tunnels for mice.

We, too, poised like supplicants— 
rawness of the world a prayer 
we read but cannot speak. Silence 
an invocation, heavy as tobacco  
sinking into snow—into earth’s altar.

Against moon’s brilliance, slit your eyes. 
Let warmth of reflected light fill you; 
that holy—that glance of tiny gods. 
Make of your hands an empty globe, 
your body a vessel taut as river.

This image of snow at night! I love opening the back door, looking out at the snow in moonlight, and delighting in the snow sparkling like diamonds, or how I remember stars in the sky sparkling in a cartoon from when I was a kid.

Now moonlight falls on snow crusts— 
always where two touch, night glistens.

g listens — I never noticed, or thought about, how glistens is listens with a g. Glistens = sound traveling to ears (and eyes?), glazed with glitter

In her about this poem, Blaeser mentions being inspired by Kaveh Akbar’s talk on poetry and spirituality. You can watch and listen and read the whole thing online, here: The Word Dropped Like a Stone: Sacred Poetics Under the Reign of the Money God. Great title, and opening paragraph:

Today the great weapon used to stifle critical thinking is a raw overwhelm of meaningless language at every turn—on our phones, on our TVs, in our periphery on billboards and subways. So often the language is passionately absolute: immigrants are evil, climate change is a hoax, and this new Rolex will make you irresistible. Interesting poetry awakens us, asks us to slow down our metabolization of language, to become aware of its materiality, how it enters into us. Sacred poetry, from antiquity to the present, teaches us to be comfortable sitting in mystery without trying to resolve it, to be skeptical of unqualified certitudes. This lecture will orbit poems drawn from the past forty-three centuries, poems that remind us language has history, density, complexity. In surveying these examples, we’ll discuss how language art might serve as a potent antidote against an empire that would use empty, vapid language to cudgel us into inaction.  

Poetry and Spirituality / Kaveh Akbar

nov 19/RUN

5.2 miles
bottom and franklin and back
39 degrees

Another great late morning for a run. Overcast, possibly some drizzle/freezing rain/flurries. Not too cold, not too windy. Everything gray with brown and dull yellow. Listened to music because I had the King George song from Hamilton in my head — Billie Eilish, then my time and moment playlists. Even with the headphones in, I could hear a loud rumble below. Some sort of big machine doing something — was it at the white sands beach? I noticed a walker notice the sound too. He was startled, then confused, then curious as he peered down, trying to figure out what was causing the ruckus.

Witnessed a big, dark brown squirrel dart fast across my path. So fast that I didn’t have to stutter-step. Stopped at the bottom of the hill for a port-a-potty stop and to admire the river: blueish gray with little ripples. All open, no ice chunks yet. Stopped again at the sliding bench and in the tunnel of trees just above the floodplain forest. Took out my headphones and listened to the gorge. It sounded like it might be softly raining. Heard loud rustling, saw a flash of movement down below. Felt calm, relaxed.

At the sliding bench, I took a picture of the progress: open! no leaves to block out my view of the white sands beach, only thin branches that I can see through!

sliding bench / 19 nov 2025

One more thing about the run that I almost forgot. During the second half, after I climbed out of the flats, I felt fast and free. I had a huge smile on my face and was almost feeling a runner’s high. I haven’t experienced one of those in a while.

more of echo location

echolocation: using sonar flashes to “see” / interpreting echoes (as sound, as reverberations from the past) / navigation / location / locating and being located / finding being found / placing being placed / listen for echoes / gain substance and become an echo / repeat, not same but similar / the location of echoes / an indication of a big and open space / using words and sounds and syllables to place my self, to become more than ghost, girl

“Echolocation is the act of emitting a sound that bounces off an object or surface and comes back to you as an echo. This echo can help determine distance, location, motion, size, shape or surface material” (source).

Passive echolocation is sound that occur incidentally in the environment. As a car travels through a tunnel, the sound changes as the car enters the tunnel, travels through it and exits the tunnel. The sound your cane makes on the ground as you tap or roll will be different when you are next to a building compared to in an open area without obstruction.

Active echolocation, on the other hand, is sound you consciously produce like clapping your hands or clicking your tongue. Eventually, the sound you create bounces off other objects and comes back to you. Since your brain is familiar with the sounds you make, the echoes are easier for you to distinguish. By consistently emitting a sound and waiting for the sound to change, you can use active echolocation to help you navigate through an environment.

source

 How does the
sound of your
footsteps change
as you move
from tile floor
to carpet?
Listen to
the sound your
voice makes when
you are in
a small room
compared to
a large room.

Sit in a
moving car
passing by
parked cars. Roll
your window
down. Listen
to how sound
shifts between
each parked car
as you pass them.

you learn to
hear doorways
and walls and
wide open
spaces

Echolocation is an interesting metaphor within poetry and an important practical approach to navigating an unseen (or not seen) world.

Location for me is about recognition — being seen, offered a place in the family of things, and recognizing others (being held by/holding). And it is also about literally locating and navigating a world. As my vision fails, what other ways can I safely move through space?

And, here are a few lines from U A Fanthorpe that link echoes with ghosts and remind me of echolocation — especially those humpback whales:

Ghosts of past, present, future.
But the ones the living would like to meet are the echoes
Of moments of small dead joys still quick in the streets

These are the ghosts the living would prefer,
Ghosts who’d improve our ratings. Ghosts
Of the great innocent songs of freedom
That shoulder their way round the world like humpback whales

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.

sept 1/SWIM

2 loops
lake nokomis main beach
68 degrees

A beautiful morning! Sunny, only a slight breeze, algae-free water. There were 2 exuberant kids and a scraping shovel somewhere, so it wasn’t quiet above the water. But below: a deep soft-bottomed silence. My only complaint: too much milfoil! The vines were thick and just under the surface, wrapping around my wrist, touching my toe. Once, when I stopped to tread water, a vine encircled my foot. I wasn’t worried about them pulling me under, but I didn’t like brushing against them or having a pale clump suddenly appear in my face. I swam far out from the white buoys to avoid them, but then I had to worry about paddle boarders and kayaks. The vines were irritating enough to make me think maybe open swim season is ending. I want to keep coming this week until they take down the buoys, but navigating these vines is taking some of the fun out of swimming in the lake.

10 Things

  1. 2 women on a blanket speaking in Spanish
  2. 4 kids playing soccer in the sand, one the kids looked about 2 years old
  3. a big bird high up in the sky, soaring
  4. at least one plane taking off from the nearby airport
  5. aggressive bird shadows — sharp, too close
  6. sparkles on the water
  7. racing a kayak, both of us parallel to the beach — I was winning, then I looped around
  8. a metal detector man waving his machine over the sand
  9. a few shreads of clouds in a pale blue sky
  10. paddle boarders exiting the water — I’m so glad we were able to paddle board! And it wasn’t too warm!

Minutes after my swim, I felt the gentle, burning glow of muscles having been used. I will miss that feeling this winter!

The Poetry Daily’s poem-of-the-day is I, Lorine Niedecker. Very cool and difficult for my cone-compromised eyes to read, I’m glad they included an essay by the author about the process of writing the poem.

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 then. 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 on Writing

After their explanation, Rao offers a writing prompt:

Pick a poet who moves you, isolate their characteristics, and apply this to their work. Using words from within their own work, write the narrative of their poetics or/and biography. Example: Get romantic and didactic with Wordsworth, apply surrealism on André Breton … 

Imitation is the best form of flattery, but also of ridicule—so this kind of repetition can function as a spotlight or a spoof. I suggest choosing a poet you absolutely adore, as it’s better to have such a voice under your skin.

Mani Rao on Writing

Someday I’d like to try this with Niedecker, but right now, I’m more interested in Alice Oswald and her collection, Nobody. And, maybe Mary Oliver, too — especially since I’m using her poem, Swimming, One Day in August.

oct 30/RUN

5.4 miles
franklin loop
25 degrees / feels like 20

Yes! A great temperature for running. I love the cold air and not getting overheated. Wore black running tights, black running shorts, my 10 year-old base layer green shirt, an orange sweatshirt, black gloves, a hat and a buff. Such a great run. I feel satisfied and happy and energized. A great start to the winter running season!

10 Things

  1. chatty, chirping birds — sparrows? wrens? finches? chickadees?
  2. the Welcoming Oaks are almost bare. Where was I when the leaves fell? hello friends!
  3. a bright white circle of sunlit river burning through the growing gap between the trees
  4. everywhere more of a view to the other side
  5. empty blueish gray water — so calm and pleasing to my eyes
  6. passed Daddy Long Legs, dressed in black. His hi was so quiet it didn’t register until it was too late to call back a greeting
  7. Hi Dave! — greeting Dave, the Daily Walker in the final mile
  8. crossing the bridge, approaching 2 talkative runners from behind: excuse me. / Oh! [a runner jumps to the side looking freaked out] / Sorry I scared you!
  9. the smell of smoke down below on the east side of the river
  10. a roller skier! I couldn’t hear the clicking and clacking of his ski poles until I was right next to me

bats, bells, noisy road work, and late fall leaves

Found this poem from DH Lawrence the other day while looking for poems about bats. Wow, he didn’t like bats!

 Bat/ D.H. Lawrence

At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise …

When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding …

When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno …

Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.

A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.

And you think:
“The swallows are flying so late!”

Swallows?

Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop …
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.

Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.

At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio …
Changing guard.

Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one’s scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.

Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;

Wings like bits of umbrella.

Bats!

Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.

Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!

In China the bat is symbol for happiness.

Not for me!

Today, writing this bit before my run, I’m thinking about bats and echos and echolocation. Vibrations, reverberations, sounds that haunt by continuing to ring out. Bells. But, back to the echoes. In addition to bats, I’m thinking about a stanza from a favorite Halloween poem that I posted on this day in 2020:

A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:
from Black Cat/ Rainer Maria Rilke

Speaking of haunting, relentless sounds: I am sitting at my desk in the front room and city workers are paving the hole they made in the street in July or August. So loud! Beep beep beep. Rrrruuummmbbbllleee. Scrape scrape, tamp tamp. Even the visual noise echoes — a flash flash flash of the lights on the truck as it dumps the gravel or tar or whatever they’re putting in the hole. Everything is vibrating — the street, my jaw, my chair, the windows. Difficult to think or to write while this is happening!

At the end of my run, having crossed the river road to walk in the grassy, leaf covered boulevard, I was distracted by the delightful noise of fallen leaves. Then I noticed a bare tree, its still green leaves scattered around it.

An image of the ground covered in leaves, most of them green. A strange sight in late fall when most of the fallen leaves are usually brown or orange or gold. When I took this picture, the ground seemed to glow from the green, but now, looking at the image, everything is muted and dull and boring. Is it my lack of functioning cone cells, my inability to take a decent picture, or something else?
green leaves on the ground / 30 oct 2023

oct 20/RUN

5.5 miles
ford loop
54 degrees
humidity: 81%

Decided to run the ford loop this morning and stop at some of the overlooks. Is today one of the last beautiful fall days? Possibly. So much yellow and red everywhere. Leaves drifting down like fat, fluffy flakes. Sun lighting up the surface of the river. Amazing. Writing this, an hour later, the sky is dark. Rain coming. I’m glad I got outside this morning.

10 Things I Noticed

  1. Running above the river, over the lake street bridge: the water looks a deep, dark blue
  2. From the edge of the bluff, on the east side at one of my favorite spots, the river looks lighter, richer, still blue
  3. Heading north, a strong-ish wind in my face
  4. Running beside Shadow Falls, wondering if what I was hearing was water from the falls or the wind in the trees or both
  5. Passing a group of pedestrians, walking 2 by 2 on the edge of the trail
  6. A barking, lunging dog, barely held back by a human also pushing a stroller
  7. The view, 1: from just below an overlook on the St. Paul side, standing on a rock, close to the edge. The bank on the west side of the river is mostly yellow and red, with a few bits of green still holding on. Looking left or right, all I could see were water, shore, trees, rock
  8. The view, 2: from the ford bridge. Mostly brown tree trunks and green/red/yellow leaves. Then, a break. A gleaming white — is this the limestone cave where the trail ends? The spot where STA and I watched the rowers a few weeks ago?
  9. The view, 3: from the overlook at the southern start of the Winchell Trail. The glittering, white heat of water lit by the sun. One way, the ford bridge. The other, trees
  10. Running on the Winchell Trail, right before 42nd, the trails curves close to the edge. As you climb, it looks like you might just keep going, out into the sky, above the river

Before I ran, I studied a passage from U A Fanthorpe’s “Seven Types of Shadow,” especially the lines:

Ghosts of past, present, future.
But the ones the living would like to meet are the echoes
Of moments of small dead joys still quick in the streets

In particular, I was thinking a lot about echoes and reverberations. Halfway up the Summit Hill, I started thinking about bells and the reverberations of sound they emit after being struck. These thoughts were partly inspired by a passage I read from Annie Dillard in “Seeing” from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek:

Then one day I was walking along Tinker Creek thinking of nothing at all and I saw the tree with the lights in it. I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire, utterly focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance. The flood of fire abated, but I’m still spending the power. Gradually the lights went out in the cedar, the colors died, the cells unflamed and disappeared. I was still ringing. I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck.

Seeing/ Annie Dillard

I didn’t want to forget my thoughts, so I pulled out my phone, mid-run, and recorded myself. It was challenge, speaking while running and trying not to feel self-conscious as I passed other people:

Recording While Running / 20 Oct

Here’s a transcript of what I said. I turned it into a poem, using my breaths to break the lines. I’d like to try doing this some more — experiment with recording my thoughts mid-run, then using my breaths to shape the poem.

I’m thinking about
how
I’m a bell
and how
we’re all bells
and
when we are struck —
is it at birth or
is it like Annie Dillard:
there’s a moment of awareness
and clarity
that makes
our bell ring
reverberate
continue to echo?

added a few hours later: I forgot about how, just before I started recording my thoughts, I heard the bells of St. Thomas. Was it 10 am? or 9:45? Not sure, but it seemed fitting to hear these bells, which I often hear at my house too, as I was thinking about bells.

I thought about a lot of things on today’s wonderful run. Decided I’d like to make a list of the traces, trails, reverberations I encounter on my runs. Also decided to look up and listen to the Radiolab episode about echolocation. And I decided to think/research more about the presence of the WPA at the gorge. As I thought about this I wondered about my grandfather who lived in St. Paul and worked for the WPA. Was he a part of the gorge work — making benches, walls, steps? Shoring up ravines, minnehaha and hidden falls? He’s been dead for almost 30 years now, so I can’t ask him. A further set of questions I pondered as I ran past the steps leading down from the 44th street parking lot: Do I need to know the exact truth about his involvement with the WPA? Or, is it enough to know he was a part of it, and okay to imagine he might have helped build the old stone walls I run by, the benches I want to stop at but never do?

In between admiring the view and thinking about echoes, I recited the first part of the 7th section of May Swenson’s “October” in my head. Such a great part of a poem! I’m a big fan of May Swenson’s work.

Looked it up and found the echolocation episode. It’s from Invisibilia and not Radiolab: How to Become Batman

Finally, here’s a poem I’d like to remember and ruminate on about haunting bells. This audio I found of Tom O’Bedlam reading it is delightful.

The Bells/ Edgar Allen Poe

  Hear the sledges with the bells—
                 Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
        How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
           In the icy air of night!
        While the stars that oversprinkle
        All the heavens, seem to twinkle
           With a crystalline delight;
         Keeping time, time, time,
         In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinabulation that so musically wells
       From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
               Bells, bells, bells—
  From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II.

        Hear the mellow wedding bells,
                 Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
        Through the balmy air of night
        How they ring out their delight!
           From the molten-golden notes,
               And all in tune,
           What a liquid ditty floats
    To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
               On the moon!
         Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
               How it swells!
               How it dwells
           On the Future! how it tells
           Of the rapture that impels
         To the swinging and the ringing
           Of the bells, bells, bells,
         Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
               Bells, bells, bells—
  To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III.

         Hear the loud alarum bells—
                 Brazen bells!
What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
       In the startled ear of night
       How they scream out their affright!
         Too much horrified to speak,
         They can only shriek, shriek,
                  Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
            Leaping higher, higher, higher,
            With a desperate desire,
         And a resolute endeavor
         Now—now to sit or never,
       By the side of the pale-faced moon.
            Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
            What a tale their terror tells
                  Of Despair!
       How they clang, and clash, and roar!
       What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
       Yet the ear it fully knows,
            By the twanging,
            And the clanging,
         How the danger ebbs and flows;
       Yet the ear distinctly tells,
            In the jangling,
            And the wrangling.
       How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
             Of the bells—
     Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
            Bells, bells, bells—
 In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

IV.

          Hear the tolling of the bells—
                 Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
        In the silence of the night,
        How we shiver with affright
  At the melancholy menace of their tone!
        For every sound that floats
        From the rust within their throats
                 Is a groan.
        And the people—ah, the people—
       They that dwell up in the steeple,
                 All alone,
        And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
          In that muffled monotone,
         Feel a glory in so rolling
          On the human heart a stone—
     They are neither man nor woman—
     They are neither brute nor human—
              They are Ghouls:
        And their king it is who tolls;
        And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
                    Rolls
             A pæan from the bells!
          And his merry bosom swells
             With the pæan of the bells!
          And he dances, and he yells;
          Keeping time, time, time,
          In a sort of Runic rhyme,
             To the pæan of the bells—
               Of the bells:
          Keeping time, time, time,
          In a sort of Runic rhyme,
            To the throbbing of the bells—
          Of the bells, bells, bells—
            To the sobbing of the bells;
          Keeping time, time, time,
            As he knells, knells, knells,
          In a happy Runic rhyme,
            To the rolling of the bells—
          Of the bells, bells, bells—
            To the tolling of the bells,
      Of the bells, bells, bells, bells—
              Bells, bells, bells—
  To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Okay, one more bell poem:

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, (340)/ EMILY DICKINSON

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My mind was going numb –

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here –

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –

I wrote about this poem on march 14, 2021.