I would have liked to run outside. It was sunny, not too windy, and almost above freezing, but the sidewalks were way too icy. I tried to go out for a recon walk earlier today and only made it to the end of our sidewalk before realizing the surface conditions were terrible. I had to turn around and come home. Bummer. Fresh air might have relieved some of the anxiety I’m carrying in my body from what’s happening. At least I was able to go to the y and run on the track. Moving and working up a sweat helped some, I think.
Since I was looping around a track, I decided to listen to my “Wheeling Life” playlist.
10 Track Things
an orange bucket was out on the track in its yearly spot, catching drips from a pipe
a short man with white hair was walking backwards in the inner lane
the gym below was empty
not too many people on the track, all of them quiet
in the quiet, I could hear my feet striking the track surface — I think my striking feet were the loudest thing on the track — thwack thwack thwack
a woman walking fast, wearing a shirt that reminded me of scrubs — had she just gotten off a shift at a hospital?
some people follow the written rules and walk in the innermost lane, some ignore them and walk in the middle (which is for runners) or in the far left lane (which is for passing)
just remembered: just before entering the track, passed the woman in a scrubs shirt putting air pods in her ears
very few runners — while I was running, only me and Scott — after, while walking, one other runner
inside it was warm (good) and very dry (bad)
Working on a tiny (24 word) poem tentatively titled bio-regionalism, and I was thinking about something I recalled hearing from Stanley Tucci in his series on regions in Italy and their food: he said that a region/neighborhood was/is defined by anyone who was in earshot of that neighborhood’s church bells. I looked it up and found this helpful definition and video from Rick Steves. The term is campanilismo:
During Tuscany’s medieval and Renaissance prime, this region was a collection of feuding city-states dominated by rich families. To this day, Tuscans remain fiercely loyal to their home community, and are keenly aware of subtle differences between people from different cities, towns, and villages. (Italians have a wonderful word for this: campanilismo, meaning that a community consists of the people within earshot of its bell tower — campanile.)
4.5 miles minnehaha falls 20 degrees 100% snow-covered
Not a single bare spot on the trail or the road. Hard on the ankles, calves, and the eyes — so bright and white and endlessly nothing. Difficult to see where the snow was loose and where it wasn’t. It didn’t bother me; I’m just happy to be outside moving, connected to this place. Tried to greet everyone I saw — runners, walkers, at least one biker — with a wave or a hello.
10 Things
the smell of chimney smoke lingering near a neighbor’s house
soft ridges of sand-colored* snow covering the street — tricky to run over and through
empty benches
(almost) empty parking lots
a hybrid/electric car singing as it slowly rounded a curve near locks and dam no. 1
the sound of the falls falling over the ledge: almost gushing
scattered voices echoing around the park — at least one of them was from an excited kid
stopping to tighten my laces, a woman in a long coat nearby, standing and admiring the falls
splashes of yellow on the snow
bird song then a burst of birds briefly filling the sky
*sand-colored: using these words, I immediately thought of a favorite poem that I’ve memorized, I Remember/ Anne Sexton: the grass was as tough as hemp and was no color — no more than sand was a color
I listened to the quiet — barely any wind — for the first half of the run, then put in my “Sight Songs” playlist on the way back. Memorable songs: Sheena Easton’s nasally high notes in “For Your Eyes Only,” and the lyrics in the refrain —
The passions that collide in me The wild abandoned side of me Only for you, for your eyes only
Yikes. Also, these lines from The Who’s “Behind Blue Eyes”:
And if I swallow anything evil Put your finger down my throat
And if I shiver please give me a blanket Keep me warm, let me wear your coat
And these, from Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” which I don’t recall ever hearing:
Every now and then I know you’ll never be the boy you always wanted to be. . .
. . .Every now and then I know there’s no one in the universe as magical and wondrous as you
(Almost) 9 Years!
Typically each year, I mark the anniversary of this log as the first of January, with a new year beginning on that day. But, that’s not the real anniversary of this log. It’s January 12th, 2017. Why the 12th and not the 1st? I’m not quite sure; I’ll have to look through my journal from that year. It seems fitting, with my affinity (see D. Seuss below) for the approximate, the almost, to not start on the first day of the year!
On This Day: January 3, 2022
Reading this past entry today, I re-discovered this beautiful poem by a favorite poet, Diane Seuss, Love Letter. Rereading it, so many words, phrases, ideas tapped me on the shoulder, invited me it! Here’s the second half of the poem:
I’m much too sturdy now to invest in the ephemeral. No, I do not own lace curtains. It’s clear we die a hundred times before we die. The selves that were gauzy, soft, sweet, capable of throwing themselves away on love, died young. They sacrificed themselves to the long haul. Picture girls in white nighties jumping off a cliff into the sea. I want to say don’t mistake this for cynicism but of course, it is cynicism. Cynicism is a go-to I no longer have the energy to resist. It’s like living with a vampire. Finally, just get it over with, bite me. I find it almost offensive to use the word love in relation to people I actually love. The word has jumped off so many cliffs into so many seas. What can it now signify? Shall I use the word affinity like J.D. Salinger, not a good man, put into the mouths of his child genius characters? I have an affinity for my parents. An affinity for you. I will make sure you are fed and clothed. I will listen to you endlessly. I will protect your privacy even if it means removing myself from the equation. Do those sound like wedding vows? Are they indiscriminate? Well then, I am indiscriminate. I am married to the world. I have worked it all out in front of you. Isn’t that a kind of nakedness? You have called for a love letter. This is a love letter.
sturdy! I love this word — the sound and the feeling of it: I like being sturdy. My Girl (in my Girl Ghost Gorge poem, the preferred version of me — Sara, age 8).
the “gauzy, soft, sweet selves” — these gothic girls, jumping off cliffs into the sea — a very different version/vision of a girl than mine
Linking these lines to others from Seuss, I imagine one version of her girl to be the one that died when her father did — she writes about him in Still Life with Two Dead Peacocks and a Girl. That girl’s father became sick when she was 2 and died when she was 7.
Of course, this is only one version of her girl. How many different versions of girls do I have? Do I write about?
Affinity?! Yes, I need to put that beside my list of “love?” words, accustomed, familiar, acquainted, known. Affinity = kinship, attraction, liking/affection, causal relationship, attractive force, “a relation between biological groups involving resemblance in structural plan and indicating a common origin”
Right now, I’m reading “You” as the poem and poetry.
Indiscriminate = not marked by careful distinction — ambiguous, sloppy? a (too) rough approximation?
love letter world . . . suddenly, I’m thinking of Emily Dickinson: This is my letter to the world that never wrote to me
That was fun, giving some time to these words! I am drawn — do I have an affinity? — to Diane Seuss’s words. Is it because my introduction to her was her fabulous poem about vision that begins with the line, the world, italicized? Or her ekphrastic poems, in Still Life with Two Dead Peacocks and a Girl?
a return to the ekphrastic!I am reminded of my past reading and writing about still life, especially with Diane Seuss. I’m imagining my “how to see” series of ekphrastic poems with a section on still life paintings and one on pastoral poems! Also, a section on artists with vision conditions or that particularly resonate for my vision: Magritte, Monet, Vincent Van Gogh. Ideally, a series of poems. But first, taking the time to gather all of the resources together, then to stay open to what could happen! I’m also imagining a section on cut-outs/silhouettes, which I studied during my shadow month.
Colette Love Hilliard and the erasure poem
Last night I bought CLH’s a wonderful catastrophe. Wow! I love it. This one reminded me of my blind spot/mood ring visual poetry:
from A Wonderful Catastrophe / Colette Love Hilliard
5.25 miles bottom of franklin and back 38 degrees humidity: 90%
Even more wet today than yesterday. I was prepared for these conditions because I asked FWA, when he got back from walking Delia and before I went out for my run, what it was like outside and he said, like yesterday but wetter. Yep. Today I ran north instead of south. Puddles everywhere. Like yesterday, I tried to avoid them, and like yesterday, I was successful until I wasn’t and then I squished squished squished for the remainder of the run. Even though they were wet, my feet weren’t cold. In fact, I was warm — dripping sweat. Saw and greeted Daddy Long Legs twice. Hello!
For the first 4 miles, listened to the gorge. For the last mile, Sight Songs (originally titled “Eye Tunes” but that name was too confusing for Siri), on shuffle. The song I remember the most was “Breakfast in America” and the twisted return of the opening lyrics:
Take a look at my girlfriend
and
Don’t you look at my girlfriend
10 Things
the surface of the river, closer up, under the I-94 bridge — glossy, looking like the surface of the ice skating rink at Longfellow on a warmer day
the not-quite-frantic, unsettled? call of a bird under the franklin bridge — one note, repeated
a wall of snow on a curb, white speckled with grayish-brown, subdued cinnamon sugar
a biker speeding down the franklin hill
another biker powering up it
a small patch of bright pink graffiti on the underside of the franklin bridge
misty, foggy, thick gray air
an empty sky with an occasional bird flying through it
voices all around — talking, laughing
a vine on a neighbor’s fence with orange leaves
vine, orange leaves on fence / 27 dec 2025
on walking
Discovered and read a beautiful essay about walking this morning: On Walking / Ira Sukrungruang.
1 — connected to place
Walking barefoot as a monk was a constant reminder of how we humans are always connected to the earth, bound by gravity, ever aware of the heft we carry—some of us more than others. It made me feel the mechanics of movement: muscles and tendons stretching and contracting, propelling the leg forward. It made me aware of the ground we walked on, the dirt and tar and tufts of grass in cracks, the unevenness of the pavement, the changes in terrain. This was spiritual walking, a bringing of awareness to our breath and our steps.
I am reminded of a line from my poem, “Girl Ghost Gorge,” it begins here, from the ground up: feet first, following
2 — an awareness of a changing climate
The environmental destruction we humans have enacted on this earth is obvious, but I didn’t take it in, I didn’t feel it, until I started walking.
Yes! Since starting to run above and beside and around and with the gorge (almost 9 full years and more than 8,500 miles), I have become more aware of the outside world and its shifts from season to season: when the leaves change and the acorns fall and the snow arrives (or doesn’t) and the floodplains are flooded and the sidewalks are cracked and the sun is covered in wildfire smoke and the bluff and a bench on its edge slowly slide into the gorge.
3 —eyes forward, ears open
After two weeks I came to look forward to taking the same path, seeing the same people. I was coming to understand devotion and repetition and humility. When a monk walks, his eyes should not look too far ahead, but neither should they be at his feet. They should be ten yards in front of him. And a monk’s ears should listen to the land waking up—the creaks and groans of the earth. The land is alive. It communicates. This earth, this world, is more than shape and matter.
Listening to the land speaking, open to how it communicates. Not staring, studying, dissecting it with our gaze.
4 — looking up and waving at a gargoyle
One afternoon in Exeter, walking to pick up Bodhi from school, I noticed how hunched I had become. It had been four months since our move, which meant I’d made that walk more than three hundred times by then, but only on this day did I notice a gargoyle staring down at me from above.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to look up at it. Such an odd sensation to straighten and tilt my head back. It was a rare sunny day in Exeter. I shielded my eyes with my hand and felt like a flower willing itself through the ground. Then I waved at the gargoyle. I don’t know why. Cars whizzed by. People walked on both sides of the street—parents like me, getting their kids from school. The steeple of St. Leonard’s Church was in the distance, a beautiful marker of how far it was to Bodhi’s school. I headed toward it, my head high, learning a new way of being.
This ending paragraph and the looking up and waving at the gargoyle, reminds me of a favorite poem I read early on in this log (in a july 4th, 2019 entry I mention that I’ve been trying to write about this poem for years, but I can’t find an earlier entry with a mention of it, so I’m not sure when I first discovered it):
of these old trees. Raise your heads, pals, look high, you may see more than you ever thought possible, up where something might be waving back, to tell her she has seen the marvelous.
I love her use of pals — I’ve tried to (unsuccessfully) use it in my own poem. I often think of these lines whenever I stop to look up at a tree. Have I ever waved at one? I can’t remember, but probably not.
a year in poetry
Searching this my log for mentions of pals, I encountered a cento I wrote back in 2019, out of lines from all of the poems I gathered in 2019. I like it, and I want to do this again for 2025! I love centos and putting others’ words into conversation with each other!
Here’s the “finished” draft of the 2019 cento: I’m not Asking for Much — I’m hoping that I identified where the lines came from in some document because I’m not sure I could do it now! And here’s an earlier draft: Listen
While reading through my poems gathered in January of 2025, I came across an essay — We Could Just Gaga Our Grammar — and an idea for playing with words:
Find two or three random paragraphs from two sources and copy and paste the paragraphs into a word scrambler. From this jumble of found text, draft a poem. This activity is inspired by Dodie Bellamy’s Cunt Ups.
I’m thinking of a variation on this; instead of using a word scrambler, putting the paragraphs into my word quarry — grouping all the 1, 2, and 3 syllable words and then turning them into a new poem or chant or sentence based on rock (2-syllable/1-syllable words) river (3 1-syllable words) and air (1 3-syllable word) formations.
also: Looked up Cunt Ups and was reminded of William S. Burrough’s cut-ups. Found a book about it, and requested it. Now I’m thinking about cut ups and Lisa Olstein and then Henri Matisse and cut up forms and the cutting prow.
So many ideas! It is fun to let my mind wander again, after 6+ months of structured writing, first about open swim, then about haunting/being haunted at the gorge.
So good — when you cut into the present, the future leaks out. Also — the idea of the tape cut-ups and taking a phrase and scrambling the order until it means something else: I want to try that with my rock river air chants. And, the idea of taking different entries of this log — maybe entries from one day, different years — and cutting it up, or finding the same words, or picking a phrase from each entry . . .
4.45 miles minnehaha falls and back 36 degrees humidity: 90%
Moist, thick, big puddles everywhere. I tried to avoid them, but I couldn’t avoid all of them and by my last mile I could hear my one shoe squish squish squishing. Since it was warm, it didn’t bother me. Oh — just remembered — my shoe/sock got wet at the falls — the cobblestones near the falls were full of puddles. There were a few slick spots, but mostly it was just wet.
For 3 miles, I listened to the wet wheels, whooshing, crows cawing, and people calling out to each other as I ran. For the last mile: TSwift’s Life of a Showgirl
10 Things
the small patches of snow on the trail or the road, seeping murky gray-green-dirty white liquid
the rusty orange leaves, dead, still clinging to the trees
calmly letting a walker know I was approaching from behind — right behind you/thank you! I meant to say, you’re welcome, but didn’t, then lamented my failure to exchange the you until I realized I had with my right behind YOU –if I had said, the you would have been traveled 3 times: from the-walker-as-you when I said, right behind you, to me-as-you when she said, thank you, to the walker-as-you again with, you’re welcome
overheard: a man leaving a group of people at the falls, calling out, I’m going back to pay the meter!
clusters of people — 6-8 at the overlook just above the falls, and at the overlook close to “The Song of Hiawatha”
a clump of something not moving ahead of me on the trail — dead leaves? A darting squirrel. I studied it closely to make sure it didn’t run in front of me
a distant thumping, heard when stopped to put it my headphones — nearing, another running plodding along
seen with peripheral vision: some frozen crystals on my cheek
the trail on the bike side of the double bridge was mostly wet ice with 2 narrow strips of bare pavement that narrowed even more until not even my toe could fit in their groove
crows! just before starting my run, they were gather in the trees above me. when I stopped to start my workout on my watch, they cawed furiously, as if to say, keep moving!
Just before the run, I got an email about one of the chapbook contests I entered — back in July. I didn’t win, but I got, along with 4 other poets, an honorable mention. I’ll happily take that! The chapbook I submitted included earlier versions of several of the poems that I revised for my manuscript. I think the poems are even better now.
In the last mile of my run, a sudden thought: I should submit something for tiny wren lit’s tiny zine series. It says they’ll open again in early 2026: submit a tiny zine
safari reading list, review:
1 — contentment
Found a poem about contentment while reviewing my Safari Reading List. I’m partial to the words satisfied or enough or still, but contentment works too.
Yes, I can be content anywhere, but alas sadly: No. It’s not true. I can’t be content here in my uncomfortable present, in my uncomfortable chair, on the uncomfortable subway, at this uncomfortable desk, in this uncomfortable classroom. But oddly, I am content to visit the past, to say Hello everything I’ve lost, to say I wish you could come here to the present, my lost companion trees. I wish you could meet everything I’ve found.
about this poem: “Making peace with the past has been a common theme in my work, so I decided to try to write about making peace with the present.”
Blessèd art thou, No One. In thy sight would we bloom. In thy spite.
A Nothing we were, are now, and ever shall be, blooming: the Nothing-, the No-One’s-Rose.
I love this bit of Celan’s poem and the No-one’s-Rose! No One — a someone who is No One: what type of sight do they have? We were, are, shall be nothing, blooming. I want to use this — maybe as a breathing with poem — in a collection* about the gorge/gap/bling spot.
*maybe not a collection, but a series of attempts, orbiting around the idea or feeling or experience of the Nothing in the gorge and in my vision.
Speaking of orbiting: Last night, I was trying to name/remember something, but I couldn’t, quite. I kept almost getting the right name, but I was off, approximate. As I talked, I moved my hands around in a circle, as if to indicate I was circling around the name. I called out, I’m orbiting it! I do this a lot. I wish I could remember the exact example, to make this story more understandable, but I can’t.
3 — CAConrad’s Queer Bubbles
There are some great bits in this article about Conrad and their rituals in The Paris Review:
“I love being inside the ritual,” he says. “It’s like speaking in tongues. It’s not just automatic writing … Every nuance, every adjustment to the ritual, alters the language that comes out of me.”
Exercises like these are nothing new in poetry—Conrad cites Bernadette Mayer and Charles Olson as two practitioners of similar methods—but he insists that his rituals are chiefly inspired by his childhood, specifically the Pennsylvania Dutch Country where his grandmother taught him to meditate and where he took an interest in the occult, from local water diviners to the hex signs painted on barns. But as much as his work owes a debt to Boyertown, it is a deliberate rebuke to the bigotry, violence, and oppression he found there.
I’m familiar with B Mayer’s work — a class on her list is what led me to poetry! — but I don’t know that much about Charles Olson. I should look into him more, like his archeology of morning (on a site that offers footprints not blueprints, which reminds me of my old academic slogan for my ethical/pedagogical approach: an invitation to engage, not a how-to manual) and the polis / Polis is This:
Polis is This
In his two books of (Soma)tic rituals and poems, A Beautiful Marsupial Afternoon and ECODEVIANCE—a third collection, While Standing in Line for Death, will be published this September—the rituals and resulting poems appear opposite one another. Because the rituals are written in the second person, at times the books read like the world’s most bizarre and inventive self-help guides, manuals for what you might call acute mindfulness. One ritual starts like this: “Eat a little dark chocolate before getting on the subway. Sit in the middle of the car … Then close your eyes, and as the car rolls on its tracks make a low hum from deep inside you … As soon as the car stops write 9 words as fast as you can before the train moves again … Repeat this humming and writing for 9 stops.” He credits his rituals with lifting him out of depression and grief.
The use of You — a bizarre self-help manual or how-to on mindfulness!
the blind ring project returns to haunt this log
Doing some reading about lit journals that accept visual poetry, I was introduced to the amazing erasures of Colette LH. So beautiful and wonderful. Here’s the first one I experienced:
Then I saw this one, Brain, and I started thinking about what I could do with my blind spot black-out ideas, and now I’m wondering about doing something with my peripheral. These white trails above, in (un)certainty are making me think about movement and direction and motion as it relates to my peripheral vision. Hmmm….
5.25 miles bottom of franklin hill 37 degrees 60% snow-covered
Above freezing today! Good, and bad. Good, because the snow on the path is melting. Bad, because it will freeze again tonight. I’ll take it, and the sun! and the warmth on my face! and the sound of wet, whooshing wheels. I ran to the bottom of franklin today to check out the surface of the river: completely covered with ice, a light grayish white. Almost all of the time, I felt strong. It was only after taking a break to check out the river, then starting again and running up the hill, that my legs felt strange. It took a minute to get back into a rhythm.
10 Things
Looking up: powder blue sky, with streaks of clouds and sun
something half-buried in a snow bank, 1: a lime scooter
something half-buried in a snow bank, 2: a bike — not a rental — where is the owner of this bike, and why was it wedged in the snow and not put somewhere else?
another runner, much faster than me, in a bright yellow jacket
deep foot prints in the snow leading up to the sliding bench — someone must have sat here recently
the view from the sliding bench: open, clear through to the snow-covered river and the white sands beach, which is just snow now
someone at the bottom of the franklin hill, staring at the water
a few honking geese down below
cheeseburger cheeseburger — a calling bird — a chickadee, I think
flowers for June in the makeshift vase of an uncapped railing under the trestle
Earlier today, while drinking coffee, I heard (not for the first time) Lawrence’s song, “Don’t Lose Sight” and I started to think about vision/sight/eye songs. Time for a playlist! I borrowed a title from someone’s spotify playlist that came up in a google search: Eye Tunes (groan). Came up with a long list of songs, then put a fraction of them in the list. I’ll keep fine-tuning it. I listed to the list during the second half of my run.
Eye Tunes
I Saw the Light / Todd Rundgren
Blinded by the Light / Mannford Mann’s Earth Band
Eye in the Sky / The Alan Parson’s Project
Eyes Without a Face / Billy Idol
I Can See Clearly Now / Jimmy Cliff
Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You / Ms. Lauryn Hill
These Eyes / The Guess Who
Eye of the Tiger / Survivor
The Look of Love, Pt. 1 / ABC
The Look of Love / Dusty Springfield
For Your Eyes Only / Sheena Easton
Eyesight to the Blind (The Hawker) / The Who
Breakfast in America / Supertramp
Don’t Lose Sight (Accoustic-ish) / Lawrence
Total Eclipse of the Heart / Bonnie Tyler
Double Vision / Foreighner
In Your Eyes / Peter Gabriel
Behind Blue Eyes / The Who
Evil Eyes / Dio
Stranger Eyes / The Cars
Tell Me What You See / The Beatles
My Eyes Have Seen You / The Doors
I listened up until Dusty Springfield’s “The Look of Love.” A few thoughts: I always think, anus curly whirly? when listening to “Blinded By the Light.” There is a LOT of vibraslap in “Eyes Without a Face” and, what does Billy Idol mean here? ABC’s “The Look of Love” is wonderful, and has some hilarious moments, especially the call and response section: Whose got the look? / If I knew the answer to that question I would tell you.
Back to Billy. Looked up the lyrics to “Eyes Without a Face,” and I think they mean that the person lacks humanity, is inhuman. Their look lacks compassion, grace.
Eyes without a face Got no human grace You’re eyes without a face Such a human waste You’re eyes without a face
And, I’ll end with ABC’s opening lines:
When your world is full of strange arrangements And gravity won’t pull you through
That sounds like someone with vision problems (me)!
The first run at the track in over 2 years. I looked it up and the last run at this track was 4 dec 2023. Not much has changed, which was good. It felt like time traveling. Lots of memories at the y with kids on swim team and inside winter running. I wore my bright yellow shoes, and between them and the bouncy track surface, I felt like I was flying. Fun! and also strange and awkward at first. Running at this track — 6 laps is a mile — is easier than the treadmill, but it’s still hard to run for a long time. I ran without stopping for 20 minutes, then walked a lap, then ran a lap, walked a lap, ran 2.
Aside from the dry and warm and not slippery conditions, one of the best things about running on the track is the chance to encounter the same people over and over, loop after loop.
10 People
the fast runner in blue shorts — a great runner, graceful, making it look effortless — he passed me at least 3 or 4 times
a short-ish woman in black pants and a white jacket walking slowly (and obliviously) in the middle lane, often veering slightly to the outside running lane
2 tall guys, one in a red shirt, walking and chatting
later, one of the guys, starting to run
an older woman, tall, in black pants, with short hair, her head cocked slightly to the right as she walked
a woman in bright yellow shorts, running, her gait was strange: bouncy, but striking on the wrong part of her foot — too much vertical movement?
2 people chatting near the window — one of them complaining about how, because of insurance and property tax increases, her mortgage was jumping from $800 a month to $1300
a guy in the far right corner, punching a bag in a steady and strong rhythm
a woman walking with purpose, her locker key jangling in her pocket with each step
someone entering the track and stopping in the middle of the lane to adjust their shoe — they saw me in plenty of time and moved out of the way — thanks!
Earlier today, or yesterday?, I came up with a ywca goal for December: swim a 5k. Now I’m thinking that I should have a running/track goal too. Run a 10k? Run an all out mile? I’ll think about it some more.
locker room encounter
Sandwiched between 2 other people changing, it was awkward. I overheard one say to the other, do you smell hot chocolate? I didn’t, and then suddenly I did. It smelled good. Without thinking, which is something I do more often because of my vision, I blurted out, excuse me, did one of you just say it smells like hot chocolate? One of them said, it’s my cocoa butter. I responded, it smells so good!
Sun! Warmer (but not too warm) air! An open view! And 6 miles! A good run. I’m tired now and my legs are sore, but I felt strong and light and full of energy at the end.
10 Things
click scrape scrape click — a roller skier’s poles approaching from behind
one roller skier bundled up, another in shorts
running beside 2 roller skiers, one of them listening to the other express concern/frustration about some part of his ski not locking in right
a mini peloton on the road — 10 bikes?
small scales on the surface of the gray water
a serpentine of big cracks and asphalt erupting on the st. paul path
the small building above the hydroelectric plant on the st. paul side is spray-painted bright pink
the gentle trickle of water over the rocks at hidden falls
a bad heavy metal hair band anthem blasting out of the window of a white car
not a wide open view — too many thin branches — but the feeling of openness and air on the st. paul side
Thought about my rock, river, and air chants as I ran. Recited (in my head) as much of the rock one as I could remember. Liked the groove I fell into as I chanted
poet’s clock poet’s clock poet’s clock this big rock
Finishing up the run, I felt strong and fast and proud as I thought about all the work I’ve put in over more than a decade of coming to the gorge at least 3 or 4 times a week, sometimes more, and running and noticing and writing.
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.
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
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
egg/breakfast sausage smells coming from Black Waffle Bar — no sweet waffle smell
no more leaves on the trees, all on the sidewalk
cars backed up on lake street
the light at the top of the hill: red
smell: savory, eggs and bacon
a car parked in a driveway blocking the path
the bent and crooked slats from blinds in a garage window
two people standing and looking at a stone wall above the ravine near shadow falls
a roller skier on the path, then on the road
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.
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.
4 miles river road, north/south 50 degrees wind: 14 mph / gusts: 29 mph
Ooo. Felt that wind, running north. A few times, I had to square my shoulders and sink down to face it, like I was a linebacker getting ready to tackle the air. Bright sun, lots of shadows — of tree branches, and fence posts, and flying birds, and swirling leaves. I don’t remember looking at the river as much as I remember admiring the air above it. Such openness! I felt strong until I didn’t. Stopped to walk a few times. Took some wooden steps down on a very steep part of the winchell trail. No wall or fence to stop you from falling far enough down to break something. Stopped at the sliding bench to see how much green was left and to admire the birds flitting from branch to branch.
Also stopped after mile 1, to record myself fitting some of Lorine Niedecker’s words into my running/breathing rhythm:
In every part of every thing stuff that once was rock.
Except, I forgot the stuff part, so I ended up with this:
In every part of every thing there once was living rock.
Does this second one make sense? Not sure.
before the run
Riprap. Thinking about riprap and rock and creating some sort of ceremony related to the gorge and running on and above the absence of rock. Reading Mary Oliver’s section in The Leaf and the Cloud, titled Riprap, fitting it into my breathing/running pattern —
tell me dear Rock — will secrets fly out when I break open?
Raking leaves and hearing the man next door scream at his grown daughter again through walls that aren’t thin, listening as she screams back, wondering what the daycare kids will remember from this moment.
before we are all wiped off of this planet that desperately wants us to live of natural causes, like kindness, like caring
Remembering something else I read earlier about a troubled woman who encountered a stranger that offered her kindness instead of judgment:
“The only question she asked me was, ‘Where do you want to go?'” Stacia said. “No judgment, no expectations. Just acceptance.”
Stacia immediately felt relieved.
She didn’t want to talk about her troubles; she just wanted to go home. She got in the car and they talked about things that gave her a sense of calm: nature, music and art.
After about 40 minutes, the woman dropped Stacia off at her house. Stacia didn’t learn the stranger’s name and she never saw her again. But she has never forgotten the woman’s question or how it made her feel.
“What I experienced that day — a single generous act of compassion — has stayed with me ever since and it shaped the life I went on to live.”
a few minutes later: Watching the daycare kids playing in the leaves in the front yard, screaming in delight. Remembering how one of them greeted my daughter last week as she parked in front of our house, distraught and overwhelmed, with: you’re beautiful, and how that kindness offered made such a difference.
Reading Gary Snyder’s poem, “Riprap,” fitting his words into my breathing pattern:
Lay down these words be- fore your mind like rocks placed solid by hands in choice of place, set before the body of the mind in time and in space.
Riprap: being broken up, made tender, feelings/fears exposed and scattered, gathering them into words and building a new foundation.
