Tag: headphones

sept 3/RUN

4.25 miles
minnehaha falls and back
78 degrees / dew point: 71

A recent refrain: hot, hot, so hot! I thought about running 10 miles, but when I couldn’t start my run until after 9, I decided 4+ miles would be enough. Tomorrow I’ll run to my new favorite bench which is about 7 miles there and back, so my total for this week of marathon prep will be fine. (5 on tues, 4.25 on thurs, 7+ on fri, 18 on sun). Yesterday, Scott and I spent about 8 hours at the fair — lots of time on feet. Can I count that as marathon training?

10 Things

  1. Morning Sara! / Oh, hi! good morning Dave!
  2. running beside a monarch for a few seconds — a splotch of beautiful orange at eye level — I thought about mom and how much she loved monarchs
  3. sun, then clouds, then sun again
  4. brittle, brown grass
  5. a few more red leaves, a yellowed tree — were the leaves on it changing for fall or dead?
  6. minnehaha creek above the falls looked still
  7. the creek water falling over the ledge, subdued and diminished
  8. the water at the water fountain on the edge of the park was unpleasantly warm
  9. one roller skier — click clack click clack
  10. the water at the fountain at the 36th parking lot was cool

Before I got too hot, I thought about looping around the falls an extra time or two to add distance. I made note of the distance: .7 miles. I can imagine a run where I do 1/2 mile run/.2 mile walk loops.

For the first half of my run, I didn’t listen to music, for the second half, I put in my headphones and listened to an old playlist, augustrun — “9 to 5”; “Misery Business”: “I’m Still Standing”; and “Can’t Touch This”.

Back to the fair: As we do every year, Scott and I waled around the fine arts building. And, as always, it was inspiring. There are some amazing artists in Minnesota. Scott took pictures of 2 textile/fiber art pieces that I particularly liked. One is inspiring for my HOLE project, the other for my gathering of plastic:

1 — Fireweed and Sky / Therese Zemlin / hand-cut and hand-woven digital prints o on paper (see also the description in her Instagram post)

fireweed and sky / a weaving of thin strips of paper with words printed on them

I love this idea of weaving words! It looks like something fun to try. I looked up the artist, Theresa Zemlin, and jackpot! She has a wonderful site and many more inspiring pieces in her gallery! The piece at the fair is part of a larger collection she has titled, Woven Works:

My work has evolved from weaving fabric on floor looms, to Eva Hesse-inspired mixed-media, to welding life-size steel and paper pulp sculptures, to the physical manipulation of photo-based inkjet prints on paper. Inspiration for my work has always been rooted in the tactile, the language of materials and process, and finding my way to something compelling through trial, error, and investigation. Combining photo-based inkjet prints, text from naturalists and philosophers, and traditional weaving drafts has resulted in modes of thinking, responding, and assembling that are new and familiar in terms of chance juxtapositions and relationships between pattern, structure, text, and image.

Woven Works/ Theresa Zemlin

Oh, I’m excited to give more time to her work and play around with some of the ideas!

further exploration: Listen to this podcast with Theresa Zemlin

2 — Once There Were Green Fields / Erik Jon Olson / quilted plastic waste

Once There Were Green Fields
once there were green fields, close-up

Erik Jon Olson has a wonderful website, too. Here’s what he writes on his artist statement:

My art practice exists at the intersection of material experimentation, environmental critique, and contemporary craft. Working primarily with single-use plastic waste that I layer, quilt, reconstruct and then stitch into large-scale compositions, I transform one of the main pollutants of our time into an expressive visual language. My work extends beyond the simple repurposing of found materials; it functions as an investigation into the cultural, ecological, and psychological consequences of contemporary consumption.
… The visual seduction of my compositions—their vibrant color, intricate patterning, and tactile surfaces—creates an intentional tension between attraction and repulsion. From a distance, the works evoke traditions of abstraction, quilting, and graphic design; upon closer examination, viewers encounter the unsettling reality of consumer waste embedded within the aesthetic experience. This dynamic compels viewers to confront uncomfortable truths through the language of visual pleasure.

Erik Jon Olson Artist Statement

I looked at his list of exhibits and he has a solo show going on right now at a church a few miles from my house. Nice!

David Bowie!

While writing this entry, I’ve been listening to David Bowie’s album, The Man Who Sold the World. I was struck by these lyrics from “All the Madmen”:

Day after day
They send my friends away
To mansions cold and grey
To the far side of town
Where the thin men stalk the streets
While the saints stay underground.

Wow, this song! Mansions cold and gray, the saints underground. Listening to another song on the album, “After All,” I looked it up and saw a reference to Nietzsche’s influence on Bowie, which led me to a review of a new book about Bowie and 6 key philosophers, including Nietszche: We’re Nobody’s Children. So far, I haven’t had any luck finding this book at a local library, or any samples of it online, but I’ll keep looking.

sept 1/RUN

5 miles
minnehaha falls+
70 degrees
humidity: 82%

Too warm this morning! Sun and humidity and sweat. Tried out my new Saucony Rides. No problems, so I’m optimistic they’ll be good for the marathon. Tried something new: 1 mile run/3 min walk + 2 x 1 mile/2 min walk + 3 x .5 mile/2 min walk. I liked it; I’ll have to try it again.

10 Things

  1. empty benches
  2. a recumbent bike, speeding past me — too close
  3. a few more red leaves on the bushes near the trail
  4. a large group of older, (all?) white people standing above the falls, listening to a guide tell the history of the falls
  5. the faint, fake sound of the light rail bells ringing as it neared an intersection
  6. veteran’s bridge is completely blocked with chain link
  7. a man sitting at a picnic table near John Steven’s house
  8. rushing water as it tumbled over the limestone ledge
  9. a trilling bird
  10. the sound of bike shoes clipping into pedals behind me — sharp, quick, satisfying

Randomly encountered a great interview with many wonderful passages, including this:

There’s also this pressure, I feel, and perhaps this is just an internal pressure I felt, to write about one’s grief from a cold remove. As I was writing in London, I was just telling myself, if I ever write a book about this, it must be conveyed how it is right now: the extreme absolute end of ecstasy and nothing more or less. I made it my imperative: you will be in the heart of it with me, and you, the reader, either stay or leave, and I don’t care what you do.

Interview with Temperance Aghamohammadi

And this:

For me, when we speak of divinity, it is that external sense of transit, trying to move from this realm to another, or to even peer into the other and recover something. But it’s also about puncturing something within oneself to get to that brink, look over into the chasm, and see what’s there.

Interview with Temperance Aghamohammadi

transit / move from one realm to another / look over into the chasm / a puncture

Here I’m thinking about moving around the gorge, and looking/hearing/feeling the chasm/gap between shores, between real/imagined, girl/ghost, daughter/mother, here/there (or, not here). I’m also thinking about that puncture as the wearing down/erosion/leaking/a rent in the veil (see MO Leaf and the Cloud)

Swimming One Day in August, update: Last week, after open swim season ended, I tried to continue accumulating minutes for my 24 hours of swimming, but I felt stuffed up and tired after I was done. Then I found out that the beach was being closed “due to geometric mean of E. coli exceeding 126 MPN/100 mL.” I realized that I almost certainly had swum in that water. I didn’t get sick but continued to feel congested for several days. I also realized that 24 hours was not going to happen this year; I was disappointed, but not that disappointed. I’ll try again next year. I’m sad that swimming is over (is it? will I try again before they take the buoys down?), but I’m happy to be breathing better. Besides, I have moved onto marathon training and revising and expanding my collection of gorge poems. Yesterday, I wrote a poem about The Monument and Shadow Falls that I’m particularly excited about. Today, I’ll try writing about the trestle and/or Bohemian Flats, Locks and Dam no. 1, the tunnel of trees.

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 27/RUN

9 miles
the confluence
63 degrees / humidity: 84%

9 miles! Still not easy, but I felt strong and relaxed and steady. For most of it, I ran 3 min, then walked 1. For 2 of the miles, I ran 90 sec, walked 30. Those miles were about 40 seconds faster, which might have been too fast; I think they made me more tired and increased my heart rate. When I hit mile 8, I thought, on Sunday, this will only be the halfway point of my run, but before I could dwell on it and wonder how I could run that much more on Sunday, I thought about something else, or I stopped thinking altogether.

When I was in the shade, which was about half the time, I felt cool-ish, but when I was in the sun, I was hot. So much sweat! I hope it cools down in September.

I wasn’t sure which route I would take this morning — to Lake Nokomis and back or the Confluence. I told Scott, I’m going to run south on the river road and let my body decide which one — either I’ll turn at Locks and Dam no. 1, or I’ll keep going past the falls. I’m not sure when I decided but, by the time I got to the locks and dam, there was no doubt I was turning.

11 Things

  1. looking down from the ford bridge, the water was smooth and still — I think I saw some sandbars just beneath the surface
  2. the river water was also low — I could see a long stretch of green (grass, I think) where there has been water in past years
  3. the gate that K and I had to squeeze through because it was locked a few weeks ago was open today
  4. hidden falls was quietly falling
  5. a tall man sitting on a bench, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, talking on the phone — I remember that I hear what he said, but I don’t remember what it was
  6. the click of a bikers shoes clicking into their pedals
  7. uneven brick — not broken but raised by (un) settling ground
  8. stopping at my favorite bench, which was in the shade, reading the plaque beside it as sweat dripped off of my face
  9. a lone skateboarder at the skateboard park — saw them in flash, heard the scuffing of the wheels
  10. more filled benches than empty ones
  11. almost forgot this one: everything was dry — the grass, the dirt that trickled down the bluff almost like water, the leaves, which sounded very loud in the quiet morning
Diana’s kindness warms us, her humor makes us smile, and her zest for life keeps us going.

I’ve decided to leave my shoes in the picture because I like the color of them. I just received an email that my new pair or Saucony Rides are arriving today — they are navy with aquamarine.

Looking up her name online, I found this short video that offers more images of where I was when I took this picture:

Diana Jean Jezewski was 20 when she died of cancer in 1999. So young! She was born 5 years after me. She graduated from Highland Park High School and had been captain of the volleyball team. What type of cancer did she have?

Looking at the poems-of-the-day, I found this fitting one on poets.org:

ghost ranch / kristin lueke

once again i’ve brought my dead dog to the party.
not the box of ashes, but the pen-drawn sketch
my friend lenny made six days after she died.

or five. i saw it coming, the way mimsy went. 
the hard part was saying it, so i wrote it down: 
something small i love is leaving me.

now it’s late morning in abiquiu & i’m alone 
in the courtyard, rolling around on the flagstone
breathing, a drawing of mimsy in the shade,

a mug cooling at her side. i said i don’t drink coffee
or need a week to myself but look at me now, trying 
not to lie. so i listen: a shrill of pinyon jays

in a juniper trills me from ghost to cobalt sky. all winter 
i didn’t see them, not a single thrill of murmuration 
& though it’s a hideous sound—a jay’s call, like a

small computer dying slow—to live, to move like that:
seven siblings at my side, six at each of theirs, my god! 
not thinking where’s the threat but being

more than one, not less than any . . .
the nearly-noon shadows recede & soon 
mimsy’s in full sun, where i leave her, the light

too bright to stay, the shrill too clear. i say yes,
i’ve seen a rock wren & no, that is a fishless osprey circling
the steppe & tomorrow i might make a cairn of quartz

just to knock it down, slip a stone into my pocket, 
put nine postcards in the mail, or begin another poem 
for lenny i’ll try to finish when i’m home—

                         you had a friend once.
                         now she’s different.
                         we remember what we need.

Much to think about and love in this poem. A question: does a bluejay really sound like a computer dying slowly? I guess I don’t know what a computer dying slowly sounds like. What I know is that a bluejay screech is grating and terrible — I recall thinking it sounded like (or, maybe felt like?) a dull knife hacking the silence until it ripped open.

aug 25/RUN

4 miles
trestle+ turn around
81 degrees
dew point: 67

It was overcast when I started, which made 81 degrees more manageable, but about 2.5 miles in, the clouds were gone and it was HOT. I ran a mile without stopping, then: 4 x 90s run with 30s walk in-between / 3 min walk / 3 x 90s run with 30s walk / 2 minutes walk / 5 x 90s run with 30s walk. For the runs, I ran fast-ish. It wasn’t easy, but it felt good to move faster.

For the first mile, I ran without headphones. There was a constant buzz of cars and bugs and planes, but no memorable or interesting sounds. For the sets, I put in my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist.

I don’t remember being swarmed by gnats or hearing the rowers or looking at the river. No roller skiers, but a few runners, strollers, bikers. Most of the benches were occupied. The most memorable thing: the crack north of the trestle. Approaching it from the north, which I did after turning around and heading back, the crack seemed deeper and more menacing — a maw ready to open even wider and swallow everything above it without warning. I suddenly wondered, is this why they have it barricaded off, because they are concerned it might turn into a sinkhole? Probably not. Most likely, they don’t want people tripping on it.

aug 23/RUN

14 miles
franklin / ford / almost confluence
56 degrees

14 miles! For my route, I ran north on the river road, over the lake street bridge to north on the east river road. Took the franklin bridge back over to the west side and then south on west river road. When I reached the lake street bridge, I crossed it again and headed south on east river road until I almost but not quite reached the confluence. On the way back, I crossed over the ford bridge, ran through Wabun park, down Godrey, back under the ford bridge, down and back up the road to locks and dam no. 1, then north on the river road. The route was a variation on the franklin-ford loop — instead of a loop, a figure eight — combined with the confluence loop. Mostly, I ran 3 min, then walked 1. When it got harder, in the last few miles, I switched to 90 seconds of running, 30 seconds of walking.

For the first hour, I listened to the quiet — hardly any cars, early on a Sunday morning! — and the rowers and water seeping out of the limestone. For the rest of the run, I listened to my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist. The thing I remember most, was 867-5309 and this lyric with a double meaning:

Jenny, Jenny, you’re the girl for me
Oh, you don’t know me, but you make me so happy
I tried to call you before, but I lost my nerve
I tried my imagination, but I was disturbed.

I heard disturbed meaning 2 things at once: the more popular, interrupted, but also, unhinged. Was this double-meaning intended? Not sure, but that’s how I heard it, and I liked the multiplicity of it.

the rowers! As I crossed over the lake street bridge for the first time, I saw them. A speck, a streak, then 3 shells approaching from the south. The first coxswain had a deep voice and was explaining the order to the rowers: male single shells and female single shells together. A few minutes later a coxswain with a higher voice tried to pump up the rowers. A few times, the words became distorted as the voice got louder and more excited. I did hear something about starting at the trestle. I could see the rowers for most of my run north towards the franklin bridge. Oh — I almost forgot — when I first noticed the rowers, it was quiet enough that I could hear their oars slapping the water awkwardly. I could also hear the oars creaking as the rowers lifted them out of the water.

14 Other Things

  1. a carolina wren — cheeseburger cheese burger
  2. the gate at the entrance to the no longer used for power plant was locked again
  3. a shimmering sound — water leaking out of the limestone below me
  4. the crack in the sidewalk just north of the trestle is getting worse — tall plants are growing out of it at one end, while it grows deeper on the other*
  5. click clack click clack — a roller skier hitting, then scraping their poles
  6. the sliding bench — shaded, surrounded by green
  7. on 2 different occasions — a tall man, walking alone, talking very loudly on a phone — their voice echoing
  8. no tent near ford bridge today, but someone sitting on a tall chair, facing the road, an umbrella giving them shade
  9. click click click click a walker approaching me, striking the asphalt rhythmically with her hiking poles
  10. the sky was blue and a little hazy — was it humidity burning off or my bad vision?
  11. I stopped at a bench above hidden falls to tighten my shoe laces: it was in the sun and empty
  12. a single red leaf on an otherwise green tree — fall is coming
  13. the flat, smooth surface of the river as seen from above on the ford bridge
  14. the reflection of the bridge on the surface of the river as seen from below the ford bridge

Just remembered something else about the surface of the river below the ford bridge: it was an unnatural green on the closest edge, It reminded me of the color of algae blooms. It looked oily and smelled strange. What spilled/was spilled into the river here?

That run wasn’t easy and I am tired. My calf and knees started to hurt around mile 11. But, I did it and, an hour later, I’m already feeling better. I will be able to run 16 miles next week.

I’m not putting this in my 10 things, but I could. The grass is not really green, but brown. In some spots in the strips along the river, it is so dry, it’s yellow. I remembered these images of grass, when I read poets.org’s poem of the day by Carl Sandburg. I like his poetry — whimsical and weird.

Summer Grass/ Carl Sandburg

Summer grass aches and whispers.
It wants something; it calls and sings; it pours
       out wishes to the overhead stars.

The rain hears; the rain answers; the rain is slow 
        coming; the rain wets the face of the grass.

*Running beside the crack in the path, I decided to stop and take a few pictures of it. I wonder, are they planning to fix it, or accept defeat and reroute the walking path here?

crack north of the trestle / 23 aug 2026
split open / 23 aug 2026

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 16/RUN

12 miles
confluence + falls
66 degrees / humidity: 86%

12 miles! I’m running today instead of swimming because I am sick or have a sinus infection or my allergies are acting up because of the lake water (the e coli is very high at lake nokomis — over 1000). Since Friday, I’ve felt out of it. It started with a sore throat in the morning. I hoped it was just because I slept with the window open, but it wasn’t going away and I started feeling sinus pressure and stuffiness. Saturday was unpleasant (not quite miserable, but close, and I was whiny about it). I really dislike when my sinuses close up and I can’t breathe through my nose. Not being able to breathe is one of my big fears. If the stuffiness is due to the lake water, I might have to end my season early. If it’s because I’m sick, I might be able to swim again next week. As much as I love swimming, I hate being stuffed up and having a lot of trouble breathing. I’ll be bummed if I have to stop swimming already, but not too bummed: I’ve swum a lot this summer, and I need to prioritize marathon training.

But, back to today. 12 miles! I knew I would do 12 miles but, because I’m still stuffed up, I wondered how much of it would be walking. I surprised myself by feeling pretty good for a lot of it. I took one 5 minute walk break in the middle, but otherwise I mostly stuck to a plan: 3 mins run / 1 min walk. I wonder if I would go slower or faster if I switched up the ration to 90 sec run/ 30 sec walk. I’ll have to try that in this upcoming week.

Even though I made a playlist — Hello, Goodbye — for the entire run, I didn’t begin listening to it until my 5 minute walk break after the confluence. Before that, I listened to my key jingling in my pocket, a souped-up car going too fast on the east river road, blue jays screeching, hidden water falling, the clicking and clacking of roller skier’s poles. When I finally put in the playlist, I remember feeling nostalgic while listening to Lionel Richie’s “Hello” — oh, 10 year old Sara watching the video with the blind girl and the creepy, stalker professor! 1984 and 85 were some wonderful years for watching movies and music videos. I also remember feeling tender when Adele sang, “Hello from the other side.” I thought about my mom. She’s been dead for almost 17 years. How is that possible? Running by the falls, the telephone section of the playlist started. I got a boost with Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe” and ran too fast for a few minutes. Down by the locks and dam no. 1, I heard Lady Gaga sing, “Out in the club and I’m sipping that bubb” in her song “Telephone” — I’m assuming she means bubbly/champagne?

10 Things

  1. running over the lake street bridge, looking down at the river — blue, scaled, the wake of some small boat streaked across the surface
  2. the steps on the lake street bridge that lead down to the trail: clothes were strewn all over the steps — what happened? I decided to take the road over to the trail instead
  3. running parallel to another runner — first on opposite sides of the trail then, when she crossed the road, opposite sides of the road — I think I was slightly faster than her, so I was creeping up. If I wasn’t running 12 miles, I might have sped up to pass her faster, but I think that would have burned too many matches (or spent too many pennies) and I would have suffered later in the run because of it
  4. noticing all of the dirt trails leading up from the river on the way to hidden falls, remembering my hike with my college friend last week, wondering if we could have taken any of them
  5. a new regular? a short (4.5 feet tall, maybe) older woman who I also saw here last time. She was walking, I was running. Both times she was wearing shorts. should I call her short shorts?
  6. the view from the confluence overlook: a parking lot below — will the view be better once the leaves are off of the trees?
  7. stopping at a “good” water fountain near the skate park, where good = designed for water bottles, so it’s easy to fill them up — most of the water fountains are old school and curves, making it almost impossible to fill up a water bottle
  8. hearing the roar of the water rushing over the concrete dam at locks and dam no. 1
  9. waving a thanks to a guy who moved out of the way as I ran by the parking kiosk
  10. my new favorite bench — somewhere between the 2 entrances to Hidden Falls park, perched on a stretch of the bluff that’s wide open, with a beautiful view of the river below — was empty1

It was supposed to be partly or mostly cloudy today, but I don’t recall see any clouds. So much bright sun! I didn’t hear any rowers or chiming bells, no fragments of conversation. No geese or turkeys.

Memorable haunts I encountered: lake street bridge; above shadow falls; the monument; the ford overlook; hidden falls; my new favorite bench; the confluence; ford bridge; wabun disc golf course; the falls; the bottom of locks and dam no. 1, then the top; the double bridge; the oak savanna; the ancient boulder; the welcoming oaks; the tunnel of trees.

  1. I’d like to do a run that turns around at this bench. I’m thinking it would be between 7 and 8 miles long ↩︎

aug 12/RUNSWIM

8.5 miles
franklin + ford loop
70 degrees / humidity: 70%

That was hard! I had barely started and I already felt too hot, my legs too sore. By the time I reached 3 miles, I abandoned my system of run 3 mins, walk 1 min and the doubt started creeping in — how can I possibly run a marathon in less than 2 months? The pressure and worry too — I have to run more this week or I’ll get too off track!

a brief flash: this run is a failure / you can’t do the marathon

The flash passed and I simply kept going. I walked when I needed to — which seemed often — and ran when I could. I drank water and ate an energy chew. And I kept going. One foot in front of the other. A step then another step then another. Sometimes running, often walking.

heart broken: I noticed the gentle and labored whirr of a bike wheel — deep, quiet, singular — and thought about how, in my state of struggle, I was tender and open to the world and its different sounds. Every sensation — a man’s disembodied voice high on a hill, a bird calling from the gorge, a cool-ish breeze on my sweat-soaked face, the strong smell of weed near the overlook — was clear, acute. Not irritating or overwhelming, like sensations can be when I’m anxious, but calling to me, like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –over and over announcing my place
in the family of things.

10 Things

  1. a carolina wren calling out cheeseburger cheeseburger cheeseburger
  2. a loud sound — is that a radio on a bike? no, a kid shrieking in a bike trailer, then the adult biking calling out sternly, what’s going on back there?
  3. a single canoe on the river with at least 3 people in it, hugging the west side of the shore
  4. a coxswain’s voice, giving instructions, his voice distorted by a bullhorn
  5. Mr. Morning! — morning! / good morning!
  6. a spring gushing through the rock on the east side of the river — not seen, only heard
  7. footsteps behind me, never gaining, just hovering in the air
  8. playing chicken with a woman walking with ski poles on the bridge — I won because I wasn’t going to move and I was on the proper side
  9. a man in the grass, near the locks and dam no. 1 parking lot lifting one heavy barbell — squatting and thrusting with it — his movement reminded me of a shot putter preparing to hurl the shotput
  10. more than half a dozen roller skiers, going fast up the hill, their poles clicking on the asphalt, several of them continuing past me, 4 of them turning around in front of me — sharply, quickly — the last one misjudging the turn and stumbling, then apologizing to me for almost getting in my way

I reflected on the run, which was both a failure and a success — a failure because I had to walk much more than I planned, a success because I didn’t give up and wasn’t nearly as slow as I thought I would be.

I heard Des Linden’s words in my head, you can do hard things. Yes. Most of the point of running another marathon is to give me the opportunity to prove that to myself — I can do hard things. There is something satisfying about facing a difficult/overwhelming task that you can’t imagine being able to do, and just starting to do it and never stopping until it’s done. To a lesser degree that happened at my swim last night. On loop 1 of 4, I felt tired and awkward, my body heavy in the water. A brief thought — can I really do this for an hour and a half? Then I stroke and kicked and breathed until I finished loop 4. Never quite believing or not believing; just doing and not thinking.

A deepening and quieting of the spirit = a deepening of the resolve, a quieting of the voices that encourage you to quit / a muting of an ego/I that believes going slow or walking or straying from an exact plan = failing, a digging into the depths for new forms of belief

breaking news: an audiobook I requested from the library just became available! I Contain Multitudes / Ed Yong.

Every animal, whether human, squid, or wasp, is home to millions of bacteria and other microbes. Ed Yong prompts us to look at ourselves and our animal companions in a new light — less as individuals and more as the interconnected, interdependent multitudes we assuredly are.

from the “about this title” blurb in Libby

I’ve tried reading or listening to a more recent book by Yong. I can’t remember what about it made me stop. It would be wonderful if I liked this book and could listen to it on my long run (at least 12 miles) on Saturday.

Back to hearts breaking apart. I looked up, “breaking apart” and Poetry Daily (poems.com) and found this excellent poem. I’m thinking of it less in terms of my 1 day in august project and more in terms of my Holes/How I Read project.

A Seam of Electricity [an excerpt] / Ian U Lockaby

Language is breaking apart in our hands. In the darkness, we can only make out
the shapes of letters on the pages. We’ve been reading like this for hours, or forever,
it seems, but now the sun fades out our windows and particles of darkness block
the white bays the letters gather in their limbs— the blank spaces that make them
legible, where the illuminate of the pale page makes shape.

Each word, suddenly the shape of a small animal. Lines of small animals creating a
blurred grid on the page.

A moment longer and the darkening brings out the beady eyes, glowing, reflecting
the light from the headlight of our eyes.

(An inherent light inside the eye— who had that idea, that I feel now in my sockets?)                                                                                                                           

In the neighboring darkyards 
not cherryglow but
a single candle left flickering out

I want to return to this poem, later, when I’m working on Holes again. There is some great ways of describing reading in low light and with limited vision!

swim: 3 loops (6 mini)
cedar lake open swim
71 minutes
86 degrees

The past two cedar lake swims were cancelled because of blue-green algae. Today it was open and almost empty and wonderful. There were lifeguards and more than a dozen open swimmers, but hardly anyone else. Was it because they just opened the beach at 3pm today?

Hardly any wind and only a few waves. Lots of floating strands of milfoil. I was subject to at least one full body scan as I passed over a vine. A few kayaks and canoes. I saw bubbles but now sparkle friends. No flashes of fish either.

The air was hazy. I kept thinking my goggles were fogged, but it looked as fuzzy with or without the goggles. Difficult to see, but just enough for me to navigate. Other swimmers weren’t able to navigate in the haze and sinking light. Or, they didn’t care whether they were swimming on course or not. I noticed several swimmers swimming way over on the wrong side. Cedar vibes.

Before leaving home for the swim, I thought about how MO’s poem would change if you focused on space instead of time — There is space here for the sinking and settling of the spirit? Every so often, I thought about space and here in relation to my swimming, but I don’t remember what I thought. A task for tomorrow?

aug 7/RUN

4.15 miles
minnehaha falls and back
77 degrees / dew point: 72

I was supposed to swim this morning, but it was raining and windy with a chance of thunderstorms, I was tired from last night’s swim, and it was the queen stage of the Tour de France Femme avec Zwift, so I decided to skip open swim today. Scott and I watched the stage instead and it was awesome. The women’s tour has been way more exciting than the men’s. Kassia Niewiadomma Phinney destroyed the field on an HC climb.

After the stage finished, the rain had stopped, so I went out for a run. Right after I returned, a clap of thunder. Nice timing! It was hot and humid and I sweat a lot. I ran 90/30 for almost all of the run. Because of the humidity, my heart rate was still high, but my pace was steady. I’d like to try this 90/30 again on a longer run, and when it’s a little cooler.

For the first mile, I ran without headphones. Do I remember anything I heard? I think I heard some construction noises and at least one car? Oh — just remembered: I heard the bells of St. Thomas! After that, I put on the latest “Off the Rails” podcast. They were talking about the new women’s pro baseball league and the terrible version of the National Anthem that opened the season at a stadium in Illinois.

10 Things

  1. there were a lot of people near the falls and waiting to pay for parking in the parking lot
  2. the bells of st thomas! I heard at least one chime (this is when I remembered that I had heard the bells, or a bell, then I added it in the previous paragraph)
  3. the sky was dark — thick, heavy, holding a storm waiting to happen
  4. small puddles all over the trail
  5. sometimes windy, sometimes still
  6. the trail that dips below the road south of the double bridge was especially dark and mysterious-looking
  7. a tiny kid — maybe 2? — running away from an adult and another kid near the parking lot
  8. as the run went on, the sky got darker and heavier
  9. someone has painted the tops of two wooden railings on the path bright colors: one is orange, one yellow
  10. another runner emerged near 42ndas the winchell trail climbed out of the gorge, then they immediately turned and followed the trail back below

aug 5/RUN

10.1 miles
confluence and back
62 degrees
AQI: 36!

10 miles. That was not easy. Much cooler today, better air quality, but still warm. I sweat a lot. By mile 5, my pony tail was dripping. I could feel it on my shoulder, hear the wet strands of my hair swishing as I moved. I decided not to bring my handheld water bottle, which was a big mistake. Two thirds of the way through, I ran out of gas.

3 things that worked well:

  1. managed my unfinished business — even before I finished mile 1, I felt like I needed a port-a-potty, but taking walk breaks and not thinking about it, helped the need to poop go away
  2. just kept moving (mostly running, some walking) — I wasn’t sure how much I could run today and when I realized that the route to the confluence and back was almost 2 miles short, I could have stopped sooner, but I decided I need to keep going, so I did
  3. nice route — even though this route was too short, I liked it — the stretch of the east river road between hidden falls and the confluence is beautiful — such amazing views!

3 things to work on:

  1. don’t forget the water bottle
  2. don’t forget snacks
  3. work on being more consistent with the run/walk method — on the next run, try 90/30 again

As I ran under the road at Hidden Falls, I thought about the small stretch of hidden falls that was daylighted when they redid this area a few years ago. I listened as it rushed to the edge then fell over it and smelled its fishy smell.

10 Things

  1. running over the ford bridge, admiring the river, 1: the brownish water was calm, still, flat, not even a ripple
  2. running over the ford bridge, admiring the river, 2: because the surface was still, I could see below it — the faint outline of several sandbars
  3. a short (under 5 ft) older woman i, stretching next to the hidden falls park sign, at the top of the hill, later I encountered her again; she was walking, I was running
  4. a strange pair of sounds on either side of the road, call and response. Bird song I had never heard before, sounding almost like machines or alarms — was it 2 birds, or 2 people with some kind of device making the noise?
  5. what a view! — 1/2 mile from the confluence overlook, the trail and a bench are high above a bend in the river where you can see the mississippi and the minnesota rivers — I would have stopped but someone had brought a chair and was sitting in front of the bench
  6. near the far entrance to hidden falls — a roller skier perched at the top — were they about to bomb down the steep hill?
  7. at the confluence — a lime green bike, wedged in the corner of the overlook — too many leaves below to see anything — a warm water water fountain
  8. a bird crying out, sounding like they were in distress — a woman came to the edge where I was standing and said the sound came from an eagle on the other shore
  9. 2 men running on the ford bridge, one of them was turned around and running backwards
  10. 2 older men, carrying signs to place along the bike path that said something like, bikers, use caution! alert walkers with an “on your left” or a bell — Yes!

Just before I heard the eagle (mentioned in #8), I took a picture of a view of the river:

east river road, heading to downtown St. Paul

Running near where this picture was taken, I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with FWA at the dog park earlier this year. We were deep in the gorge, looking up at this bluff I was running on this morning. I said, this summer, when I’m training for the marathon, I want to run up there. And I am!

1 Day in August

Bummer! As I write this, I received an email from Open Swim. It’s cancelled tonight because there are blue-green algae blooms at one of the Cedar Lake beaches. Must be serious if they’re cancelling the swim; usually they just post an advisory and caution club memebers to “swim at your own risk.”

Reading the first verse of Mary Oliver’s poem again, my eyes stopped on among the flux of happenings” and I thought about the floating particles I encounter while swimming in Lake Nokomis. Often I call them my sparkle friends. They are the little bits of sediment or muck or aquatic plant that float in the water in front of me. They sparkle because of shafts of light in the water, and they seem to be in a constant motion of floating at me. I imagine some people might think my friends are gross, but I don’t, and I love the strange, trippy effect they create as I swim through them. I wrote one of my inklings about them:

Particles
before buoy 1

Lit by thin shafts of
light, they put on a
show. Their frenzied disco
of shimmer sparkle
shake stirs us up.

I like MO’s use of among here — among the flux of happenings. The deepening and quieting of my spirit comes among this flux, these little happenings.

I know I’ve written about “among” before; found it! On 16 may 2025, past Sara wrote a lot of things that are very helpful to present Sara as I think about MO’s use of among!

side note: the more I follow my muse here — and, maybe, my muse is a fish or floating milfoil or a sparkle friend? — the more clear it becomes: this year’s Swimming One Day in August is about engaging in a deeper reading of MO’s words — expanding on meanings, connecting them to her other work, reading them beside my experiences in the lake.

But, back to among. Here’s what I wrote in my 16 may 2025 entry:

among / between

When I read and posted Lorine Niedecker’s poem about standing among the birch last week —

For best work
you ought to put forth
some effort
to stand
in north woods
among birch.

I was struck by the word among and wondered how it was different from between. I looked it up this afternoon and, after wading through discussions about how between is used with 2 items, among with more than 2, I came across a helpful distinction in Merriam Webster: 

We use between when we want to express a relation to things and have them considered as individual and usually equal entities. 

Among, on the other hand is the best word to use when referring to things collectively and imprecisely. 

5 aug 2026 Sara, interjecting here: using among to refer to things collectively reminds me of a favorite (and very popular line) from MO in “Wild Geese”:

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

among: your place in the family of things — so, the deepening and quieting of the spirit could be finding one’s place in the world? Where you belong? when you’re in your element? Of course this reading is different from the predominant one in which quieting your spirit among the flux of happenings means being present and calm, not worrying about all the noise around you.

I like among in LN’s poem, although I wonder about the effect of using between (or beside or with) instead. to stand/in north woods/between birch. Among indicates a kinship — among all of us trees, but between suggests an actual place — stand between this birch and that birch and an exchange — between us. I like both meanings. I like imaging my best work as trying to become a tree. But I also like the idea of my best work happening when I stand between birch — giving and receiving air. 

I was reminded of among and between while reading this passage from Marie Howe:

That was really a big deal. I was given this place to be without any expectations really. And everything changed so that the particulars of life—this white dish, the shadow of the bottle on it—everything mattered so much more to me. And I saw what happened in these spaces. You can never even say what happened, because what happened is rarely said, but it occurs AMONG the glasses with water and lemon in them. And so you can’t say what happened but you can talk about the glasses or the lemon. And that something is in BETWEEN all that.

You can name/describe the collection of things (among), but you can’t find words to describe how their meaning has changed in that moment. Often when I think about the slight shifts in meaning between small words, like among or between, I’m reminded of an essay I read about Mary Oliver and her mousier words. I love mousy words! Meanwhiles and in-betweens and yous and wes and usses (is that the plural of us?). 


…it’s tempting to be blinded by the more immediately visible parts of speech: the monolithic nouns, the dynamic verbs, the charismatic adjectives. Mousier ones—pronouns, prepositions, particles—go ignored.

Mary Oliver and the Nature-esque

—

Reading through this past entry, and thinking about MO’s next verse —

Something had pestered me so much
I thought my heart would break.
I mean, the mechanical part —

I remembered MO’s words in another of her poems:

I Go Down To The Shore/ Mary Oliver

I go down to the shore in the morning
and depending on the hour the waves
are rolling in or moving out, 
and I say, oh, I am miserable, 
what shall–
what should I do? And the seas says
in its lovely voice:
Excuse me, I have work to do.

Here the sea doesn’t hold her until she grows easy or tell her what she should do, but they (the sea is they, because the sea is not an it) offer a suggestion, find your place in the family of things, do the work you were meant to do.

And there is the thing that one does, the needle one plies, the work, and within that work a chance to take thoughts that are hot and formless and to place them slowly and with meticulous effort into some shapely heat-retaining form, even as the gods, or nature, or the soundless wheels of time have made forms all across the soft, curved universe–that is to say, having chosen to claim my life, I have made for myself, out of work and love, a handsome life. 

Upstream/ Mary Oliver

I use this passage in the introduction to my “How to Be” project on my Undisciplined site.

an idea: Perhaps I should revisit Upstream and Long Life. I own both of them. Also, how about another read through of The Leaf and the Cloud?

aug 3/RUNSWIM

4.2 miles
veterans home
69 degrees
humidity: 87%

Warm again this morning. Humid, too. Not easy to run, but still nice to be outside and breathing air that wasn’t that smoky. I was planning to run through the grounds of the veterans home and over the tall bridge then to the falls, but the bridge was closed, so I had to adjust my route. No bridge, no John Stevens’ house, no Big Feet statue or falls. Instead, I ran through Wabun, over to the edge of Minnehaha park, then back north on the river road.

Mostly I ran for 2 minutes then walked for 45 seconds. I listened to the audio book, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. I saw a regular, Skirt with Sandals. Like I mentioned the last time I wrote about her, she no longer wears sandals, but running shoes. Should I rename here? Anything else? I don’t recall seeing the river or hearing any rowers. No turkey sightings. I did see one roller skier and heard their poles clicking the paved path. And I ran, carefully, over some acorns scattered across the sidewalk.

a word I’ve learned before but forgot: mondegreen

Returning to my poem-of-the-day practice, which I haven’t done for some time, I encountered a word that looked familiar but that I couldn’t remember the meaning of: mondegreen. It’s the title of Poetry Daily’s poem for today.

Mondegreen: “a word or phrase that results from a mishearing especially of something recited or sung” (Merriam Webster).

origins: from the mishearing in a Scottish ballad of “laid him on the green” as “Lady Mondegreen”

example: Up until a few years ago, I always the heard the line, what are we doing here?, from “Grease” as what do we do in PE?

I mentioned mondegreens to Scott and he offered up his favorite:

From “The Heart of Rock and Roll” from Huey Lewis and the News: Scott heard the old boy may be barely breathing as the oboe may be barely breathing.

Mondegreen/Bobby Elliott

I mistake the sound of a recycling cart
hitting the curb
for the latch of our gate
and picture him instantly:
my father stumbling
into the light of the backyard
to shoot himself.
I’d been looking at the fruit trees
and the fire pit,
the loose board of the old fence
in the wind.
I’d been thinking of how lost
you’d have to be
to believe you knew
everything there was to know
about yourself.
And now this sound
I mistake for my father
going through with it: one
awful letter in his coat pocket
to me, another
to my unborn son.

Reading an interview with the poet, I discovered that this book is autobiographical and about his father, but that father is “very much alive.” This fact offers an interesting shift in meaning for me, like something new clicking into place. But, more than the father, I’m interested in the idea of mishearing, mis-imagining, mis-seeing, mis-interpreting. It reminds me of something I’ve posted on here a few times (26 jan 2025 / 22 feb 2026):

The Ten Muses of Poetry

  1. Mishearing
  2. Misunderstanding
  3. Mistranslating
  4. Mismanaging
  5. Mislaying
  6. Misreading
  7. Misappropriating cliches
  8. Misplacing objects belonging to roommates or lovers
  9. Misguided thoughts at inappropriate times, funerals, etc.
  10. Mississippi (the river) 

And, here’s a line from a scientific study using mondegreens: “Expectations and prior knowledge can strongly influence our perception.” How does that impact what I see and what I hear?

Also, this passage from the same study:

An elegant method to examine top-down modulation of perception is to employ stimuli which can induce two concurring percepts which has been extensively employed in vision research using reversible figures, such as Rubin’s vase-face illusion [8]. So far, much less is known about how expectations can alter perception in the auditory modality. For speech content, such ambiguous stimuli that can be perceived in two different ways are called ‘slips of the ear’ which have been described as phenomena during which ‘a listener reports hearing, as clearly and distinctly as any correctly perceived stretch of speech, something that does not correspond to the speaker’s actual utterance’.

Slips of the ear reminds me of something else I read in the 22 feb 2026 entry about squinting with your ears:

A second key might be “eavesdropping.” As it happens I have deficient eyesight and hearing, not enough to impair my regular function but enough that I can, as my colleague Karla Kelsey puts it, “squint,” either with the eye or the ear, without difficulty. Some of my best lines—especially the generative lines, the bits of poetic grist from which poems develop—come from phrases I’ve misheard in conversation or (at least initially) misread as text. I guess you could say I “own” such material—I make a lyric and creative claim to it—by mishearing or misreading it.

An Inheritance Reassembled

swim: 2 loops (6 mini mini loops)
cedar lake open swim
86 degrees / wind: 16 mph

Windy, which made the water choppy. So choppy that the lifeguards couldn’t use the buoys and needed to shorten the course. Instead of swimming from beach to beach, we swam out into the middle of the lake and turn around near a lifeguard at a kayak. That might be some of the choppiest water I’ve ever swum in. I wonder how it compares to mild chop on Lake Superior or an ocean?

10 Things

  1. bobbing green caps
  2. bright yellow orange pink buoys
  3. the water’s surface was corrugated (a word Anne Carson used to describe a lake she swam in)
  4. a swimmer returning from the middle, doing a powerful backstroke — not looking or able to see where he was going — just swinging his arms, chopping the water — did he run into anyone?
  5. a strong spray from behind — waves crashing into me?
  6. so many scratchy vines floating in the water — one got stuck on my back and I had to stop to fling it off
  7. a pale blue sky, a few patches of bright blue
  8. a group of women in the shallow water in the swimming area — chanting and taking pictures — a party? a cult meeting? a religous ceremony?
  9. leaking goggles
  10. breathing mostly on my right side

A vigorous rocking as I swam. Between that delightful distraction and the constant need to look out for other swimmers and to find the turn around point, I didn’t think about Mary Oliver’s poem at all. Only after, did I realize I was living one of her verses:

I went down in the afternoon
to the sea, which held me
until I grew easy.

Yes, that lake water this late afternoon/early evening held me and rocked me, helping me to forget any worries or irritations I had. The water was rough, but not overwhelming. No waves rushing into my mouth when I breathed at the wrong time, just swells nudging me from side to side. Fun!

aug 1/RUN

8 miles
ford + hidden falls loop
68 degrees / humidity: 87%

That was hard! I had wanted to run 10 miles, but the route I took was a lot shorter, my legs were tired, and the sun was hot, so I only did 8. Good enough for me today. I ran the first mile without stopping, then 2 min run / 45 seconds walk for most of the rest. After listening for Shadow Falls, 15 minutes in, I put in my headphones and listened to an audiobook I recently checked out, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. It’s a great book to listen to while running: a good distraction.

10 Things

  1. running up the hill above the ravine, hearing the water falling at shadow falls
  2. another running passing me, then the sour smell of someone working hard
  3. a peloton on the road — a dozen riders
  4. a big group of shirtless runners: 20 or so? a college cross country team?
  5. encountering many runners (most) approaching me, running the other direction
  6. a sour, sharp smell near the overlook at hidden falls — from the creek water?
  7. so much sweat — my shoulders were soaked
  8. baby turkeys! near the 44th street parking lot, grazing in the grass
  9. a boisterous group of runners — 5 or 6 women laughing
  10. Patches of mud and some felled trees — because of yesterday’s rain and occasional strong wind?

No roller skiers, no geese, no bugs, no acorns underfoot — usually the acorns begin falling at the end of July. When will they fall this year? (update, a few hours later: Scott and I took Delia the dog on a short walk and, at the end of the block, acorns on the sidewalk!)

Before starting my run, the line from Mary Oliver’s “Swimming One Day in August” popped into my head — it is time now, I said, for the deepening and quieting of the spirit. I imagined this deepening and quieting as an inner stillness. I hoped to think about that as I ran, but I was too distracted my the heat, my legs, and the effort.

So far, I’ve heard 2 hours (out of almost 12) of the audio book, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. It’s about two friends, Sadie and Max, who love playing and making video games. I’ve haven’t read the summary and don’t know that much about the book, but I’m assuming they make some big video game together. Do they fall in love, too? The first video game Sadie makes in her seminar at MIT is called EmilyBlaster and it involves pen-as-gun that shoots out the words of Emily Dickinson poems. Nice. I looked it up, and the game actually exists online, EmilyBlaster. I tried playing it. Admittedly, with my bad vision and limited gaming skills, I sucked, but it was pretty cool. The first poem was “I felt a Funeral in my Brain,” which I memorized a few years back. It felt strange to try and shoot these words as I recited them in my head. I can’t believe I’ve never heard about this video game before.

EmilyBlaster is one of Sadie Green’s earliest games, and one of the first games I invented for Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow as well. It’s the simplest game in the book, and I needed it to be convincingly something a clever college student might be able to make on limited resources and time in the 1990s. The game was inspired by the poetry of Emily Dickinson and by edutainment games of the 1980s, like Math Blaster! I liked the slight subversiveness of making a game where the object was to shoot poetry, and I thought that Emily Dickinson’s compact verse style and memorable phrasings would make for perfect targets. 

Play EmilyBlaster!

campanilismo

More on echolocation and bells and bioregionalism. I recalled something I’d heard about earlier in the year. Here’s what I wrote at the end of my entry for 9 jan 2026:

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.)

source

I love this idea of defining a community, your home-place, by its bells. My bells are the bells of St. Thomas, just across the river.

And here’s the poem:

Defining a Neighborhood

It begins
from the ground
up with feet
following,
and ends when
ears listening
can no
longer hear
the bells. 

It needs some work! I’d like to include it in Echolocation — should it be a separate poem, or should I add in some lines in my opening poem, Listen, where I first introduce the bells?

july 30/RUNSWIM

4 miles
monument and back
78 degrees
AQI: 70

Hot, so hot! And hard, especially when I was running in the sun, which was a lot of the time. As I neared the monument, I could hear shadow falls — it hasn’t rained in several days, where is that falling water coming from? I also heard construction workers working on a huge house (the U of M President’s house that Gov. Walz was living in while they repaired the governor’s mansion) on the river road and a carolina wren calling, cheeseburger cheeseburger or tea kettle tea kettle. I decided on cheeseburger because I like cheeseburgers, but not tea. I passed by a small break in the trees and saw a flash of white — was it a plastic bag or a white cat? On my return trip I wondered what I’d see: nothing. A few options: either someone picked up the bag or I saw something that wasn’t there or it was an animal and that animal moved. Another thought: maybe it was a possum? I didn’t hear any rowers or roller skiers or fragments of conversation. On the bridge, I stopped at the overlook to study the surface of the water. Tiny scales or corrugation. No sparkle spots, but small waves moving upstream. I also looked at the texture of the green leaves; it was giving me broccoli vibes.

Before I started running again, I turned on my color playlist and heard the line from “Bein’ green”:

It’s not that easy bein’ green
Having to spend each day
The color of the leaves

*

It’s not easy bein’ green
It seems you blend in
With so many other ordinary things
And people tend to pass you over
‘Cause you’re not standing out
Like flashy sparkles in the water

As I walked the final blocks back to my house, a phrase appeared in my head, not moving through but moving in. Not passing through a place, but dwelling in it. Before my run, I had been thinking about echolocation and navigation and what it means to be located in/by a place. I started thinking about Lorine Niedecker and an article I read about her ecopoetics as dwelling with place. With — I had misremembered it as in, but now I want to add moving with a place to my thinking about being located in space and time. Hearing this phrase, moving with a place, makes me think of Juliana Spahr and breathing and the space around everyone with lungs.

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
87 degrees

Choppy water! A storm is moving in, I think. It might rain all day tomorrow — I hope not. I want to do open swim tomorrow morning and/or run. The water was rough all the way through, from above to below. The feeling of an undertow, waves, getting rocked roughly. It was so choppy that one of the green buoys kept moving around. I’m not sure what was happening — was it the wind or lifeguard error — but as I swam towards buoy 2, I saw that buoy 4 was right next to it, and on the wrong side: close to the left instead of far to the right. I kept swimming towards the little beach and didn’t worry about it. A few minutes later, I neared the 4th buoy, now in place, or I thought it was in place, but as I kept swimming towards it, it wasn’t getting closer but farther away. Then I realized what was happening; the lifeguards were dragging it. I finally gave up on trying to swim around the far edge of it and just cut in towards the big beach. Chaos! It was fun to swim in the chaos and the choppy waves, but it was also tiring. And, my goggles were fogging up, which made it even more challenging to try and sight anything. I decided 2 loops was enough for me.

I did a lot of breathing every 5 and every 6 with some every 3 or every 4. I can’t remember what color the water was, but I do remember seeing bubbles around my hands. The milfoil seemed to be thickening again near the far white buoy. Bummer.

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 25/RUN

5 miles
bottom of franklin hill and back
77 degrees / dew point: 72
AQI: 52

Went out for my run at 10 so I could watch the queen stage of the Tour de France. It was hot, but worth it to watch all the drama of the final climb. Sepp Kuss crashing twice and barely saving himself from falling over the edge of the mountain. Yikes. Carapaz won the stage. Pogachar acted as a domestique for del Toro.

It was warm, but there was a cool breeze and no sun, which helped. I was able to greet Dave the Daily Walker at the beginning – Good morning Sara! / Hi Dave! I heard the rowers down below, encountered lots of runners, most of them running by themselves, like me. Was passed by many bikers and roller skiers. I ran down the franklin hill then stopped at the river to study its surface — a thin film of something was on it in streaks. Down in the flats, by the low retaining wall, I noticed a single shell and the white coxswain’s boat taking a break in the middle of the river.

Even though my chest has some crud, I feel much better today. My resting heart rate is lower and I’m less anxious. The effects on inhaling wildfire smoky air = 4 days of feeling like I had a bad cold.

10 Things

  1. white sky
  2. thick, moist air
  3. deep greens
  4. no bugs — where are the bugs?
  5. overheard: one guy walking down the franklin hill, meeting up with someone halfway down and turning around to walk with him, I‘m glad I don’t have to walk up the entire hill!
  6. the big crack north of the trestle is growing deeper and is still barricade off — is too deep and dangerous to patch?
  7. stopped at the sliding bench — a deep, dark green view below
  8. a woman crossing over the road ot the trail, carrying a coffee, not wearing any shoes
  9. no stones stacked on the ancient boulder
  10. a horn blasting from somewhere — a train horn? deep and loud

today’s colors in plastic

At different times, depending on the how bright the light behind the clouds was, the sky looked either 1, 2, or 3:

the “white” sky

Standing behind the sliding bench, looking down at the green gorge, I saw these 2 greens:

a green view

july 22/SMOKERUN

AQI (2:15pm): 36

a ramble for future Sara on the discomfort of not breathing well

The smoke is mostly gone from the air — but, for how long? — but not my lungs or sinuses. Mostly, I feel uncomfortable. I can breathe but it feels heavier, harder. Last night started terribly with lots of talking my self down: just one breath at a time, breathe, breathe, in 2 3 4 5 out 2 3 4 5. And lots of pacing. When I feel trapped (this time, in my body), it helps to move. At some point I fell asleep, then woke up, then fell asleep again. Woke up in the morning with crud on my chest and the inability to sit for more than a minute. Not being able to breathe is one of my big fears.

After we tested for Covid (and 2 strains of the flu + RSV) and it was negative, I accepted that my sore throat, closed-up nose, heavy chest, wooziness, was not anything other than inhaling too much bad air. It seems to have affected me much worse than Scott or FWA. Suddenly I realized why. I have a deviated septum. Lake and pool water has been bothering me for a decade; I don’t swim without a nose plug. And I often wear breathe right strips at night. I guess I will need to be more vigilant — more neti pots, masks, avoiding being outside when the AQI is high (how high?).

run: 2.5 miles
2 trails
74 degrees
AQI: 41

I started feeling a little better in the afternoon and thought that running and the deep breathing it requires might help break up some congestion, or at least make me feel better as I moved. I think it might have helped a little with congestion; it definitely made me feel better.

Steady flow of commuting cars. The far off pounding of construction work. Birds — so many birds chirping and tweeting in the trees. Drip drip drip drip: water dropping from the sewer pipe down the ravine at 42nd. Voices. A small something on my chest and throat — cough cough. A woman in white shorts, or was it a skirt? on the Winchell trail. A man holding a dog off the trail so I could run by — thank you!/ you’re welcome.

july 21/RUNSWIM

3.35 miles
wabun hill and back
68 degrees
wind: 15 mph / gusts: 26mph
AQI: 50

Woke up feeling bad. Sore throat, a little stuffed up, sore/achy, out of it. Both FWA and Scott have felt this way too. We could be sick — covid? — but most likely, it’s the smoke and bad air quality from the weekend. Mine could also be caused by HRT, at least the achiness. Hopefully I will fell better soon. Yes, I am whining a little because I dislike sore throats and feeling out of it, but mostly I’m writing about feeling sick for future Sara to read in a few months or years.

note: Future Sara here — one day later, that is — after a covid test, we’re pretty sure it’s just the wildfire smoke that is causing this. A rough night and a difficult morning. I write more about it in my 22 july 2026 entry.

It’s hard to feel too bad when it’s so nice outside. Cooler and fresher. A breeze, a lower AQI. I decided I couldn’t waste this weather, so I went out for a run. I also thought it might make me feel better, which it both did and didn’t. Ran south on the trail to the locks and dam, then up the wabun hill. Stopped at the top to look out at the river. All I can remember is thinking that it was higher than it had been. Ran down the hill, then back north on the trail. Listened to my “Plastic Fantastic” playlist but don’t remember much of what I heard, other than this line from Lady Gaga in “Plastic Doll,” I’m no toy for a real boy, and these from AQUA’s “Barbie Girl,” You’re my doll, rock’n’roll, feel the glamour in pink/ Kiss me here, touch me there, hanky panky. “Barbie Girl” is such a terrible song.

10 Things

  1. the bright purplish lights of a bike approaching
  2. a group of 5 or 6 bikers, chatting loudly, biking on the road and backing up cars
  3. Regular, 1: waving to Santa Claus!
  4. Regular, 2: passing Skirt with Sandals — she wasn’t wearing hiking sandals, but running shoes!
  5. a group of women, walking together down the locks and dam hill
  6. a man with a fancy camera on the walking side of the pedestrian bridge, taking pictures of the ravine
  7. a woman, looking down at her phone, standing in the middle of the path
  8. 3 people standing on the sidewalk, talking, completely blocking the entrance
  9. adjusting my cap so it wouldn’t blow off in the wind
  10. peering through the green on the way up the Wabun hill: before you pass under ford bridge, some rock face, deep in the shadows, then dirt, then grass

swim: 1 loop
lake nokomis open swim
78 degrees (air) / 82 (water)
AQI: 77

Was feeling crappy all day, but Scott really wanted to go over to the lake and I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to swim (who knows what the AQI will be tomorrow), so we went. I’m glad we did. A good swim, much better than the run. I felt strong and confident and happy to be in the water. It was choppy with little swells rolling in behind me as I neared the third buoy. And more waves in the back stretch.

overheard, swimmer 1: it’s not too bad out here. the wind has calmed down.
swimmer 1: don’t say that, you’ll jinx it!
*the wind picks up*
swimmer 2: see what you did — you ruined it for all the swimmers!
(laughter from both of them)

I was committed to only swimming one loop. Between the choppy water, me being a little out of it, and my still sore shoulder, I didn’t want to overdo it. Hopefully I can swim more at the end of the week and next week.

The water was more blue green tonight. I think I saw bubbles, but no silver flashes. now menacing swans or clueless kayaks or drifting sailboats. I don’t remember seeing any birds or planes or dragonflies. No squeaks or leaks from my new nose plug.

july 20/RUNSWIM

4.6 miles
locks and dam / wabun hill / veterans home / falls
76 degrees / dew point 72
AQI: 70

Hot! So much sweat! Sun. The air was thick but not smoky. I’ll take it. Yesterday, while I was swimming, Scott ran around the lake once, which is not quite 3 miles. The AQI was almost double at 137. Last night his throat started burning, like swallowing acid, he said, and his throat closed up a little. He thinks it’s because of the high AQI and that he breathes only through his mouth when he runs. I thought about what happened while I was running and noticed how I was breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. It’s all of my rhythmic breathing, I think: In 2 3 / Out 2.

I listened to my Plastic Fantastic playlist. I was particularly struck by The Sugercube’s “Dear Plastic,” so I looked up the lyrics:

p-p-p-plastic n-n-n-nylon
te-te-te-terylene 

made of atoms
by tender fingers
and determined heads
of inventors
tickling
perfection

p-p-p-plastic
r-r-r-rayon

I was born aeons ago
before anything human was known
my friends the alchemists
told me everything was natural
and always will be that way
and possible to make gold from dirt

p-p-p-plastic
n-n-n-nylon 

dear plastic
be proud
don’t imitate anything
you’re pure, pure, pure

p-p-p-plastic
n-n-n-nylon

I believed I was their dustbin for knowledge
took everything and digested
of course I became big, 
big and really really strong

today I’m old and withering away
my friends the alchemists
long disappeared into dust
I no longer get anything fruity
no longer gold made from dirt
the only thing I get is spacefood on a tray 

p-p-p-plastic 
p-p-p-plastic 
p-p-p-plastic…

As I was walking the last few blocks after I finished running, I thought about Elastigirl from Pixar’s The Incredibles and how her superpower is the ability to stretch and transform into (almost) any shape she wants or needs and then return to her original shape. Plastic can make new shapes without returning to the original shape. I looked up, “elasticity vs. plasticity” and found this:

Objects deform when pushed, pulled, and twisted. Elasticity is the measure of the amount that the object can return to its original shape after these external forces and pressures stop.

The opposite of elasticity is plasticity; when something is stretched, and it stays stretched, the material is said to be plastic (source).

AQI (1:00pm): 45
AQI (4:40pm): 61

swim: 1 loop (2 cedar loops)

cedar lake open swim
88 degrees
AQI (5:30pm): 61

I would have loved to swim more loops, but it was warm and windy and my shoulder started hurting near the end of the first loop. A bummer, but at least I was able to swim for almost 30 minutes in the lake. No terrible air quality. I am grateful for any chance to swim.

The vibe was very cedar lake, with the disgusting, almost totally filled porta potty with no toilet paper, randos swimming out the buoy and getting in the way of swimmers — watch out! — and open swim club members swimming as close to or as far from the buoy as they wanted, occasionally crossing the path of swimmers going the other way.

The water was green with notes of yellow and opaque. I was able to see a few of my bubble friends, but nothing else. No fish or milfoil or sparkle friends. I don’t think I ever see sparkle friend here — not the sediment sparkles under water or the glittery sparkles on the surface.

added the next day: I wanted to replicate the color of the water with my plastics, but didn’t have time last night. I’m not sure either of these quite capture the mix of (mostly) green with some yellow:

1
2
3

1: back of cukes plastic bag held close to the window
2: back of cukes plastic bag held far from the window
3: a square of a yogurt container covered with seltzer water shards

I think 2 is too yellow. I think there’s a section of 3, on the right side, that might best capture my memory of the water. I also like the overall color of 1.

july 17/RUN

4 miles
minnehaha falls and back
82 degrees / dew point: 72
AQI: 62

Hooray, the smoke moved out! Boo: not in time to have open swim this morning. Oh well, went for a run instead. It was hot and humid, but the air wasn’t hazardous and I had (finally) tied my shoes properly so that my feet weren’t sliding around, so I was happy to get outside and move. Mostly running, with some walking. In my approximate fashion, I followed a plan of intentional run/walk segments — 4/1 | 4/1 | 2/1 | 90/30 | 2/1 | 2/2.

10 Things

  1. 2 porta potties at the park with a temporary hand sanitation kiosk beside them — what even is happening here today? update: an art fair
  2. a food truck — orange, yellow, and red — Cafe Cairo
  3. the white foam of the falls
  4. a shopping cart with a few things in it — some sort of electronics — in the middle of the narrow trail below the road
  5. big spots of light in the midst of the shadowed trail, near the cart
  6. a city truck blocking the path that leads down to the locks and dam — a crane in the air
  7. the water in the water fountain was hot — yuck!
  8. a person briskly crossing the parking lot, stopping in time to let me run by
  9. a biker weaving over to the walking trail to avoid the bright sun on the bike path
  10. the tangy — sweet and sour and rotting — smell left behind by the garbage truck

While I moved, I listened to the podcast about microplastics that I mentioned yesterday: Science Vs. Microplastics. I enjoyed it, even as I was a bit skeptical (thanks to another podcast, Maintenance Phase) when they started discussing a rise in/crisis of obesity without interrogating the term at all, like: how have designations for who is considered obese changed? Why is the term so morally and politically charged? But, I decided to let go of my criticisms and just listen. Here are two things I’d like to remember:

1 — we’re not consuming a credit cards worth of microplastics every week, but our endocrine system is being disrupted by chemicals in/on the plastic

The idea that we are consuming a large amount of microplastics (some people have suggested a credit cards worth a week!) doesn’t hold up, but concerns about the chemicals in/on the plastic getting into our bodies are warranted:

WZ … this idea that these chemicals on, in plastics are messing with our hormones. Take me through the science! Firstly what would these – how would they mess with our hormones?
RR They’re tricksters! So they like bust in and they take over this important role from our actual hormones. So – hormones are all about binding to receptors on cells in order to send messages throughout the body. And they’re involved in SO MUCH, they do a lot day to day but also they help these key developmental things happen over the course of our whole lives. So if these chemicals are messing with it – that could be pretty bad. Here’s what Pat Hunt told me – she’s our scientist from the top of the show …
PH I think of it kind of as radio static. You know, your hormones control everything. Your growth, your metabolism, your sleep, your reproduction. And it’s all by these finely tuned signals. And here’s this static in the system.
RR So these endocrine disruptors are the static. They interfere with the hormones by binding to the receptors that hormones are supposed to bind to, and that could mess up those signals.
WZ And we know these chemicals are in our environment, like, we know for sure? They’re in my body right now?
RR Yeahhhh probably, we know that just about everybody is exposed to them

Science Vs. Microplastics, transcript

2 — cut back on plastic consumption, including hair and skin products, but consider the benefits vs risks of using products that have plastic (like canned beans, which have plastic in the lining)

I don’t know, the thing is, like, the thing is with this topic that’s so frustrating, I still, even though I’ve been working on this for a couple months, and I’ve had these conversations with scientists who are like, Oh, I don’t I don’t buy canned food if I can help it. Every time I go to the grocery store, I stock up on my canned beans. I can’t quit it. And it’s like I think the problem is like without more specific information about how bad is it. What is my risk? I’m not able to weigh the risks of the plastics getting into my canned beans against the benefits of canned beans. I know the benefits: They’re cheap, healthy, easy. I like em. So for right now I’m kind of assuming the b

Science Vs. Microplastics, transcript

This episode has 84 footnotes — a great resource for more words and understandings about plastic. Here’s a disturbing passage:

The growth of plastics production in the past 65 years has substantially outpaced any other manufactured material. The same properties that make plastics so versatile in innumerable applications—durability and resistance to degradation—make these materials difficult or impossible for nature to assimilate. Thus, without a well-designed and tailor-made management strategy for end-of-life plastics, humans are conducting a singular uncontrolled experiment on a global scale, in which billions of metric tons of material will accumulate across all major terrestrial and aquatic ecosystems on the planet. 

Production, use, and fate of all plastics ever made

And this:

plastics’ largest market is packaging, an application whose growth was accelerated by a global shift from reusable to single-use containers. As a result, the share of plastics in municipal solid waste (by mass) increased from less than 1% in 1960 to more than 10% by 2005 in middle- and high-income countries

Production, use, and fate of all plastics ever made

A lot to take in and think about — or try not to think about. Not as a way to be absolved or to deny accountability and responsibility, but as a way to endure. Sometimes thinking about the amount of waste that accumulates every year month week day second is too much. I imagine a door to a room where that information exists and I shut it. Don’t want to dwell in there, I might say to someone — the wind, a tree, Scott. update: I usually shut the door when I’m in a big store with too much plastic stuff, like IKEA.

do you ever feel like a plastic bag?

1 — American Beauty

1999

I don’t think I really liked this movie — Kevin Spacey was a terrible creep, but I often think of this scene where I see a plastic bag dancing in the wind.

2 — Firework/ Katy Perry

Do you ever feel/like a plastic bag/drifting through the wind/wanting to start again?

I can’t remember why I did it, but I put this song on one of my first playlists when I started running in 2011. Anytime I hear it, I think of that wonderful time when my life opened up and I became a runner.

3 — Tony Hoagland

There is No Word/ Tony Hoagland

There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery store
with a gallon jug of milk in a plastic sack
that should have been bagged in double layers

—so that before you are even out the door
you feel the weight of the jug dragging
the bag down, stretching the thin

plastic handles longer and longer
and you know it’s only a matter of time until
bottom suddenly splits.

There is no single, unimpeachable word
for that vague sensation of something
moving away from you

as it exceeds its elastic capacity
—which is too bad, because that is the word
I would like to use to describe standing on the street

chatting with an old friend
as the awareness grows in me that he is
no longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,

a person with whom I never made the effort—
until this moment, when as we say goodbye
I think we share a feeling of relief,

a recognition that we have reached
the end of a pretense,
though to tell the truth

what I already am thinking about
is my gratitude for language—
how it will stretch just so much and no farther;

how there are some holes it will not cover up;
how it will move, if not inside, then
around the circumference of almost anything—

how, over the years, it has given me
back all the hours and days, all the
plodding love and faith, all the

misunderstandings and secrets
I have willingly poured into it.

Ah, I love Tony Hoagland’s poetry. He often writes about swimming — I’ve memorized 2 of his water poems and recite themwhile I’m swimming around the lake, How sad it was that he died of cancer a few years ago!

4 — a plastic bag exhibit in Germany

A German exhibition documents the history of plastic bags, showcasing their evolution from a culture of convenience and design, opposed to the environmental nuisance they have become today.

The German Museum for Everyday Culture has dedicated a special exhibition to the history and design of plastic bags. ‘Adieu Plastiktüte!’ (Goodbye, Plastic Bag!) featuring a collection of more than 50,000 plastic bags from the last 50 years, looks back at the history and evolution of this innovation of convenience. Showcasing various designs, the exhibition illustrates how they were considered attractive advertising spaces, communicating the individuality of both brands and consumers. Though out of style these days, plastic bags were once a rocking cultural trend.

the humble plastic bag

AQI (3:35pm): 61

july 14/RUNSWIM

3.1 miles
2 trails
79 degrees / dew point: 70

Another hot morning. Another successful run. Not fast, but steady. Mostly running with some walking. 2 Regulars sightings: Santa Claus and the walker that always wears a skirt and sandals — I feel like I named her, but I can’t remember what. I checked the log and I have mentioned the woman wearing sandals and a skirt 3 times, but have never named her. I think I’ll call her Skirt with Sandals, which is a reference to a phrase we’ve (Scott, RJP, FWA, and me) used many times over the years: socks with sandals. It’s from the show within a Disney show: So Random in “Sonny with a Chance.” I used to unironically wear socks with sandals frequently.

I heard the far off echo of workers hammering something, trickling water, the click and clacking of roller skiers’ poles above me. As the skiers passed me, I heard 2 of them discussion “Love Island.” At least one of them didn’t like the show. I’ve never watched it, but RJP was very invested in this most recent season which ended earlier this week.

Into that World Inverted

1

In Hawaiʻi, you often hear the term “island time,” referring to the slow pace that pervades the culture here. But for me, standing on land just a few hundred years old, island time is a reminder that this is a place in the process of being both made and unmade. Here in ʻĀhihi, there are barely any trees—the soil still thin atop the hardened rivers of basalt and scoria. Not enough time has passed to erode these sharp and porous remnants into dirt. Yet in that short stretch of centuries, between that time and this one, the island has changed irrevocably. When I began snorkeling, I was warned there was little left to see on Maui, most reefs dead and dying—a result of rampant tourism, overfishing, commercial runoff, and warming waters. 

island time — land just a few hundred years old — I’m thinking about lake time and how lake nokomis only celebrated its 100th birthday in 2014 (see: 12 july 2025). Before that it was marshy land — wider and shallower. 100 years is the approximate time it takes for a human-made lake (nokomis was a marsh, dredged, made into a lake) to act like a natural like

“I settle into my liminal position, turning my back to the earth as I know it: the solid ground under my feet replaced by weightlessness. I trespass into this unknown world—below me, I feel how time itself has turned the stone to sand. At last, I cross the threshold with my entire body.“

“I am held in the veil between these worlds that are each, astonishingly, part of this place that we call Earth. Within minutes, my cells acclimate to the cool buoyancy. I am carried away from everything I know. As I kick out, the mechanisms of my movement grow more and more effortless. Anything heavy or painful drains from me. In the water, I am held—a child rocked in a mother’s arms. My body moves differently here, swaddled and swept in the cadence of waves, alongside all the creatures who share this space. . . .”

“I am flying now—a wingless bird gazing down, seeing the universe anew. Like Icarus, I feel the warmth of the sun against my back. Between realms, I face an ecosystem nothing like my own.”

seeing the universe anew — in the ocean, everything might be clear and vivid below, but in lake nokomis, and with my bad eyes, everything is murky, muddled, felt in the briefest of flashes.

“Beneath the inscrutable blue-black mirror of the water’s surface lies this universe in technicolor. “

What is the color of the lake water? As part of my plastics project, I’m gathering the colors of the water that I see when I swim. The plastics project = keeping as much of the plastic that my family uses for visual poetry projects — produce bags, seltzer water bottles, ziploc baggies, miscellaneous. packaging, T Joes’ pasta/rice bags. Here are the colors I’ve collected so far in greens and blues. (The lake is usually much moregreen than blue.)

plastic origins, from top left to bottom right: granola bag, little cukes bag, russet potato bag, Trader joe’s pasta bag, bottle of olive oil, bottle of seltzer water, squash bag

Are these all “green”? I see them that way. The bright green of the upper center is what the water looks like when a blue-green algae bloom is present. Last night’s warm and stirred up water at cedar lake resembles the brownish yellowy green in the lower left. Number 2 and 3 in the bottom row are shards from bottles, while the rest are bags, only colored on one side.

lake nokomis blue

plastic origins, from top left, top right, bottom: Trader Joes’ rice bag, shards of the locks from ziploc baggies, Trader Joes’ pasta bag. I don’t think I ever seen the lake water look like this below the surface, but above, when it’s sunny and I’m looking at it from the right angle: blue, often with purple vibes.

Scott asked me what I plan to do with these colors. I’m not sure yet, but I know it will be part of something that expresses how I see color and how color works in a city lake that resides in a lake city that prioritizes access for everyone and that is working hard to keep the lake and its people safe and healthy in the midst of a climate crisis (almost apocalypse?).

Once I gather more colors that fit, I could create some visual poem to place beside this poem, which is in by chapbook, Inklings:

Fish 3
between buoys 3 and 4

The fish in us escape.
They flash and streak and
leap, then return to
bubble whisper the names
of water’s colors. 

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
air: 96 degrees
water: 84 degrees

Hooray! 2 (almost) pain-free loops at lake nokomis open swim! Before it started, I was able to talk with 2 other swimmers about how much we love open swim. They were a little older than me — 5 or 10? years — and just as enthusiastic about the water.

10 Things

  1. 2 girls — older high schoolers or in college? — flirting with 2 guys at Painted Turtle: loud, awkward giggles
  2. a guy playing guitar, accompanied by a recording — I know I enjoyed 2 of his songs, even danced to one, but I can only remember the other — an instrumental “Careless Whispers”
  3. very choppy water — not the type of waves that put up a fair fight, that you can punch, but the ones that unsettle, disorient, jostle
  4. swallowing a wave of water, which made me more careful about when and where I breathed and stroked
  5. 1 2 3 4 5 breathe right 1 2 3 4 breathe right 1 2 3 breathe left
  6. a very LOUD metallic buzz beneath the surface — somewhere someone was doing something that was causing this noise — was it a boat? a machine drilling somewhere?
  7. slosh slap
  8. bubble friends!
  9. being routed by lifeguards when I swam too wide of an angle
  10. the first orange buoy was almost in the middle of the lake — maybe the farthest I’ve ever seen it

The water was opaque and the color was somewhere between these 2 colors:

green 1
green 2

july 13/RUNSWIM

4 miles
river road, north/south
85 degrees / dew point: 72

Last night, I planned to do my run early in the morning, but when I woke up it was already hot so Scott and I decided to walk and get coffee instead. As we walked back on the river road trail, we realized that it didn’t feel too terrible. There was shade and a breeze and the humidity was lower. When we got home, we both changed, then went out for runs — I went at 10:15, Scott at 10:40. I was surprised at how fine I felt. I was hot, but I didn’t feel like I would faint or get heat stroke; I just felt like I was working hard. No anxiety about it — a mental victory! Was it because of my HRT patch? Possibly.

Almost all of my route was in the shade, which was by design; I wouldn’t have been able to run in this heat with direct sun. I encountered many walkers, a few bikers, 1 or 2 other runners, 2 big groups of kids — one on bikes, one on foot.

I listened to my “I’m Shadowing You” playlist. I told Scott later that I was trying to manifest shade. It worked.

10 Things

  1. dappled light, jagged patterns of light on the trail
  2. kids on bikes in bright yellow vests
  3. 2 bikers stopped near the trail, recovering or fixing something on their bikes after climbing the franklin hill
  4. no bugs — no swarms of gnats encircling my face or single gnats trying to swim in my eye juice
  5. the crack north of the trestle is still blocked off — this stretch had the most sun
  6. passing a walker on the path in flip flops, near the rowing club — did they just finish rowing? probably
  7. a scooter on the edge of the trail, but not far enough on the edge — if I hadn’t been paying attention, I could have tripped over it
  8. air quality is good — no smoke from colorado fires this year!
  9. bright blue sky
  10. a flushed face, sweat-soaked shirt

swim: 1.5 loops (3 cedar loops)
cedar lake open swim
95 degrees

Wow, the water was warm! As another swimmer said to me, it’s like bath water. I tried to remember that and not swim too hard. Hot air temp + hot water temp = hot Sara, with no chance to cool down. No worries. I swam slow and steady. 1 2 3 4 5 breathe right 1 2 3 4 5 breathe left. By the 3rd loop, I had increased my strokes: 1 2 3 4 5 6 breathe right 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 breathe left

Great news: My shoulder didn’t hurt at all on the first loop, and it hardly hurt on loops 2 and 3, and now, an hour later, it doesn’t hurt at all. Hooray!

Not so great news: I sacrificed my other new nose plug to the lake. Treading water at the end of loop one, trying to adjust my nose plug and unfog my googles, the nose plug fell down into the murky depths. Oh well. These nose plugs were slightly too big: I had to adjust them almost every loop. Time to go back to the slightly more expensive ($7 instead of $2) nose plugs. I wish I could find the exact one that I’ve been wearing for more than 5 years, but they’re always changing things, making them “better,” and I don’t think they make the exact one I have now.

The water was calm on the way to Hidden beach, rough on the way back. It was also yellow and murky. I saw some of my bubble friends but no silver flashes. I got tangled up in a few floating vines, had to stop swimming as clueless paddle boarders crossed the swimming course.

images of the day: the wide arc of some swimmers on the other side of the loop, swimming back. What I saw: some splashes, a few caps, buoys, the idea of a curved line. Also, the occasional swimmer, swimming down the middle, or crossing over to swim in the wrong direction. All these swimmers — their elbows and white foam and buoys — looked so far away. Distance is distorted in and on the water.

july 10/RUN

12 miles
franklin + ford + hidden falls + veterans home + falls
67 degrees
humidity: 86% / dew point: 65

Ugh! That was hard. It was too hot, too sunny, too humid. My feet hurt from warts and a big blister. I almost altered the route to cut off 2 miles. And I did it. And I felt okay for the last mile, like I could have kept going. Success! I’m proud of myself for persisting today.

3 things I did right

I didn’t have any unfinished business problems! I brought my water and made sure to keep drinking from it. I didn’t give up.

3 things to work on

Bring more snacks/fuel. A bandaid around my toe doesn’t work — it created a juicy blister — find other solutions. Be more intentional with music or mantras or experiments to try for distraction/focus.

10 Things

  1. Mr. Morning! upped his game today with his greeting. Instead of just, morning! He added: Have a Great Day!
  2. rowers!, 1: a coxswain’s voice, giving instructions through a megaphone
  3. rowers!, 2: the gentle slap of the oars hitting the water
  4. the crack just north of the trestle is bigger (again) — they’ve barricaded it off with metal gates
  5. the part of the trail near the trestle on the east side was blocked off — some sort of work with a tall crane
  6. the bells of st. thomas chiming
  7. a skate boarder at the skate park: doing a wide arc at the edge of the course
  8. filling up my water bottle: at the monument, near the skate park
  9. a group of three bikers — 2 adults, one kid — biking slowly in front of me
  10. stopping in the grass to adjust my laces (at least 5xs), stopping at a bench to take off my shoe to inspect my toe (1)

I have to do this again next week, but for the rest of today, I’ll celebrate the accomplishment of running (with some walking) 12 miles and moving for more than 2 hours.

For the first hour, I listened to birds, fragments of conversations, cars, trickling water, and bells. For the next 45 minutes, I listened to a Ruth Ware audiobook. And for the rest of the time: my Color playlist.

I’ve just barely started reading Kohn’s How Forests Think, which I was able to get through RJP’s college library. This is one of the opening lines in chapter 2, “The Living Thought”:

This chapter develops the claim that all living beings, and not just humans, think, and explores another closely related claim, that all thoughts are alive. It is about “the living thought.” What does it mean to think? What does it mean to be alive? Why are these two questions related, and how does our approach to them, especially when seen in terms of the challenges of relating to other kinds of beings, change our understanding of relationality and “the human”?

If thoughts are alive and if that which lives thinks, then perhaps the living world is enchanted. What I mean is that the world beyond the human is not a meaningless one made meaningful by humans. Rather, mean-ings—means-ends relations, strivings, purposes, telos, intentions, functions and significance—emerge in a world of living thoughts beyond the human in ways that are not fully exhausted by our all-too-human attempts to define and control these. More precisely, the forests
around Ávila are animate. That is, these forests house other emergent loci of mean-ings, ones that do not necessarily revolve around, or originate from, humans. This is what I’m getting at when I say that forests think. It is to an examination of such thoughts that this anthropology beyond the human now
turns.

How Forests Think / Eduardo Kohn

I’d like to put this chapter and the questions, What does it mean to think? and What does it mean to be alive?, beside Alice Oswald’s Homeric mind, with thoughts that don’t reside in the brain but travel outside of it, over the sea, Emily Dickinson’s bees, and the possibility that thoughts might be creatures themselves — and not just metaphorically. I’ve written about this before, and I’ll find where, either later today or tomorrow.

the next day:

1 — Alice Oswald on the Homeric mind:

Well, as you know, I’m quite fascinated, even obsessed, you might say with Homer. And one of the things that really tantalizes me in Homer is what is the Homeric mind? Because I think it’s very different from a literary mind. And it seems not to be inside the skull, but to be out in the world. So, there is a particular simile in the Iliad, which actually that first bit of the poem is based on, where it talks about two goddesses coming from heaven to the earth. And they’re very physically described. They kind of fall down from heaven to the earth. And then when they land, they take little pigeon steps, steps like doves or pigeons. So you can really picture them. But the way their flight moves from heaven to earth is as a man, you know, as the mind flutters in a man who has traveled widely, so you can turn it the other way around and say the way a man thinks is like this incredibly physical flight of two goddesses coming down to earth a bit like pigeons. And that’s always really interested me, that for Homer, the mind has the limitations of a pigeon, if you like. It is this kind of … this physical thing that moves. So, if you imagine a place over the sea, your mind actually has to get there. So, even though it may be as fast as the light, it is physical movement.

A Conversation with Kit Fan and Alice Oswald

2 — bee in your bonnet (19 march 2024)

Here’s an article about the origins of the phrase. According to the article, the phrase is still being used in popular culture. I use it, usually when I notice Scott hell-bent on some task — and usually it seems like a task, or idea, that is fool-hardy but that he needs to work through and figure out for himself. 

Sometimes instead of saying, bee in your bonnet, I say that someone (or me) is hellbent. Of course, writing that immediately makes me think of Jackie from the 1979 Death on the Nile:

Jacqueline De Bellefort : One must follow one’s star wherever it leads. 
Hercule Poirot : Even to disaster? 
Jacqueline De Bellefort : Even to Hell itself.

When I envision a bee in my bonnet, I see something that is relentless, impossible to ignore, urgently needing to be dealt with. That’s not quite how I imagine my preoccupation with haunts and ghosts and writing about the gorge. Still, I like the idea of bees in bonnets, and bees in general, so maybe I’ll spend more time with them this morning?

Reading through several ED “bee” poems, I suddenly had a thought: could the bee in your bonnet be your soul, trying to escape the confines of the body?

This thought was inspired by a poem I wrote about in an On This Day post: Body and Soul/ Sharon Bryan. I didn’t mention it in the post, but the description of the soul in the poem, as leaving the body at night to roam around, reminded me of an ED poem I read a few weeks ago, when I was thinking about the difference between the brain and the mind:

If ever the lid gets off my head/ Emily Dickinson

If ever the lid gets off my head
And lets the brain away
The fellow will go where he belonged —
Without a hint from me,

And the world — if the world be looking on —
Will see how far from home
It is possible for sense to live
The soul there — all the time.

3 — thoughts as a swarm of bees, uncontrollable and unwanted

As I started thinking more about my discussion of thoughts as bees, I also thought about how those bees, especially if they are swarming in your head without the lid being removed, could be overwhelming, incapacitating. Then I found this in my log entry from 30 june 2024:

“During the first loop somewhere between the first and second orange buoys an alarming thought appeared: what if I fainted in the middle of the lake? In the past this thought might have caused panic which I would feel in my body — a flushed face, harder to breathe, hot tingling on the top of my head. Not today. No physical effect. Within a few minutes the thought was gone. Is this because of the lexapro? FWA says that sometimes he feels the lexapro working — he’ll start having overwhelming thoughts but instead of spiraling, he feels himself become separated from those thoughts — they become abstract and distant. I wondered about this as I stroked then connected it to Alice Oswald’s Homeric mind and the idea of thoughts not just living in our head but traveling outside of our bodies from there to there.”

from Thinking/ DANUSHA LAMÉRIS

And I found this bit of a poem:

Don’t you wish they would stop, all the thoughts
swirling around in your head, bees in a hive, dancers
tapping their way across the stage?

Who with their whispered psalm
can outvoice their huckster cackle, the trees
blustered to howls while the tesla bees

whine loudly to the shocked air?

other links: I have a page about bees in my “How to Be” project on Un || Disciplined (I had forgotten that I did this — thanks, past Sara!)

one more thing: Finding my archive of bee-related things, is putting a bee in my bonnet. I need to archive all of my resources — or, as many as I can — before my central vision is completely gone. I imagine it will be much harder to do this once that happens!

july 8/RUN

3.9 miles
wabun hill and back
67 degrees / humidity: 87%

An early-ish run. Started at 7:45. If I had run earlier, the temperature would have been a few degrees cooler, but the humidity and dew point would have been higher. Which is worse, higher temp or higher dew point? Dew point, I think. I’ll have to test it out — if I can get up earlier!

For the past month or so, I’ve been struggling with my feet and ankles. I’ve tried a few different pairs of shoes to see if any of them were better. This week — on Tuesday and today — I went back to my Brooks Ghosts. They seem to be working better. Today I realized (or remembered?) to put my laces through the extra holes at the top of the shoe. I think I had tried this early on with these shoes, but it felt too tight, then. It worked!

10 Things

  1. gobble gobble gobble a turkey calling out from a tree in turkey hollow
  2. a bike rushing past me on the wabun hill
  3. an older man and woman stopped at the bottom of the locks and dam hill
  4. thwack thwack the chain from the flag hitting the flag pole
  5. a few bits of glitter on the surface of the river under the ford bridge
  6. the older man and woman halfway up the hill, each of them dragging a tire
  7. almost all benches were empty
  8. stopping at the Rachel Dow Memorial bench for a quick view of the river and to retie my shoe
  9. the wabun hill was covered in wet dirt — a little slippery when descending it
  10. a woman standing on the edge of the trail, looking out somewhere, taking a picture of something

strong shoulders

Open swim tonight, but no Sara swimming. It’s a bummer, but I know that it’s a very bad idea to try and swim with my sore shoulder, My favorite, self-proclaimed “best PTs in the world,” Bob and Brad have some exercises for me to try in the next couple of days:

july 7/RUNSWIM

run: 4.1 miles
monument and back
70 degrees
humidity: 87% / dew point: 68

More uncomfortably warm conditions. Difficult, but doable. I did my run/walk plan: 5/1 (mile 1) — 1.5/.5 (miles 2-4). My feet didn’t hurt that much, and I had a lot of energy, especially in my legs, at the end of the run. I’ll take that as a victory. I listened to my striking feet and dripping water (shadow falls) and the st. thomas bells for the first half, Olivia Rodrigo for the second.

10 Things

  1. St. Thomas bells — faint and short, 8:45, I think
  2. rowers!, 1: on the way to st. paul, crossing the lake street bridge, 2 double rowing shells in the blueish gray water
  3. rowers!, 2: on the way back to minneapolis, crossing the lake street bridge, 4 6-man rowing shells + the white boat with the coxswain
  4. coxswain to rowers: okay and stop. good job!
  5. overcast — a gray sky — is it going to rain? no: soon, sun
  6. the dreamy reflection of clouds on the pale blue gray river
  7. the path near shadow falls: cracked, cratered, ridged — dangerous!
  8. at the top of the shadow falls hill, passing an adult and a kid wearing a backpack — summer school?
  9. honk honk
  10. near the beginning: a woman walking with a dog, holding the leash too loose, the dog licking my leg — sunday, I didn’t mind; today I did

swim: 1 loop
lake nokomis open swim
81 degrees

Written the next morning. Almost perfect conditions. Smooth, warm water, not too crowded, overcast. For the first half of the loop, I felt strong and relaxed, but sometime not long after I rounded the third buoy, my right shoulder started to hurt. It was difficult to lift my arm. Ouch. When I reached the final green buoy, I stopped and rested for a few minutes in the beach area. I tried to swim again. Nope. I had to stop. A big bummer. I think I could have swum 5 loops tonight in this water.

Looked it up in the middle of the night (which might seem like a bad idea, but didn’t make me any less able to sleep) and it’s probably swimmer’s shoulder, caused by overuse. Swimmer’s shoulder is a common injury. I’m hoping that taking the rest of the week off will be enough to make it better. The silver lining: I still have more than half of the season left, so I should be able to swim again.

july 1/RUNSWIM

4.6 miles
veterans home
74 degrees / drizzle?
humidity: 89%
dew point: 69

Woke up at 6 am to get in a run before it rained, then heard thunder. Bummer. Had to wait until 9. When I left, the sun was coming out but a mile in, the wind picked up. Did it start drizzling or was that just dripping trees? I think it was a little of both.

It was hot and difficult and I wasn’t sure how much I’d be able to do when I started — 2 miles? 3? — but then I just kept going and it kept feeling a little more doable. Just make it to southern entrance to the Winchell Trail. And, just make it to the locks and dam parking lot. And, just make it to the top of the Wabun hill. Once I got to the top and kept going through Wabun park, there was no turning back, just through the grounds of the Veterans home and over to the falls then north on the river road to home.

10 Wet Things

  1. big puddles on the sidewalk
  2. smaller puddles on the path
  3. muddy ruts
  4. dripping trees
  5. dripping ponytail
  6. soaked shirt
  7. roaring falls
  8. gushing sewer pipe
  9. whooshing wheels
  10. damp face

Early this morning, while making breakfast, I listened to a podcast interview with Moheb Soliman whose book, Homes, I’ve just started reading. Love it! I think I’ll buy this book as a birthday present to myself!

In the interview, the interviewer mentions another poet who I’d also like to check out: Cecily Nicholson. Cecily Nicholson: interview + book, Crowd Source

Also in the interview, Soliman reads several of his poems, including this one:

Great Lake Swamp come heavy-use wetlands:
powers of Toledo origin song

Who let this wetland wet / Who cut this little inlet / Laid the hill for golden
hours / Fit the logs with the salamanders / Foretold the lichen and the mosses
/ Who offered the wildlife crossing

Along this promenade I sing / about how the world’s made / my behorned
serenade to nobody but

Who wet this aggregate / Who raised this bamboo deck / Who had these
grasses mown / Who made the birches grow in groves / Who made this prairie
seric1 / Carved out a space for heron

This is my behorned little dirge / I sing along this little bridge / about how this
little world’s birthed by no body but

Who left this river wet / Sowed the embankment / Set the grade for the slope
of the island / Spawned the minnows to feed the walleye / Who knows the
ripples till flood / Who reads teh dried-out flats of mud

About how the world’s mocked up / I sing along this ply boardwalk / This is
where the trombones stop

for nobody / By no body but / you local / No melody but vocals / As is / La la /
La li / La las / La lis / As is

Who let this wetland wet? I love all of these question about the creating of a place. I frequently think (and ask) about how the paths I run on, the lakes I swim in, were made what they are by people, particularly the city of Minneapolis and Minneapolis Parks. For years, I’ve been studying the documents and the places to find evidence of this creating and shaping.

Before reading the poem, Soliman says this:

And this is a big part of our discourse right now that, you know, humans aren’t separate. I mean, I have a really hard time kind of following that to the end, because I do feel that there’s a profound difference in how much we are able to control and shape that world to the point where we’re not really a part of it in the same organic way that so many other parts of it are, you know, and a lot of the poems like sometimes absurdly, you know, and I mean, I could even read some of those like, but absurdly play with that idea that, you know, we created this place, you know, the hiking trail, like it is actually, it’s not just some natural path.

You know, there’s a lot that has gone into making you feel that you are here at one in a harmonious, quiet moment in the woods or on the lake. And, you know, so our hand is like so strong in those places, and it would be really, like, naive to just write a poem about being out in the woods without also being aware about, of how we came to that place, and how humans are really, uh, yeah, sort of different and yet a part of.

Commonplace interview with Moheb Soliman

I was prompted to find this interview because I wanted to hear Soliman read his own poems; I hoped that might help me understand the strange spacing of the lines. He addresses this desire directly in the interview:

A lot of these poems are these justified text blocks with like, internal line breaks. And a lot of them started as lineated poems. Uh, and I just liked the ones that weren’t like that more because I felt like line breaks were too precious sometimes.

Just in poetry, not just mine, but sometimes I just kind of bristle at line breaks, you know? Um, they make, yeah, sometimes they make poems feel too precious. And I wanted this to have a bit more of a, like, robustness, you know? That they’re, they kind of just sit there on the page, you know, like a paragraph, you know?

Yet, I still love, like, the wordplay of, like, enjambment, and, uh, so, I came to a point where I thought, well, either all of these have to be these text blocks, or they just all need to go to lineated. And I spent a lot of time, like, reworking so many of them into these text blocks. And at one point I was really terrified that, like, I’ve made the reading experience really hard for people.

I don’t know, because to me, I’m just so familiar with them. They’re really, I see them in my head and I understand how they move, like, you know, orally, you know. So, it’s part of the reason I, like, really appreciate the chance to read them, because I feel like if I can just get my voice into someone’s head about the book, it’ll just make the rest of the experience, you know, easier.

Very helpful to read this, and to hear him read his own poems. The next thing he says is also helpful, and is sparking some new thoughts on (my) forms:

A friend of mine kind of made this interesting point where they sort of, like lakes, like on the page. They just kind of pool there with some like, gaps. And I think she was kind of first saying how the poems have a real flow. And then we were talking about how poems sometimes really feel like rivers, you know, and without really meaning to, I kind of forced these to have a bit more of like a lake, like, you know, here they are, in one place, and there, there’s the pooling, you know, that’s happening.

Oh — I want to think about this some more! How do rivering words look different from laked ones? What else do lakes do, besides pooling? They settle, shimmy in place . . . . This question is an excellent one to think about and to go back into my log to find some answers!

a few minutes later: they sink and sour and are stuck, still, stagnant, unstirred. Could it be that lakes, more than oceans or seas or rivers, are about what’s at the bottom, what sinks down, unmoved by currents? Stale and stymied. Layered and sedimented, cyclical – circular

plastic project

Since March, or was it April?, I’ve been collecting the plastic that we use for some unspecified future project. It started with old freezer bags, but expanded to include grapefruit, zucchini, and mini cucumber bags. Now I have sandwich and pita bread bags and the plastic bags that covered the new fan I recently bought. My favorite one: the plastic shell my new googles came in, which looks like another pair of clear goggles.

Definitely in April, I began deconstructing the freezer bags — cutting off the bright blue (zip) locking part, cutting open the clear plastic, then cutting out the white label. Last week, I decided I wanted to use the blue zip lock parts for some sort of visualizing of the lake. Maybe a big map of a lake nokomis loop? My first thought was to connect the strips together with thread or tape, but that didn’t really work. This week, another idea: shred the plastic! I tried to do it in the paper shredder, which would have shredded it almost instantly, but that wasn’t working. So, instead, I’m using my mother-in-law’s old silver scissors and snip snip snipping the strips. This snipping labor is reminding me of the satisfaction I got in the winter from drawing and shading in circle after circle on my New Yorker essays. There is something therapeutic about using my hands in this repetitive task, but also something that encouraged deep, creative thinking. These blue plastic strips are also satisfying to scoop up and sift through my fingers. Will these plastic blue shards become part of my map, or just the process that leads me to that map? Time will tell.

from the zip on a freezer bag to shards of blue lake
  1. seric = silk ↩︎

A few other thoughts:

As I cut up these little shards, I thought about all the plastic that ends up in the lake and an ocean and my organs and tissues and bodily fluids. Yikes!

As I accumulate more and more plastic I wonder: how can I stop using so much plastic? First step: stop using ziploc bags for storing my half used produce! Make my own bread? What else?

Telling Scott about my shards last night, he suggested trying to (just barely) melt them. In one of my bouts of insomnia I looked it up and found some suggestions, but not for what I wanted. In the various sources, toxic fumes was brought up more than once. Also: homemade shrinky dinks.

They are not the same texture, but I have some great green plastic — from zucchini and cucumber bags, and from the plastic wrap on two olive oil bottles. I’d like to mix some bits of them with the blue and see how that affects the color. Could I melt these together?

swim: 3 loops (6 mini)
cedar lake open swim
84 degrees

A calm and warm lake! Wonderful for swimming. I did 6 cedar loops without stopping. or only stopping mid-lake to adjust my nose plug. I noticed orange and pink buoys. Was mine the only yellow one? A few vines wrapped around my head and shoulders as I returned to the first buoy. The water was green-ish. The only fish I encountered were little minnows near shore. My bubble friends trailed below and in front of me.

overheard, one lifeguard to another — I told him he needed to head over to lake nokomis to pick up his swim cap.

A uncapped swimmer was out in the middle of the lake, some more uncapped swimmers were lurking at the far orange buoy.

Anything else? I felt strong and smooth, and often the swimming seemed effortless. Even so, I was glad to be done at the end of the 6th loop.

june 30/RUNSWIM

run: 3.25 miles
2 trails +
75 degrees
humidity: 77% / dew point: 68

Hot! And not too terrible. Yesterday morning, walking to a coffee shop in the heat and humidity I felt like I struggled to breathe but today, when it’s almost as hot, I didn’t struggle at all1. As I ran above, I listened to my “Doin’ Time” playlist. Below, I listened to water trickling out of the sewer pipes and the occasional voice and the cars driving by. I noticed puddles and some wet dirt (it briefly rained earlier this morning). I thought about how fast the summer is going by and if I encounter any coyotes or the den that I’ve seen signs about.

No rowers or roller skiers or regulars. No poetry or flashes of inspiration. And that was fine with me. I was relaxed and free and happy to feel how strong my legs and back are, thanks to several weeks of solid swims.

A week or so ago, I discovered Moheb Soliman’s Homes, a collection of poems about the Great Lakes. I requested it from my local library and picked it up on Sunday. Here’s one of the first poems:

from Homes

At Point Pelee–Leamington,
Sandusky–Cedar Point / Moheb Soliman

This beach has more than two sides
more than the lake and the parking lotmand cultivated and sandwiches farms
and kiosked
aside it
and defies properties
I’ve peed
behind every sorta flora
scared away all kinda fauna
I crossed the lines
of r&r
to bridge the banks of main and head streets and waters
I tried myself
had myself
washed ashore to hamlets
faceup
the whole time
my figure
a petty viaduct only shallow beach could love
I swam each day I changed
myself in the Corolla
and diaspored
footfalls of mollusky sand all over the motel districts of Canuck Sanduskys
where in touch more
with
nature’s what they are
more
than
amusement
or
national park
and
lark
Cedar Point and the
tip
this land does not come to
two
states
means ends
nations
and defies commodity
recreation’s and conservation’s
this place
has
more
than
the
all-night
or
primitive drive-thru and the camping
this whole time my body held in feet
of surf
not diverting to the water
or exiting
but bridges fail all the time nothing new
bridges are being built and rebult
all over these lakes
adding sides to
no end
defying the accounts of travelers
homing in
pointing out
we came in off the water
not really having been
out there
you come out of the water turn right
around get back in there
I’m going out to the water
never really having left there

I wasn’t sure how to keep the spacing with my typing, so I took a screen shot of the page (see above). I’d like to hear the poet read one of these poems to get a better sense of how to understand their spaces….I found them reading it!

Does this help? I’ll hav to listen a few more times, and read more of the poems in this collection. I should also watch this:

So much to think about in this short prose poem. Today, if I can remember as I am battling the wind and the waves, I’d like to think about these lines:

but bridges fail all the time nothing new
bridges are being built and rebult
all over these lakes

There are literal bridges and metaphorical bridges and metaphor as bridge. I want to think about the bridges in the ending lines:

we came in off of the water
you come out of the water
I’m going out to the water / never having really left there

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
90 degrees

It didn’t seem windy but, wow, the water was wild. Very choppy, with an undertow and lots of waves. Mostly I breathed on my right side and did as much punching of the water as stroking. Rounding the buoy during the second loop, a lifeguard approached and called out, we need to evacuate the water! head to the beach! I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I didn’t ask, just swam to the beach. A few minutes later, we all heard a lifeguard tell everyone that the open swim course was just for open swimmers. Then another lifeguard (or was it the same one?) call out, there was a distressed swimmer, but we were able to help them. I’m not surprised that someone was distressed out there; it was rough. I didn’t mind how rough it was, but I didn’t want to blow out my shoulder with another loop. So I stopped after two. I told Scott that June is for being cautious as you build up your muscles, but July is for pushing yourself to keep going. July doesn’t start until tomorrow, so I’m fine with stopping tonight.

I had wanted to think about bridges and being on the water or in the water or out at the water, but I was too distracted by the waves and the need to give attention to breathing and not swallowing water and delighting in the fun of fighting the waves and winning.

A question to ponder: will this be the week (the month?) of choppy water? I don’t mind having a few choppy days, but I hope the water calms down.

  1. Just checked and the humidity was worse yesterday, 89%, so I guess that could have been why it was harder. ↩︎

june 27/RUN

6 miles
veterans home + extra
64 degrees

Another beautiful morning. Quiet, calm, low-ish humidity. Ran on as much soft dirt as I could find, which helps my feet. Ran for 12 minutes straight, then 90/30 for the rest — with an occasional 2 or 3 minutes of running thrown in. My legs felt strong and bouncy. My feet started hurting around mile 4. I need to figure this one out. I think it’s mostly warts — yuck! — a few on the ball of my feet, one or two on or under a toe.

10 Things

  1. a coxswain’s voice, down in the gorge
  2. the dirt trail on the grass between lena smith and the river road was narrow and overgrown
  3. nearing locks and dam no. 1, voices somewhere in the trees — on the upper trail leading to the ford bridge
  4. ding ding ding ding ding the recorded bell from the light trail train passing through a intersection
  5. the soft roar of the creek far below me as I crossed the tall bridge that connects the veterans home to the park
  6. a glimpse of the trail Scott, RJP, and I hiked yesterday evening through the trees, below
  7. mostly empty benches
  8. a few e-bikes on the trail, going way too fast
  9. glanced over at the statue of Big Feet/Gunner* when I turned to run through the archway near the falls
  10. surfaces: asphalt, concrete, dirt, roots, brick, sand

*I looked up Gunner on this log because I knew I had written about him. A fun coincidence: I wrote about him on June 27th, 2021! “Ran south on the river road trail past the falls and stopped at the big statue just past the pergola garden. When I would walk or bike the kids over here, about 10 years ago, we (or was it mostly me?) called this statue “big feet” because all the kids could see was his big feet. There was also a little feet (John Stevens)–a much smaller statue not too far way. Today I wanted to find out who Big Feet actually was. I assumed he might be someone connected to Fort Snelling–Zebulon Pike or Snelling or Franklin. Nope. Gunner Wennenberg, a Swedish composer, poet, and politician. This statue was erected on June 24th, 1914.”

Found this bit about names on Poetry Daily (poems.com):

A name is a word but not a word. Some words are names and some names are words. When you’re alive your name means you; sometimes it means the you you mean to yourself; more often the you you are to each person who knows you well enough to use it. If it’s a word, it also means what it means as a word in the mouths of people who don’t know you, and also sometimes in the mouths of people who do know you. When you’re dead your name means you until the people who used it are all gone and then it means pure sound (if your name was not a word), or it goes back to meaning what the word means (if your name was also a word).

Danika Paige Myers on Grave Markers

june 25/RUNSWIM

10 miles
ford loop + hidden falls + veterans home + falls + locks and dam
60 degrees
humidity: 80%

10 miles. It’s been a few years since I ran 10 miles. I just looked it up and, according to my records, it’s been since Sept 29, 2024. That’s a week before the marathon. Wow. It wasn’t easy. I wasn’t fast. My feet really hurt in the last mile. And I did it. And I feel good about it. More than good, great. These long runs are really helpful for me as I try to work on my mental strength and endurance.

Yesterday I was listening to Kara Goucher giving advice on her podcast. What I remember her saying is this: find something positive to focus on for each stretch. Don’t allow yourself to think about what’s going wrong; think about what you are doing right. For many of the running stretches I felt strong and bouncy and in a dreamy state. Not sure I’d call it a flow state, but a state of non-thinking. Of being.

When I was thinking, I thought about my running. In the last three miles, I thought: I need to be particularly intentional in these last miles of my long run to not let it fall apart. I need to work at keeping to my schedule of walk runs. Keeping to this schedule should be something I work on in future long runs.

my route

My route took me many different places: through the neighborhood, past the daycare at the church, over the lake street bridge, beside shadow falls and the monument, on the edge of the new Highland bridge development, just above Hidden Falls, next to a skate park, over the ford bridge, past Wabun and the splash pad, through the veterans’ home grounds, behind the John Stevens’ house; above the falls, back up to wabun, down to the locks and dam no. 1, then north on the west river parkway. There was lots of shade and only a few stretches of direct sun. It was cool and overcast for the first half, a little warmer and sunny for the second half.

10 Things

  1. one rowing shell out on the river — I noticed in my peripheral as I crossed the lake street bridge — kept trying to see it in my central vision, but never could
  2. a woman’s voice at the construction site for home being renovated — she said something like, they’ll be here to hook up the garbage disposal — is that what she said? I can’t quite remember
  3. the soft shushing of my feet as they stuck the soft dirt then slid backward
  4. music blasting from a bike
  5. the soft rushing of water down the channel under the bridge that leads to a hidden falls overlook
  6. a ladder at an angle, leaning against a house, reaching a window on the second story
  7. the hum of skateboard wheels, a flash of a skater behind me, the sound of the board flipping as the skater went up a ramp
  8. a woman sitting on a bench near the veterans home, reading something
  9. 2 people, close together, on the little bridge overlooking the falls, taking a selfie
  10. the thwack of the flag rope hitting the pole in the wind

For the first mile, I listened to the traffic, then I put in Olivia Rodrigo’s new album. I listened to it 3 times as I ran. They lyrics I remember most come from the song “Expectations”: past mistakes are just new information

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
74 degrees

I entered and exited the swim course at the other end of the beach and avoided the worst patches of milfoil. Only a few ghostly vines not quite reaching my toes. Nice. I like starting there, much closer to the last green buoy. It’s less crowded and it shifts where and when a new loop begins. At least, this is what I thought as I swam the second loop and reached the second orange buoy, which was now the third buoy I swim by in a loop and not the second.

The water was a little warmer, or I was. Whatever the reason, the result: no freezing feet or fingers. I witnessed lots of bubbles, some menacing swims, lifeguards that were too close to the buoys, forcing me to take sharper angles around them. No fish seen below, one bird, flying low with its wings spread wide, above, a duck near the shore as I swam into the beach. Two little girls, chasing after it.

Overheard: one of the girls to the other — then he picked it up with his bare hands and threw it!

Overheard: one kid to another, on the beach — how old are you? Eight, you’re eight?!

A big exercise day today. Almost 1500 active calories. 10 miles of running, a mile and half of swimming. It felt good.

june 23/RUN

4 miles
monument and back
65 degrees

Hot! Bright sun. Some shade. I watched my shadow beside and below me as I ran the stretch of the east river trail between the lake street bridge and shadow falls. Heard a coxswain, then 20 minutes later saw the white boat on the river. I think I saw some rowers, too, but it might have just been waves.

I did 90/30, which should have felt easy, but didn’t. But it kept my pace and heart rate a little lower. Wore my Brooks Ghosts and some new socks — size: youth. I like this size — not too tight or too loose. My feet felt okay until the last mile when the widest part, below the big toe, started to rub, then slightly ache. No Brooks for my long run, either tomorrow or Thursday. 10 miles this week.

Listened to the cars and the kids and the sound of my feet striking the ground for the first half, then Olivia Rodrigo’s new album, you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love, for the second part. I like it; it’s fun to run to. As I walked back, I listened to her song, “Purple” — I better add that to my color playlist!

10 Things

  1. the sandbar, under the lake street bridge, was just beneath the surface of the river
  2. little kids being dropped off at the church daycare — as I ran by, I heard the bell for them to go inside and start the day
  3. cars backed up on the bridge due to a red light far up the hill
  4. voices in the ravine, near shadow falls
  5. the bottom of the water fountain at the monument was flowing continuously — had someone left something on? was the button stuck? no, I think it’s designed to do that for draining and dogs
  6. only one open spot at the monument parking lot
  7. workers were doing something under the lake street/marshall bridge — it didn’t impact pedestrians or the walking trail, but the road up the hill was closed
  8. a line of bikers on the trail — about 8 silver riders in bright yellow vests
  9. running by a house — a flash of red, then a small bird landed on a railing — mostly it had no color for my bad eyes, but a few times I could see that it was red
  10. the slide-y (but not slippery) feel of my feet striking the soft sandy grit on the desire path next to the paved trail

note: It is 2:44 pm and thunderstorms are predicted, starting at 4. Open swim is set to begin at 5:30. Will it happen? Future Sara, let us know! . . . Future Sara here: cancelled at 4 pm, amidst a steady rain with occasional thunder.

weeds / entanglement

Remembering this hours after my run: near the end of the walk home, I thought about nets and being entangled. Why? Just remembered! It was the lines in Olivia Rodrigo’s “Purple” in which she sings about unraveling. Wait — not “Purple” but “The Cure”:

Refrain]
But I’m unraveled (I’m unraveled)
I’m unraveled (I’m unraveled)
I’m unraveled (I’m unraveled)
I’m unraveled (I’m unraveled)

[Chorus]
And my head is full of poison, and my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream, you tried hard to suck ’em out
And it feels like medication, and it’s good for me, I’m sure
But it don’t matter how your love feels anymore
It will never be the cure

I thought about unraveling is the unwanted thing here; she’s falling apart. But, unraveling can be desired; I’d like for the thick knots and tangles of milfoil to unravel in the swimming area at lake nokomis. This lead me to think about nets and how they can trap us or keep us safe. And knots — in hair, of stomach anxiety, with thread, they’re bad, but on anchors, on the ends of drawstrings, for keeping shoes tied tightly as you run, they’re good.

Knot is a tangle, a problem that needs
unraveling. Not is the thing that isn’t / doesn’t /wouldn’t. Knot a securing, a way of holding on.

Knot Work / Not Work / Knot Hole / Not Whole

When I looked up the lyrics of “The Cure,” I discovered that Rodrigo is calling her tour the Unraveled Tour and has a very cool video for the song, which involves some visually freaky and cool unraveling:

Midway through the video Rodrigo begins unraveling as red threads emerge from her outstretched fingers. More and more red appears.

screenshot from “The Cure” by Olivia Rodrigo / red thread emerges from an outstretched hand

And here’s another knot poem that I posted on this log years ago. It’s a favorite of mine:

Epistemology / Catherine Barnett

Mostly I’d like to feel a little less, know a little more.
Knots are on the top of my list of what I want to know.
Who was it who taught me to burn the end of the cord
to keep it from fraying?
Not the man who called my life a debacle,
a word whose sound I love.
In a debacle things are unleashed.
Roots of words are like knots I think when I read the dictionary.
I read other books, sure. Recently I learned how trees communicate,
the way they send sugar through their roots to the trees that are ailing.
They don’t use words, but they can be said to love.
They might lean in one direction to leave a little extra light for another tree.
And I admire the way they grow right through fences, nothing
stops them, it’s called inosculation: to unite by openings, to connect
or join so as to become or make continuous, from osculare,
to provide with a mouth, from osculum, little mouth.
Sometimes when I’m alone I go outside with my big little mouth
and speak to the trees as if I were a birch among birches.

Her discussion of trees talking to each other and growing through fences returns me to the Knot Work / Not Work poem. Here’s what Jishin No-ben (Lee Ann Roripaugh, trans.) writes about tree knots and burls:

from Knot Work / Not Work / Knot Hole / Not Whole: a Mapping

2.
Formed in trunks where branches used to be,
or where the trunk’s growth has choked off
the smaller, lower branches in a tree. Each knot
the mark of a tightening tourniquet surrounding
a phantom limb. Each knot a scar, a toughening
over to cauterize loss, seal the body shut so it doesn’t
bleed out in the snow. In a concentration camp
in Minidoka, Idaho, wood artist George Nakashima
learned to burnish the souls of trees through their scars:
their knots, their holes, their cracks, their broken histories.

. . .

4.
Burl’s the wood formed when a tree is sick
or stressed, causing the grain to arabesque
into strange spirals, distorted forms, eye-spotted
with visible knots. Burl erupts when infestations
of insects or mold spread unchecked beneath bark’s
façade, the burl becoming larger, more ornate,
as the tree continues to grow. They sound like tumors,
or eyesores, but burl’s actually expensive and rare.
A tree can’t survive without its burl. When burl
is cut from a tree while it’s still alive, the tree dies.

I’d like to use these descriptions of tree biology as an inspiration for my discussion of milfoil biology — about how milfoil spreads and chokes out the light and starves fish and ensnares swimmers’ arms.

june 18/RUNSWIM

9.15 miles
lake nokomis and back
57 degrees / humidity: 87%

My longest run in more than a year. It is humbling to feel like 9 miles was the most I could do (at least today) when I ran a marathon just 2 years ago. Of course, thanks to perimenopausal anxiety, I have flashes of worrying that it’s not being out of shape but something physically wrong with me. A few days ago, Scott and I had a discussion — which is worse: peri/menopausal anxiety or peri/menopausal irritability? I guess, being irritable is a drag for everyone around you, but it seems less draining than worrying that every small ache or pain means you might have a terminal illness. I am rarely irritated, but I am often anxious.

I ran the first mile without stopping, then moved into my 90 seconds of running, 30 seconds of walking. I like this method, although I was a little disappointed that my heart rate was still higher. Was it the humidity? Is that just how my heart rate works when I’m running? Is it a bigger concern — some heart problem? Or was it because I ran the first mile without stopping instead of doing the 90/30 from the beginning? I imagine it was mostly the humidity and doing a continuous first mile. At the halfway point, I experimented with the ratio: 3 min run/1 min walk and 2 min run/1 min walk.

assessment: I feel pretty good now, and I definitely had more energy at the end of the run. My feet hurt — not as much as they have in past runs, but the ball of both feet still ached at the end. Also: my ankles were a little sore, too.

Even though it was humid, and I wished I had worn my tank top instead of a short-sleeved shirt, I didn’t feel too hot. Lots of shade, a cool-ish breeze. I heard at least one woodpecker, laughing; the babbling creek; a dog losing its mind — bark bark bark bark — across the creek. I greeted several walkers and runners, stopped at the park bathroom right before reaching mile 8. I ran past some guy watching a pickleball match; counted several kayaks out on the water; encountered a biggish group of runners ahead of me — would I get tangled up with them? No, thankfully they stopped at the playground to do some exercises and to pair up. As I passed them, I could hear someone calling out, okay, now find someone with about your same pace.

For 8 of the miles, I listened to the world around me. Cars streaming past on the parkway; the hum of a hoverboard on the bike path; kids calling out to each other at the creek; and the thwack of the ball on the pickle ball court. For mile 9, I put in my “windows” playlist. The song I most remember was one I’m almost skipped, Pete Seeger’s “Fly through my window” — little bird little bird fly through my window

random bummer news: The Minneapolis Park Board voted to close the dog park and one of the most decorated American female mid-distance runners, Jenny Simpson, had a medical emergency while pacing a mile race on Monday night: her heart stopped and they gave her CPR for 20 minutes before it restarted. She’s in the hospital now, recovering. She is 39 and just retired from running a few years ago.

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
70 degrees

Brrrrr. I’m not sure what the water temperature was, but it felt cold. Probably 70 degrees. The water was a bit choppy today and full of menacing swan boats and a few clueless kayaks. I couldn’t always tell if the kayak was a lifeguard moving across the course or some random kayaker not paying attention to the course — or maybe not realizing there was a course. I wouldn’t be surprised if no one told them what was going on.

I took RJP’s advice and started at the far edge of the beach, in line with the last green buoy, to avoid the tangles of milfoil at the other end of the beach. It helped a lot. The only milfoil I encountered was a few stray vines in the middle of the lake. One wrapped around my head and I had to fling it off, mid-stroke.

10 Things

  1. clear bubbles, made by my piercing hands
  2. a strange squeaking, rubbing noise as a swan boat neared
  3. often the orange buoys look white, the green ones too
  4. again, I swam straight to the buoys even when I couldn’t see them — only them when I was about 15 feet away from them
  5. the rope tethering the last green buoy to the lake bottom was at a sharp angle
  6. entering the water, I walked past 3 guys skipping rocks at the edge of the water
  7. a few silver flashes
  8. almost ran into another swimmer — I didn’t see them until they were right there
  9. sighting a green buoy, swimming towards it, seeing a sailboat near it and wondering if I had seen the buoy at all or just a boat — always, the buoy was there
  10. my first few steps in the water: brrrrr! very cold — I warmed up but felt very cold by the end, after sitting at Painted Turtle for a half an hour, my heels were numb

june 16/RUNSWIM

3.1 miles
2 trails
69 degrees

A sunny afternoon. Warmer than I thought it would be. Not an easy run, but I did it, and I got to travel on the winchell trail, which was shaded. Mostly the trail was in complete shade, but occasionally some sun came through. In a few spots it glowed so much that I wondered if it was white paint. Nope — I double-checked, just sun. I heard some kids above, then a person sitting on the 38th street steps having a disturbing conversation about someone being shot in the head. I hope they were talking about a movie or a tv show.

5 Run and 5 Swim Things

  1. the path was thick with bikers
  2. the road was crowded with cars
  3. the two benches that I recall noticing were occupied
  4. puddles on the trail from last night’s rain
  5. 2 kids on the dirt part of the winchell trail — the younger kid to the older one: do it! the older kid’s response: that’s mean!s
  6. several military jets flying above the lake
  7. water color: a pale blue-green
  8. little spirits at my feet! (minnows near the shore)
  9. a few friends: sediment and bubbles
  10. the water was so low — near the shore, it was far from the lifeguard stands and there was a little drop-off near the water

swim: 3 loops
lake nokomis open swim
70 degrees

A great swim! Again, I swam straight to the buoys without seeing them. And when I couldn’t see anything but water and trees and sky, I didn’t panic at all.

A few silver flashes below. 1 2 3 4 5 breathe right 1 2 3 4 5 breathe left. Sometimes, 1 2 3 4 breathe right 1 2 3 4 breathe right. Steady strokes. Sometimes I was sore, sometimes I was worried about my heart rate1, and all of time I was deeply grateful to be swimming in this lake with my strong shoulders and back.

Some dog updates

First, on Saturday, Delia the dog started limping and not putting any weight on her back left leg. On Monday the vet delivered the bad news: a torn ACL. Major bummer! Delia is in good spirits. In fact, she’s managed to figure out how to hop on that leg pretty effectively. It’s hard having to stop her. Currently we’re trying to decide between surgery or not. If she were a bigger dog, there would be no question: surgery. But, with smaller dogs, taking it easy and rehabbing might be enough. Surgery is expensive and traumatic, but so is not being able to run and jump and do much of anything for many months.

Second, it is seeming more likely that the off leash dog park will be closing by the end of 2026. It is on sacred Dakota land, I support the returning of this land (see this article for more info). At first, I was sad about losing it, but then Delia tore her ACL and we think it might have been at least partly due to an aggressive and unsupervised dog at the park. Many dog owners are great with their dogs at the park, but some use it as daycare, ignoring the rules of keeping your dog within sight. Even if the dog park stayed open, I don’t think we would taking Delia back there.

  1. last night at cedar lake, my average heart rate for the swim was 160, which was alarming. Usually it’s under 130. Combine that with my anxiety over any anomaly in my watch data, and I was a little worried. Checked my heart rate after I was done: 126. Phew. Back to normal. ↩︎

june 13/RUN

4 miles
up to wabun, down to lock and dam
60 degrees
wind: 14 mph

I was supposed to do open swim this morning, but it was 57 degrees and very windy and I decided that was too much for me this early in the season. Lots of wind = choppier water = more sighting = sore neck, So instead I watched Paul (steak sause not sexass) Seixas abandon and Del Toro win, then went out for a windy run.

It was a tough decision not to swim; I really don’t like missing open swims. But, as I walked through our alley before I started the run and felt the cool and windy air, I was glad I hadn’t gone. The run was good. The first 5 minutes always feel strange now. Is it that my shoes aren’t quite right, or that I’m getting older, or something else I’m not imagining? I think it’s more a redesign of the shoes than anything else.

I don’t remember what I thought about, and not much of what I noticed. I ran on the narrow and root-y strip of dirt in the grassy boulevard until I reached the 44th street parking lot. I don’t remember hearing any distinctive birds or avoiding any squirrels.

10 Things

  1. a trio of roller skiers on the double bridge
  2. 2 bikers crossing in front of me to bike down to the overlook at the south entrance of the winchell trail
  3. a bike zooming by me
  4. a man sitting on a bench near the locks and dam, fishing
  5. a squeaking noise as something on a light pole was jarred loose in the wind
  6. choppy water under the ford bridge
  7. the dirt path that winds through the grass was narrower in past years — are people using it less?
  8. someone slowly jogging up the locks and dam hill, then stopping at the top
  9. 3 people spread across the bottom of the wabun hill, one of them pusing a bike and holding a (too) loose leash with a small dog
  10. an older couple, the man pushing a walker, on the edge of the trail near the coyote den nearby sign, looking at something — the river? the coyote den? something across, on the east bank?

For most of the run I don’t remember much of what I heard. For the last mile, I listened to my “It’s Windy” playlist. Favorite song today: “Summer Breeze.”

I almost forgot about the shadows! Actually, I did forget about the shadow for several hours until suddenly they popped into my head. At the locks and dam, running by a fence, I saw some sharp shadows and stopped to take a picture:

shadows / locks and dam no 1 / 14 june 2026

Fence and shadow, shadow and fence. Which is more real?

june 11/RUNHIKE

8.1 miles
ford loop + hidden falls
64 degrees
dew point: 59

Technically, if I follow Scott’s plan, I’m supposed to run 9 miles today. But I’m going hiking at the dog park later this morning and swimming at the lake this evening, so I kept it to 8. I wasn’t fast, but I’m pleased with this run. I didn’t feel great at the beginning; it was very sticky and breathing wasn’t that easy. My heart rate shot up pretty fast, too. I wondered how I could keep running when it was already so hot and I felt so bad. Then I decided to not worry about how much I walked and to just keep going. For the ford loop (the first 4 miles), I ran until my heart rate reached 169, then I walked until it got down to 125. At Hidden Falls, I tried something new: run 90 seconds, walk 30 seconds. I wasn’t sure if I could handle having to look at my watch so much and stopping every 1.5 minutes, but I didn’t mind it, and breaking the time up into small increments made it go by faster — or made me think less about it as some big, overwhelming amount. This is the Galloway method of training. I think I’ll try it on my next long run for the entire run.

For most of the run, I listened to my book, Ariadne. For the last mile, I listened to my bunnies playlist.

5 Running and 5 Hiking Things

  1. the overcast sky made the green in the tunnel of trees seem deeper and darker
  2. a slash of orange on the ancient boulder
  3. a big log floating in the river near the east side of the ford bridge — was it a log? a boat? a person?
  4. a coxswain calling out instructions over his bullhorn to some rowers — heard, not seen
  5. roots buckling the sidewalk, looking like slithering snakes
  6. the entrance to the dog park was dark and green and inviting in an almost sinister way
  7. evidence all around of the big storm 2 nights ago: giant felled trees, trunks tipped over and reaching for the river, a thick branch that must have been blocking the trail before someone cut it
  8. drops of rain hitting the surface of the river, creating slight ripples that distorted the water near the shore
  9. bark bark bark bark bark bark — an enthusiastic dog
  10. kerplunk! splash! a dog swimming more than halfway across the river, moving fast

hike: 40 minutes
minnehaha off leash dog park
63 degrees
drizzle off and on

dog name: the swimming dog’s name was Millie — okay Millie, come here — a human calling to the dog

According to FWA, it’s supposed to rain off and on all day. We managed to mostly miss it, only a few drips on the river surface. We talked about terrible chemistry professors and doing hip thrusts with weights on your lap. FWA performed an imaginary conversation between Delia and another dog. In this conversation, they talked about how great the dog park is. Delia bragged about getting to come twice a week and the other dog said they only went once but that the yard surrounding their mansion was bigger than the dog park.

Possibly for the swim this afternoon: a prompt from Manny Loley

Now I invite you to find the water. In Diné thought, change happens in fours, manifestation happens in fours. There are four sacred mountains, four worlds that we emerge from into our current world. I invite you to create a poem in four steps.

First: find a body of water to sit with and listen. A river, a lake, an ocean—let it connect with the water inside of you. And let the sound that it makes work on your body and your mind and your heart.

Second: build your relationship with the water. Listen for what the water has awakened inside of you. What do you feel? Where do you feel it in your body? What stories are brought to the surface?

Third: follow the reverberations. Write down some of your thoughts, your feelings, your memories. Don’t worry about spelling or grammar, or about making things sound writerly or whether they make sense or not.

Fourth: make an offering to the water. Share what the water gave life to in the form of your poem. Touch the water and give thanks.

waterlogged: heavy with water, dense, difficult to manage, not dry, less buoyant, damaged/distorted/warped by excess water, soggy, characterized by the presence of a lot of water

swim: 2 loops
lake nokomis open swim
64 degrees (air)
71 degrees (water)

After finishing my run and the hike, it started raining. Off and on, all day. By the time I went to open swim the temperature had dropped enough that the water was much warmer than the air. There was wind, too, which made the water choppy. I didn’t care. It was fun to swim into and through the waves. I swam straight to many of the buoys even when I barely realized I was seeing them. I think I did less sighting and more swimming without looking. It’s strange how much more comfortable I feel now when I see so much less.

a regular: As I exited the water an older man heading in asked me how it was. I said, it’s choppy, but I like it that way. He agreed and then we talked about the crazy amount of milfoil in the water. I have decided that I have said enough about it — it’s out of control and dangerous. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear of someone drowning in it. And, like blue green algae blooms, I just need to get used to it and find ways to avoid and/or endure it. Just before he left, the man introduced himself and shook my hand. I’m Joe. / I’m Sara./ Nice to meet you.

Other things I remember: a few patches of blue sky; opaque water with a few silver flashes; a woman swimming, her arms entering the water without her elbows bending; the roar of rushing wind; swimming just barely over the top of the milfoil; the ridgeline of the wave as it rippled over the water; a swimmer exerting a lot of extra energy kicking, white foam everywhere; the hard bump of my safety buoy hitting me in the waves; the silcence and solitude when I stopped in the middle of the lake; looking to my right and seeing a dark line of clouds, hovering

june 3/RUN

4.5 miles
the monument and back
65 degrees

Warm and windy. So windy that I had to take my cap off as I crossed the lake street bridge. The river looked low. I think I saw a long sandbar near the east shore. My feet were still a little sore, but mostly felt okay. Chanted in triple berries for the first 2 miles. Listened to my bunnies and rabbits playlist for the last mile.

11 Things

  1. no rowing shells on the water, but the big white motor boat that follows alongside the rowers was out there, near the dock at the rowing club
  2. workers on the other side of the lake street bridge, fixing something and making a lot of noise doing it
  3. glittering waves close to the easi bank
  4. shadow falls was falling vigorously
  5. running up from the under the bridge on the st. paul side, looking below at the water, envious of my shadow in the water
  6. on the ledge of the overlook at the monument: a insulated coffee mug, white
  7. below the overlook, a person with a dog
  8. tea kettle tea kettle or cheeseburger cheeseburger — a carolina wren somewhere
  9. a person wearing something bright orange, sitting with their bike near the upper entrance to shadow falls
  10. kids being dropped off at the daycare at the church, some by car, one by bike
  11. a handmade wood sign declaring ICE OUT in a neighbor’s front yard on the next block

holes

Time to wrap up this hole project for a few months. I have 4 visual poems that I think are . . . not finished but . . . ready to be considered done. Hole 1, Hole 3, Hole 5a, and Hole 5c. I can imagine returning to them in the fall and trying new (more advanced?) techniques with thread and grids and layers — not just 2D, but 3D.

Well, I would have finished all of the hole poems if a HUGE limb hadn’t fallen right outside my window. We (Scott, FWA, and I) had to drop everything and remove the tree, which took almost 2 hours. Scott happened to be working on a YouTube video as it happened and got a recording of it falling. Yikes!

may 30/RUN

3.7 miles
bottom of locks and dam
71 degrees

Warm, sunny. Not too bad in the shade. Ran down to the entrance of the locks and dam no. 1, turned around, stopped to walk for a few minutes, put in my “Moment” playlist, then started running again, When I got to “Lose Yourself,” I did a few strides. Felt a few brief flashes of a runner’s high.

10 Things

  1. bawk bawk cockadoodle doo! heard from far away, slowly approaching — what is that? A bike with an open bike trailer passed by, 2 kids in the back pretending to be a chicken and a rooster
  2. no cars on the way down to the locks and dam, only one car parked at the bottom
  3. some voices above me, on the trail going up to Wabun or on the ford bridge
  4. an orange water cooler with a sing, “Mill City Running” near the bench above the edge of the world
  5. empty benches — maybe one or two occupied
  6. a biker passing, blasting techno music — even if there had been a doppler effect on the music how would you be able to tell?
  7. swallowed a bug — forgot about it until an hour later when I had a few coughing bouts — Bug! I called out, to no one
  8. the rush of leaves through the trees sounding like falling water
  9. stopping at a water fountain near the end of my run, waiting for another runner to finish, soaking my hat — I have no memory of what it felt like to put the wet hat on. Did it drip down my face? Did it feel cool? I have no idea
  10. Walking back, noticing a grid on the lattice of a neighbor’s fence — at first I thought, squares, then lines

I started thinking about grids and lines and my interest in them, which led to thinking about how open swim involves some lines, or maybe not lines but trajectories — from buoy to buoy to buoy, and it also has an imaginary grid and points on that grid. But, open swim also has no lane lines. You are tethered/connected to the world and others in a different logic. I’ve already written about this in a few different ways, including in this poem, from my recently published chapbook, Inklings:

My geometry

of open swimming:
an eye, lake water.
Both of us now grids
with one dot in our
centers — a cone cell
that works, a buoy
that beacons. A line
drawn between passes
through vacant lots and
murky seas as it
tethers us to each
other — swimmer and
vision, buoy and
body, to sight and
to rarely see.

may 28/RUN

4.25 miles
falls and back
61 degrees

Cooler this morning, earlier too. My goal was to run at 7. My watch says I started the run at 7:07, which means I left the house around 7. Nice. Wore my old (2021, I think) Sauconys that I stopped wearing because they made by big left toe hurt. At mile 4, my toe started hurting again. Bummer. Back to Brooks again or buying a new pair of cheaper Sauconys.

Ran to the falls without headphones, listening to the cars and the geese returning north. Ran back listening to my “Bunnies and Rabbits” playlist. Bad Bunny’s “BAILE INoLVIDABLE” and The Jazz Crusader’s “Young Rabbits” helped me to pick up the pace. I need to create a playlist for pace — maybe mix it in with my beat/metronome experiment: 1 mile with no music or beat / 1 mile with metronome at 172-180 / 1 mile with music.

10 Things

  1. honk honk honk honk geese returning
  2. sparkling water
  3. soft shadows
  4. a runner behind, breathing heavily, closing in, then disappearing — where did they go?
  5. white foam (the falls)
  6. a roller skier — or was it a roller blader?
  7. tufts of symmetrically place ornamental grass mixed with purple blooms near “The Song of Hiawatha”
  8. a woman in a bright yellow windbreaker passing me on a bike, calling out morning!
  9. Mr. Morning! — morning! / good morning!
  10. ending at the big rock that looks like a chair, stepping on it to look down at the oak savanna: green green green

a return

This winter, I replaced many of my regular habits with new ones: (almost) no alcohol; waiting an hour to drink coffee in the morning; more protein, fiber, and iron; instead of sitting at the dining room table for 1+ hours when I woke up reading poems-of-the-day, I watched a brief video then started work on my Holes project; a consistent bedtime routine — ready at 10, asleep by 10:30. I also transformed my workspace. I added a huge cork board to one wall. It’s been fun to mix it up and try new things. I’d like to continue with many of these new things, and I also want to return to a few I’ve shifted away from, especially reading / studying / memorizing other people’s poetry.

In writing this log entry, I decided to visit my favorite poetry sites — poets.org; poetryfoundation, poets.com. On Poetry Foundation I discovered a wonderful podcast series, Wake, Butterfly:

Matsuo Bashō wrote:

Wake, butterfly— 
it’s late, we’ve miles 
to go together.

Poetry magazine presents Wake, Butterfly, a series of intimate portraits that invite listeners to keep creating. 

The final installment, which is the first I’ve encountered and will listen to, is with Marie Howe, one of my favorite poets! I think I’ll listen to it on the deck.

an hour or so later: I listened to it as I mowed the back yard. Usually I listen to the Bob’s Burgers Soundtrack (and I did today, too, after the 15 minute podcast ended). I’ve also listened to podcasts with Joy Harjo and Vs. with Danez Smith and Franny Choi, and several Agatha Christie books.

I love Marie Howe’s voice. Two times I recall hearing it before: when she was interviewed for On Being 6 or 7 years ago (at least) and in her brief discussion and recitation of her poem-in-progress, “Singularity.” In this podcast, she describes living with a big Irish Catholic family and the stories they would tell. She talks about war (WWII and Vietnam) and how she found poetry. Then she offers this:

I think the poem uses our stuff, you know, like it uses the details of my life, but the details are not important. The details are the cup … That hold something you can’t quite see, but you can feel, I hope. Because when it works, I feel something I can’t see. When I was writing a book called What the Living Do, it wasn’t done yet and I didn’t know how it wasn’t done. It had enough pages, it had an arc, I guess. But I was thinking about when I was in high school and. I was living up in the attic of our house with my brother. My brother lived in one room and I lived in another, and my dad would come up there when he was drunk and, um, pester me for hours—the way a drunk person does, wanting attention, wanting something, and it was very difficult. That’s one of the stories in my heart about my younger life, and I thought, “OK, what else is also true about that story?” And I remember actually standing up from my desk in New York here, and turning around, turning my body around 180 degrees and saying, “What else is true?” And I saw my brother Tom, who would come into the room and try to get my dad out, or would come into the room after my dad had left, and I wanted to praise him. So I want to offer you this invitation. Consider one of the stories of your life that feels fixed, and allow yourself to gaze around that story—quite physically—around the room of it or the time of it and to find something else in that story, even if the story is a painful one, to find something else in that story that’s praisable.

Marie Howe in Wake, Butterfly

Consider one of the stories of your life that feels fixed, and allow yourself to gaze around that story—quite physically—around the room of it or the time of it and to find something else in that story, even if the story is a painful one, to find something else in that story that’s praisable.

I love this idea of taking a fixed story and finding something else in that story to praise. I think I need to sit with this one for a few hours.

Before then, this:

The Maples/ Marie Howe

I ask the stand of maples behind the house,

How should I live my life?

They said, shh shh shh . . .

How should I live, I asked, and the leaves seemed to ripple and gleam.

A bird called from a branch in its own tongue,

And from a branch, across the yard, another bird answered.

A squirrel scrambled up a trunk

then along the length of a branch.

Stand still, I thought,

See how long you can bear that.

Try to stand still, if only for a few moments,

drinking light breathing.

—

This standing still — seeing how long I can bear it — seems like a great thing to do everyday. As part of this: explore different ways to be still. What is it to be still?

The beginning of this poem reminds me of a Mary Oliver poem that I’ve posted on this log several years ago (2 july 2020):

I Go Down To The Shore/ Mary Oliver

I go down to the shore in the morning
and depending on the hour the waves
are rolling in or moving out, 
and I say, oh, I am miserable, 
what shall–
what should I do? And the seas says
in its lovely voice:
Excuse me, I have work to do.

may 21/HIKERUN

hike: 55 minutes
minnehaha off-leash dog park
60 degrees

note: I’m writing this the next morning. I was so busy working on pasting words for Hole 3 that I forgot to work on it.

Cool, overcast, humid. Some birds, but not as many as on Monday. An unfortunate encounter with a dog and their human who was not giving any attention to the dog and how they were being too aggressive with Delia the dog. At one point, FWA and I had to surround Delia and I called out to the dog, in my don’t-fuck-with-me-mom-voice: good-bye! go away! Finally the human noticed, (sort of) apologized and called to their dog, who ran off. But, as soon as we started moving again, the dog was back. FWA called out, would you please control your dog? And, finally, she did.

Wow, that made us mad. I’m glad that the human didn’t try to engage with us anymore because it might have escalated. A few minutes later, as we kept walking, I thought about the incident with the woman who had felt threatened by a guy she had confronted a few weeks ago in a new way.

FWA and I stewed about the encounter for a few more minutes until we encountered a sweet and HUGE black dog and their human. What breed is your dog? / A Great Russian Terrier. / What’s their name? / George. George! As George approached me, his head at my hip (he is that tall), she warned, George has a wet face. What a sweet face and disposition! FWA agreed, adding that George had the energy of an old soul. Walking away, I wondered about the origins of the Great Russian Terrier, imagining them in Peter the Great’s entourage.

a few minutes later: I was wrong. They were bred by the Soviet Army and served as guard dogs at the Siberian Steppes. Yikes!

Watching this video, I was reminded of George. What a sweet dog, and a sweet human who has cared for him so well!

water level watch: for the past month or so, I’ve been taking note of the rising and falling water level at the beach at the tip of the park. One time, the water had consumed most of the beach, another time it was so low that we could walk far enough to reach a biggish log. Today that log was underwater by about 40 feet (in distance, not depth).

run: 4.5 miles
reverse veterans home
64 degrees

Since my blue running shoes seem to be bothering me, I decided to try out my bright yellow shoes again. It felt so strange to run in them for the first 5 minutes, like everything was discombobulated. Awkward, wrong. Slowly I got used to them, but they didn’t feel okay until mile 4. And they never felt great. Sigh. Am I going to need to invest in different shoes?

10 Things

  1. so many cars on the road, zooming past, fast!
  2. the falls were gushing white foam
  3. a line of surreys waiting to take over the paths and annoy Scott
  4. 2 people sitting on a bench, another next to them in a wheelchair, all of them laughing about something, having fun
  5. passing a couple, overhearing the guy saying something cliched — I wish I could remember the expression — I think he was being ironic
  6. 2 dozen middle-schoolers (I think?) running along the trail — spread out, some fast, some much slower — a track team?
  7. stopping at the huge boulder that looks like a chair, a person emerged out of the oak savanna
  8. a biker’s bright headlight cutting through the trees
  9. big groups of people all around the falls
  10. the faint chiming of the light rail’s recorded bells

A good run — not the best, but definitely not the worst. Other than my feet burning near the end of mile 3 (thanks, warts), I felt strong and fit. For the entire run, I listened to an audiobook that is due in 3 days: The Buffalo Hunter Hunter / Stephen Graham Jones. Such a great book, and difficult/painful to read as it forces me to confront the violence against indigenous peoples that is the inheritance of all settler colonists. The violence in the book (it is a horror book about a vampire) is not gratuitous but reflective of the horrific violence done to American Indians in order to take their land.

holes 3

Today I cut out the words of the poem and pasted them on the essay. Realized after I did it that I should have numbered them — one of my main ways of guiding the reader in what direction to go when reading the words. Oh well, this is only a preliminary version. I played around with how to thread it — from the upper right hand corner to mimic my blooms poem, or in the center and all around. I like the center better. I told RJP that I liked to try using a bigger needle for the center — the eye — and have the thread go through that. RJP told me I need a tapestry needle. Time to go shopping again!

threads over essay

Next up: play around with light to create shadows. As I worked on this thread technique, I wondered if it might not work better for another of my poems about the strings unravelling? Instead of thread for this one, maybe I should focus on playing around with shadows a lot more? Fun!

may 20/RUN

3.75 miles
top of wabun hill, bottom of locks and dam
55 degrees

Goodbye gloom, hello sun! Shadows, the promise of summer returning! I was a little nervous about running this morning because my feet have been hurting ever since my 8 mile run on Monday. But, I was fine. I felt strong and happy to be outside in the sun before bugs and heat join us in a few weeks.

10 Things

  1. green everywhere — nothing more specific, just green and green and green
  2. a voice on a speaker at Dowling Elementary telling kids to stay in the classroom until they were told they were free to move around — was this a safety drill? an active shooter? field day?
  3. cracks and ruts and holes on the paved trail everywhere — more now than in the fall
  4. voices below — rowers? no, walkers on the winchell trail — deep in conversation
  5. 4 or 5 cars parked on the way down to the locks and dam — at least 2 were running with radios on
  6. a bright silver flash — sun reflecting off a car hood
  7. empty benches
  8. the water under the ford bridge was mostly a calm blue with a few waves and a faint reflection of the bridge’s arch
  9. nearing the top of the wabun hill, hearing a chainlink fence rattling: someone playing on the frisbee golf course
  10. my face, slick with sweat and the new sunscreen I just bought at Costco yesterday

I listened to feet striking the ground as I ran south, my “slappin’ shaddow” playlist on the way north. Song I remember the most: White Room / Cream

Low Vision

Yesterday I had my first low vision therapy appointment. It was an assessment. She asked me what I’d like help with — she worded it differently, but I can’t remember how. First I said that I’d like help with interacting with people when I can’t see their faces, and then something more useful: I’d like some strategies for dealing with that uncomfortable moment when I enter an unfamiliar place and can’t make sense of my surrounding. She recommended 2 apps to try (more on that later) and the basic technique of grounding myself by standing with my back against a wall and taking a minute to get my bearings. I like the idea of stopping and standing against a wall. Two of my big problems are feeling pressured by others, or having them try to help me when I want to figure it out myself. Standing back should help with those problems.

back to hole 3

Woke up yesterday to a realization: I really like the idea of my specimen board, but the execution of it feels forced and not very interesting. Time to set that one aside for now (or forever?). I decided to finally begin my summary of April’s monthly challenge, partly because I don’t want to get too far behind on my summaries, and partly to shift my attention back to grids and holes and lines. I only needed to read a few days into April to find some (re)direction. Here’s what I wrote on 6 April:

I’m thinking about grids and the lines and why it matters to me….how reading is so important to that locating and how being located is to be held, to be connected, to be seen or recognized or have others aware (of you).

6 april

This morning, before my run, I decided to rework hole 3. A new plan:

  • my standard 4 panels — 3 panels of page 1 of the book review of Helen Oyeyemi’s new book, A New New Me, 1 panel of page 2
  • 4 short verses — the first 3 mostly “found” on one of the 3 page 1s, the 4th made out of the words from verses “1-3 that are “found” on page 2
  • a grid + hole in the top right corner with many strands of thread emerging from it to cover the words of the poem

The words of the poem:

verse 1: swap out the dead-eyed liturgy of doomed vision
for (with?) looks of shadowed magic

verse 2: Fall through the hole your eyes don’t see, land in a logic of blur and almost

verse 3: read sentences sliced in half, each one glitching just enough to scramble what is real and imagined

verse 4: in a scramble looks logic, eyes read blur as what is

one tiny cheat: even though I don’t use as in the first 3 verses, I added it to verse 4 because I needed to — can I keep playing around with this to make it fully work?

I would like to have this on my cork board before the sun begins streaming in the front windows. How will the shadows fall on the panels? What might the thread-shadows say? If this looks cool, I’d like that to be part of the poem.

I have the panels up on the cork board. I didn’t have time to do anything but mark where the found words go, but I was able to create some thread lines. Now I wait. And wait. And wait. It wasn’t until 7pm that the shadows began to appear. The ones from the threads weren’t as interesting as I wanted, so I started experimenting with other ways to make shadows. A flash of a thought: tape my blind spot on the window where the light is streaming in so it can cast a shadow on the paper. Yes! I had three templates, so I taped them all up. I want to play with this some more tomorrow — hopefully it will be sunny again!

3 holes taped on window, casting shadow on essay, close-up
3 holes taped on window, long view

may 13/RUN

5.6 miles
ford loop
60 degrees

Warm again this morning. I wasn’t planning to do the ford loop, but I wanted to run a 5k before walking so I just kept going south on the east river road and by the time I reached 3.1 miles it seemed too far to turn around. So I kept going and did the ford loop. My legs felt sore again (again = my 7 mile run with Scott last Saturday). Why so sore?

I think I heard the rowers on the river, but when I looked down at the water it was empty. Saw one roller skier. Admired the glittering waves below me as I crossed the lake street bridge. Ran near St. Thomas but never heard the bells. Bad timing, I guess. The wind was so strong on the ford bridge as I headed east that I had to take off my cap. I also had to walk with purpose so that I wasn’t blown over. Yikes.

holes

A few months ago, when I started working on my visual poems about how I read (holes), I decided to let myself be obsessed with it, to fall down the rabbit hole and follow it where it led me. I don’t normally do this because I like to be in control and I’m always afraid of being too much and of following a wrong path too far. I’m enjoying this experience — it’s so much fun! Even so, I do find myself missing reading more poetry by other people and writing non-visual poetry. Part of me is worried that I won’t/can’t find my way back there, but most of me is deciding to trust my urge to create what I’m creating.

This morning before my run, I made a few more flowers, then printed out the text of the poem to glue onto the essay. After the run, I glued the words and pinned the flowers. Here’s what it looks like so far. I’m thinking I need more flowers, but how many? They’re fun to make.

hole 5a with flower blooms

And here’s a close-up of the flowers:

flower bloom, close-up

may 12/RUN

4.25 miles
minnehaha falls and back
67 degrees

Woke up this morning and couldn’t believe how warm it felt. Is spring over, and summer here? I’d like the lake water to warm up, but I don’t want it to be this warm yet. Wore my summer (lack of) layers: shorts, tank top, baseball cap. Encountered lots of bikes whizzing by, at least 2 pelotons, too.

best biking moment: a biker passing another biker hauling a trailer with at least one kid who I heard laughing and yelling out in delight as they approached from behind.
kid in trailer calling out, Fun! as the biker passed.
passing biker: on your left then FUN!

I felt relaxed and unhitched from the world, floating. It was partly from the effort of moving this much under the warm sun, partly from my vision, and partly from the dreamy, surreal way the shadows of leaves-in-wind danced on the asphalt.

10 Things

  1. bright yellow vests on many of the bikers, a few walkers
  2. kids laughing on the school playground
  3. the white foam of the falls falling
  4. more bursting/blooming shadows
  5. the parking lots at the falls were blocked off — were they planning to repaint the lines, or trim trees, or what?
  6. a rushing creek
  7. the siren from an ambulance near the falls, uttering a half-scream every few seconds — warning cars to get out of the way?
  8. the smell of fertilizer on the ornamental grass near the wall with “Song of hiawatha”
  9. a dozen bikers stopped near the hill up to the ford bridge — as I passed them, I heard one say, is everyone ready?
  10. empty benches

I listened to the wind as I ran south, my “It’s Windy” playlist heading north. Favorite song today: “Summer Breeze” / Seals & Crofts

holes — blooms

Woke up thinking about flowers and blooms and decided to watch the singing flower scene from Alice in Wonderland for inspiration. Less than a minute in, I found this flower, which I love. It’s orange and messy and more about texture than any fine detail. Can I replicate it on a page? Will it work? Can I put the text of the found poem in the center of it?

a shaggy flower -- a ball of orange in the center of the screen with a few petals looking sticking out like hair
an orange flower singing to Alice

And here’s that flower flanked by two others, just starting to sing. Instead of the mouths, the word of the poem?

an orange ball of a flower flnaked by 2 pink flowers
pink / orange / pink flowers singing

Okay, and here’s a different flower with the same general form (or is it the same flower?)

2 orange flowers, one with the face of a lion, the other a tiger
2 orange flowers / dandelion and tiger lily

note: it was only when looking at the similar thumbnail image that I was able to see the lion. I was struck by this image because of the spiky petals and the messy, but easily identifiable shape. I might be able to replicate this.

nonsense blooming

a few hours later: The bloom has gone through a number of iterations today. Where I’ve landed now is this:

  1. Noticed that an old notepad I have — from way back when I was teaching at the U, around 2010 — is bright orange and decided to use it in my blooms, so I cut out a circle of it to use as the base
  2. took a page of the essay and colored it in with orange colored pencil
  3. used my template for my blind spot and drew, then cut out, petals from it
  4. glued the petals on, then the word from the poem
big picture
closer-up

The problem: it doesn’t look good. Also the problem: Gluing and arranging the petals in/on the orange circle requires good working central vision, which I don’t have. The orange circle is the location of my blind spot, so everything that enters it disappears. Oh well, back to the drawing board. Maybe I should ditch the petals in the shape of my working central vision and try something else. But what? No petals? Petals made from words? Petals made from shedded paper with the words of the essay (colored orange) on it?

an hour later: I took a page of the essay and shredded it, then shredded a few small pages of bright ORANGE paper. Then, after some trial and error, decided on a new approach. I pushed individual shreds of the essay and the orange paper through a pin to create a “3-D” flower. Tomorrow I’m thinking of switching out the words of the poem in circles for the words enlarged and cut-out like I did for Hole 1: in the shape of a rectangle and glued in the space where they exist in the essay. Here’s the first, quick version of my flower:

word flower, made from shredded text and orange paper

I like this and, more importantly, I can execute it with my terrible central vision. I’d like to try making one that has even more shredded paper to see how that works.

Wow, this took a LONG time. How fun to waste so much time in such a glorious way! Whatever the finished product looks like to others, the process of experimenting and not listening to the Censor who tries to shut me down (saying, you’re not an artist! or you don’t make things! or people who can’t see don’t do visual art!), is such an important thing to do, particularly for me as I try to reclaim my agency in the wake of vision loss. Plus, I feel connected to my mom when I’m doing these things. She was an amazing artist. I wish she was still alive; she would have some great ideas for me!

may 7/RUN

3.4 miles
2 trails
52 degrees

52 in the afternoon is not warm enough for spring, but it was fine for my run. Sunny, still, beautiful shadows. All over the sidewalk: little explosions of shadow buds on the tips of branches. While on the upper trail I listened to my “Sight Songs” playlist, when I went below I listened to voices floating above, rustling below, and the warning cries of black-capped chickadees.

I took the lower trail through the oak savanna, past the ravine, up the gravel trail to the ancient boulder, down to the tunnel of trees, then down the old stone steps to the river.

10 Things

  1. rustling below — an animal, maybe a turkey? No, a human in a bright red jacket
  2. ruts and cracks all over the few parts of the lower trail that are paved
  3. green exploding everywhere, new leafs on a tree, pushing through the slats of the wrought iron fence
  4. voices of kids, playing at the school playground
  5. blue water
  6. tree shadows, some sprawling, some exploding
  7. a new layer of gravel
  8. ran through a small cloud of gnats and trapped at least two in my eye juice — yuck!
  9. very soft and deep sand on the small trail winding through the floodplain forest
  10. loose gravel on the hill out of the ravine, making it more challenging to run

more holes

Still playing around with how to visualize the different hole poems and how to introduce/present the different elements: word, line/string/thread, hole. A wild idea last night that I can barely imagine executing. For a poem in which I have a double grid — one grid drawn directly over the poem, another created out of thread elevated above it — I would use needles instead of pins for stringing the thread. Yes, this is ridiculous — if I’m doing the math right, that would be 84 needles to thread, which I will never have enough spoons for. But wait — what if I put 2 needles on the center dot and used pins for the perimeter? How would this look? I’ve been thinking of the needle as eye ever since I used the phrase, threading the eye of a needle. Hmm, that idea needs to simmer some more.

This morning, I returned to Holes 1 and thought about how to find the words on the pages of the New Yorker essay. This poem was the start of this w/hole journey, so I imagine it as an introduction to the series and to the key elements — in particular: hole = blind spot and line/string = lines of amsler grid. Sara this second has decided on this plan: a grid with my blind spot on it for each panel, drawn over the words of the poem / the words printed out on other paper, then cut out and pasted on top of the grid, each numbered / an additional grid with blindspot/hole drawn at bottom as key/for explanation. Here’s the first stage:

text with 4 grids, each containing a dark blob (my blind spot) and the words: another name for barely not blind is a hole in your vision that makes for an uneasy fellowship with the word.
Holes 1 / phase 1 (7 may)

an hour or two later . . . Next, I drew on an Amsler Grid then glued on a caption and the title of the poem. I still need to draw the hole in my vision directly on the grid. This will require scaling the hole down. I’m thinking of trying out the Chuck Close grid method on another amsler then cutting it out and tracing it on the “real” one. That’s post-run Sara’s job.

holes 2 : phase 2, 7 may

I like it! I was able to (very) roughly approximate my hole to fit in the smaller grid, but I won’t post it here until it has been published somewhere.

may 6/RUN

4.7 miles
veterans home in reverse
42 degrees

Brr. Was glad I wore my winter tights this early afternoon. I almost wish I had had gloves near the beginning. Saw the parks crew out near the savanna, looking like they were getting ready for another controlled burn. Overcast, windy.

10 Things

  1. the smell of freshly cut grass somewhere — was it near Wabun, or was that at my last run through Wabun
  2. the top of a wooden fence, missing
  3. another fence top, broken and slanted
  4. gushing water below, 1: on the bridge connecting the veterans home and the river road
  5. gushing water below, 2: above the falls, the creek below
  6. gushing water below, 3: the sewer pipe in the 42nd street ravine
  7. shshshsh of the soft suface on the dirt trail next to the paved path
  8. the very LOUD monthly severe weather siren that blasts the first Wednesday of every month
  9. a few school buses in the falls parking lot, at least one group of people clustered above the falls
  10. empty benches

grids and holes 1

A favorite journal, Unlost, is open for submissions. They feature found and visual poems. I’d like to submit a few of my found poems, so today I started fine-tuning holes 1. First I finished drawing grids and my blind spot/hole on the panels of the essay:

holes 1 / 5 grids

I could keep all the pages intact, then place some plastic over all them OR I could cut out the grids, put plastic over each, then place them beside each other to create the poem. I also like the idea of the double grid with pins and thread. Maybe I’ll try the pins tomorrow (and maybe I’ll leave the plastic for non-hole poems?).

april 26/RUN

4 miles
up wabun / down locks and dam
59 degrees
overcast

It is supposed to rain all day tomorrow, so I ran today. Warm — shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. Spring! I ran south on the trail. Lots of bikers but no reckless biking. I almost wrote that I forgot to look at the river, or that I don’t remember what I saw when I looked at the river, but then I remembered that I noticed it at the bottom of the locks and dam hill. Blue-gray and choppy,

sight of the day: a little kid (2 or 3?) hanging over the edge of a part of the wooden fence on the edge of the hill leading down to the oak savanna, an adult holding onto them tightly. What can you tell from a scene while running of a little kid with their back to you? Not much, I guess, but it felt like the kid had a wonderful curiosity, and the adult with them was supporting/encouraging/safeguarding it.

running thoughts: I felt strong and more confident, having run the 10k race yesterday. I ran too fast — I need to slow down! After the run was finished my achilles felt a little strained or strange or both. One of my funning YouTubers has achilles problems and they keep them in check by doing calf raised after every run. Maybe I should try that?

10 Things

  1. smell: cannabis somewhere nearby
  2. a cardinal’s pew pew pew call
  3. a bike peloton (15-20 bikes) on the paved path
  4. someone on e-bike zooming by on the road
  5. more green buds
  6. some empty benches, some occupied
  7. someone on a bike biking alongside a runner — marathon training, maybe for Grandma’s Marathon?
  8. a white car speeding down the locks and dam hill, turning around, then speeding back up it
  9. gnats! one landing on my check near the edge of my eye — I could see a black spot in my peripheral vision
  10. the boot hanging off a stalk in a neighbor’s yard is still there, a month later

holes

Today I’m experimenting with different ways to visualize my Holes 4 poem:

you look at words. you don’t see the gaping hole. you see seltzer fizz and a nothing that is something not sharing its secrets.

First, I cut up a ziploc bag and made dots in it with a pencil. This looks like fizz or static or snow, which is cool. A problem: you can feel it, but you can’t really see it. How to make those marks show up? Then I cut the static ziploc into the shape of my blind spot — actually, I cut out 20 of them. It’s still not visible, but I like the texture and the idea of making the visual less visible. I think I’ll use these somewhere.

After spending some time with distressed ziploc bag and not getting anywhere, I tried a different approach. First, streamline the poem, get rid of the fizz, and get over the idea of trying to represent fizz or static. Here’s the new version of the poem:

you look at words, you don’t see the gaping hole, you see a nothing that is something not sharing its secrets.

When I shortened the poem, I was able to “find” it on four instead of six of the pages of the new yorker essay.

Next, instead of trying to make fizz, I decided to distress a new sheet of ziploc plastic with a criss-cross pattern. I really like it!

view 1
view 2

I really like this way of distressing the plastic. And, it’s easy to do and to replicate! When I put it directly over the text of the essay, it didn’t obscure the text enough. Soon I realized that it needs to be at a slight distance. I keep coming back to the idea that these poems need to be 3-D. How should I do that?

april 19/RUN

3.75 miles
top of wabun, bottom of locks and dam no. 1
43 degrees

It felt warmer than 43 today. Today’s sign of spring: the shadows of budding leaves on the tree, looking like sparkler explosions on the sidewalk. I’ve written about these in past springs — was it last April or the April before? The sky was bright blue, the water was scaled with waves. Encountered bikers and runners and walkers. No surreys yet or roller skiers. No songs blasting from radios. No soaring birds or bird shadows or birdsong. Some flashes of green, several occupied benches. I started to recite Philip Larkin’s “The Trees” — The trees are coming into leaf/Like something almost being said/Their recent buds relax and spread/Their greenness is a kind of griefi.

For the first half I listened to everything around me, for the second half: my “Windows” playlist. Demi Lovato’s anthem, “Skyscraper” came on and even though it is cheesy and overwrought, I started running faster to it and felt something deep opening. Cathartic. If it hadn’t been so crowded I might have started crying, which would have been a great release. Even without the tears, it felt good to run fast and feel free/d.

Right before my run, RJP cameo ver to tell us all about her success with the fashion show at St. Kate’s. She didn’t have any garments in it, but she served on a committee for it and helped set it up. It’s hard to put into words how big of a victory this was/is for RJP.

a quick note about Robert Macfarlane and the river: As I washed the incredible amount of dishes that had accumulated — almost ALL of them! — I finished listening to the Between the Covers episode from last year with Robert Macfarlane. side note: when did Between the Covers switch from Tinhouse to Milkweed? And does that mean I need to go through and fix my past links to episodes? Probably. Future Sara (does Sara sent somewhere work as a name?) get on that! What a gift! I’m currently waiting for the audiobook of What is a River? I checked it (or the ebook version) on 10 august but didn’t listen to it. I must have been busy doing my swimming one day in august challenge. Or maybe I wasn’t ready to hear the words. I am now. Currently the waiting time is “several months” and I am 54th in line. I hope it comes in time for summer. This is a perfect water book for my water season! Maybe if it doesn’t come in time, I’ll buy it as an early bday present? I just checked on Moon Palace and the paperback is coming out on June 9th! I’ll have to preorder it. I could spend the rest of the afternoon writing about the interview, but I’ll leave that for when I start reading — either with my eyes or ears — the book in June,

holes

I didn’t have much time this afternoon, but I started experimenting with 2 ways to cover my blind spot template on the page. First, I created a cross-hatch pattern on one of them with a ruler and pencil. Second, I used a ziploc plastic bag. Because the bag was clear, I distressed it by drawing a spiral repeatedly using a pencil. I like the effect.

1 — cross-hatched hole
2 — ziploc bag

Experiments to try tomorrow: a plastic bag (grocery store), black netting, static dots, dark pencil erased.

april 18/RUN

3.25 miles
locks and dam no. 1 and back
41 degrees / feels like 24
wind: 16 mph / gusts: 27 mph

That wind! I seemed to be running into in every direction. Had to wear my winter layers: tights, 2 shirts and a pullover, hood, gloves. One too many layers and unnecessary gloves. The sun and sharp shadows, combined with the green grass and new flowers made it look warmer and springier than it was. By Wednesday it’s supposed to be 79 degrees. Then, by the end of next week, 50s. That’s a Minnesota-spring for you.

grids and holes

To distract me from the run, I decided to listen to my “Window” playlist. When I got to “Waving Through a Window” I started thinking about the window as a barrier between me and the world, which made me think of the grid on my visual poems as not only being about mapping and locating and connecting (as thread or string or line), but as net or a veil or a thing that blocks my immediate access to the word and the world. Yes! The grid as both offering connection and preventing it, or obscuring it, or weakening it.

Here’s another version of the double grid that I did last night. I noticed that I am feeling much more confident with my graph making. I worried less about it not being straight and just drew lines and most of them are straight, or as straight as I want!

double grid, version 2

I wonder what this would like if it was twice as far away and made out of some of my thicker thread? I’d like to see, but using what? Should I find some wood and nail long nails into the wood? Yes! Should that be tomorrow’s project? I’m sure we have a scrap piece of wood and some long nails in the basement!

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the grid/thread/string aspect of this project and how to make it, but I don’t want to forget the hole. Reading through my entries from March, I found this:

I’d like to push at this idea of a hole in the vision, with the hole not being (just) empty or a void, but something — like a rabbit hole: an in-between space, a passageway, a liminal space, a threshold, but also a clearing (JJJJJerome Ellis), the Nothing around which something functions, the gorge.

A few thoughts:

First, I’d like to return to my original version of Holes 1, with my blind spot around each of the words. I want to experiment with different ways to “make” that blind spot — color it in with dark pencil; erase that pencil, leaving only a trace; a plastic bag; a net of thread; sparkles or something that resembles static — how do you realize that?; the black netting I bought with RJP. Instead of Holes 1, I’m using Holes 5c about the two holes.

Second, I’d like to find a New Yorker article about a gorge or a river or a field and make a hole poem out of it. I found an article: The Landscape in Winter

april 15/RUN

4.65 miles
ford overlook and back
63 degrees

Hot! Time to start running much earlier in the day! Yes, a return to morning running could be the next step in my efforts to regain some healthy discipline.

Earlier today I found another song to add to my “Remember to Forget” playlist — Forget Me Nots / Patrice Rushen, so I decided to listen to it while I ran for 9 minutes, then walked one. Midway through the playlist, “Forget Me Nots” came on and as I listened to it, I thought about Emily Dickinson’s “If recollecting were forgetting”. Listening to Elvis Costello’s “Veronica” about a woman with dementia, I thought about how the new name Scott came up with for present Sara, Sara this second, has a much different meaning when applied to someone who has no memory beyond the now.

10 Things

  1. flashes of bright green in my periphery as I ran by trees with new buds
  2. hot sun
  3. music coming from the grassy boulevard: people sitting in chairs, listening to music
  4. squirrels squawking at each other
  5. a loud thumping noise at the skate park
  6. someone in white sitting on the ledge looking over the river
  7. a biker in an orange shirt, biking very slowly over the ford bridge
  8. the voices of kids laughing and yelling on the playground
  9. a biker in a winter coat with a stocking cap and gloves on
  10. the desire path on the grassy boulevard is a mix of packed dirt, mud, roots, and greening grass

holes and grids and threads

The saga continues. I said to Scott earlier, after pushing my eyes to the limit with measuring 9/16th of an inch and attempting to cut straight slits and placing 84 pins 1/2 inch apart to create a grid, why I am so stubbornly committed to this project when it is to fiddly and challenging for my limited vision? I am not sure, but something in me won’t quit. I want to make a series of visual poems that use grids made out of thread and string and yarn and that require skills far beyond my ability (at least my ability right now) and that are exhausting and frustrating and take a lot of time. And, I WILL make it, dammit! I could use graph paper for the grid, but I want to use thread/string and have the lines be 3-dimensional. The thread/yard is partly as a connection to my fiber artist mom and my fiber artist daughter. The 3D is for the shadows and for what the floatinggrid boxes do to how we see/don’t see the words within them. I just finished my first attempt on placing the grid over Holes 3. I measured a 10×10 square over the words and then placed 21 pins on each of the 4 sides. Then I wound the thread around the pins to create the grid.

a 10×10 grid made of black thread and pins, placed over a NYer book review of Helen Oyeyemi’s new book
a closer look at the grid and the first word of the poem, fall

I really like this grid overlay, even as I recognize that I need to do more to it to make it make sense to a reader/viewer. The pins are difficult to work with on the thin cork board. They twist and bend out of place. What will I use for a different/the final version of this poem? I showed it to Scott and he suggested a frosted plexiglass layer with only the words of the poem visible. At least, I think that’s how he described it; I’m not quite understanding what he means. I’m wondering if encasing the words in a small dot (both a reference to the center dot of an Amsler grid AND xy coordinates on a graph) might work. One problem: I don’t want to remove the pins and draw the dot in, then have to re-string/pin the grid. I need a better solution for that!

I do like the elevated grid and the way you have to look through and around it to find the right word. I also like the thin thread that you almost can’t see. That’s how my vision often works: it’s not a solid wall of black, but the faint trace of something, sometimes feeling like a net or a screen that makes it harder to focus on anything. One more thing: when I ‘m reading, it does feel like each word or phrase is encase in a grid, with nothing outside of the grid in focus.

note: I’m warming to Scott’s plexiglass idea, even as I’m still not totally understanding what Scott means. What does the plexiglass do to the effect of the grid-thread? The focus on this poem is the graph-grid and the x = blur, y = almost coordinates.

It’s 5:38 and the sun is streaming in my front room studio. I’m waiting for it to hit my grid poem, and hoping it leads to cool grid shadows!

It’s 6:38 pm and some shadows have finally arrived! I asked Scott to take the picture because I wasn’t sure I could capture it effectively.

pin shadows

At first I didn’t notice the pin shadows, I just thought the pins had become twisted out of shape. But no — the pins are fine; it’s their shadows that are all askew. Nice!

Delighted by the result, I decided to take my own picture:

grid shadows in the early evening sun

april 14/RUN

4.3 miles
falls and back
56 degrees

Only 56 degrees? It felt much warmer than that! My hair is soaked with sweat, my face feels flushed still, minutes after finishing. Spring is here! I listened to a piece we’re playing for community band concert in a week, Bookmarks as I ran south, and my “Doin’ Time” playlist running north.

I waved and smiled at as many people I encountered as I could. Did I ever speak? I think I did, once. Even with my music playing, I could hear the kids having fun on the playground and the roar of the falls at the park. At least a dozen people were walking around the park, 4 of them were standing at my usual spot. As I stopped to take off my sweatshirt, I heard a thump thump thump behind me: a young kid running over to the steps. They were fast! A few minutes later, I heard several people calling out, woooooo or weeeeee, close to those steps. It sounded like someone was being swung in the air, or lifted up and down.

Anything else? Several of the benches were occupied, but not the one above the edge of the world. I stopped there to admire the river. I don’t remember what it looked like, just that it was open and wide and peaceful.

at the clinic (earlier this morning)

Today I had to go to the clinic to get two cervical polyps removed. No big deal — an easy procedure with only a 1% chance that the polyps would be cancerous. I was hardly anxious at all, even when they took my blood pressure, which is huge improvement from my last visit in early February. Hooray!

A few observations: Passing by a door, hearing a kid on the other side losing their shit. Hearing them a minute later while in the bathroom at the lab. This was never verified, but I think they were also at the lab, getting blood drawn. Yikes for the drawer of that blood and for the one getting it drawn!

Heading towards the lobby, passing an older woman (with all gray hair) about to be weighed, taking off her shoes and jacket, saying, hold on, I want to take off as much as possible to weigh as little as I can! I’m kidding. Was she, though? Hearing this, I though about my mom and how, when she was on chemo for stage 4 pancreatic cancer, she desperately didn’t want to lose weight because she was already too thin, and I thought about the doctor on a Facebook post who specializes in peri/menopausal discussing how being strong is so much more important than being skinny, especially for older women. With these thoughts, I wasn’t giving shade to the woman getting weighed; I was reflecting on the discord with older women’s bodies and the impact of oppressive beauty standards on their bodies.

Anything else? Oh — on my back on the table, feet in the stirrups, I looked up at the ceiling and noticed a dot. I stared at it, trying to imagine the Amsler Grid and to see my blind spot. Did I? I can’t remember now.

Driving home, I struggled to find a fun/pleasing/alliterative way to describe Sara in the present moment. I mentioned to Scott how well it worked with our daughter’s name: RJP right now. Scott suggested two awesome versions for me:

Sara this second
Sara since Saturday

I love both of these so much. How much? Enough to try and write a poem about them! I’ll try to think about them on my run1. One reason I like Sara this second is because I love the idea that I have so many present Saras that they can’t be contained in minutes; I need seconds! And Sara since Saturday? I said to Scott, this is an example of alliteration helping you to find more meaning. Sara last Saturday isn’t nearly as awesome as Sara since Saturday!

grids holes thread

I was planning to work on the grid for Holes 3 this afternoon — current options: drawing a grid directly on the text OR creating a loom frame and making a grid out of thread to place over the text — but I’m not sure I have enough energy or vision for it. Maybe I need some more food?! The snack has happened, some water too. A recharge! I want to start with a loom frame for my 2 panel poem. I’ve cut out the frame and figured out the measurements for the grid, but now I’ve run out of time!

  1. Well, I tried to think about them, but I forgot before I reached the river. I recall a flash of Sara since Saturday and then wondering why he chose Saturday, with 3 syllables, instead of Sunday, with two. Is it because Sunday doesn’t sound quite right? ↩︎

april 7/RUN

4.1 miles
river road, north/south
39 degrees
wind: 10mph / gusts: 15 mph

Boo to the cold, although it only really felt cold during my walk warm-up. Maybe the boo should be reserved for the wind which was directly in my face running south. But, even with the wind and the cold, there was sun and clear paths and birds and open water. Spring! My legs and back felt strong, and my feet were locked into a steady rhythm. I encountered at least one large-ish group of runners, many groups of walkers, dogs. No roller skiers. Any bikers? I can’t remember. At least one stroller.

Running north, I listened to my feet striking the ground and birds chirping. Running south, I put in my “I’m Shadowing You” playlist. Song I remember most: “Shadow Stabbing” by Cake.

My anxiety has returned, which is a bummer, but not unexpected. There are so many reasons it could be back (I mean, looking at the news for today — Drump’s deadline for Iran is tonight — JFC). My latest theory: I am experiencing another vision shift (more cones lost?) that sometimes makes me feel dizzy. Dizziness triggers (mostly) mild physical panic. Combine that with hormonal changes, thanks to perimenopause. Nothing too overwhelming, but still draining and uncomfortable. I understand the anxiety better now than a few years ago, but that doesn’t mean I can anticipate it. Before my run, I felt a little dizzy. That dizziness (or imagined dizziness?) lingered a little during the run then returned right after. Sigh.

added later in the day: Finishing this entry up at my desk, I saw the shadow of a bird fly by which reminded me of the bird shadows this morning as I ran. It happened more than once, a dark something flying over my head as I ran: a bird’s shadow!

grids and holes and reading

My Holes series has several elements: the hole, the grid, reading. All of them are important in these visual poems. Also important: these are visual poems. The words in them matter as much (or more? or on the same level?) as the visuals.

What am I trying to express with this series? The strange and strained and magical way in which I can still read words even with most of my central vision gone. The progression of my declining ability to see words and its untethering effects.

a couple hours later: Playing around with my first Holes, this morning, I focused on figuring out how to connect the sections of the poem, to map the path from word to word to word on the page. That process of reading is key to this series1. After ruminating, which frequently meant standing and staring at the poem on cardboard, trying to figure out how to make this rectangular 4-panel poem fit into the square of an Amsler Grid, I came up with something to try. Fasten the poem panels to cardboard by placing pins next to the words of the poem, then connect/map the words with black thread. When I tried that, the thread was more fiddly to work with than my eyes and hands liked, and it didn’t show up that well:

black thread map / Can you see the thread? Just barely, for me.

So I tried dark gray thread, which was easier to work with and showed up much better. Maybe as the series progresses and my tether to the world through words weakens, I’ll use thinner, less visible thread?

gray yarn

One thing to fix for a different version: adjust the pin so that the thread line between with and word doesn’t cross the center — to do this, possibly switch to another “the” lower on the panel.

I like the yarn better! I realized that one of the key elements of this poem is to show the process of reading, the act of jumping from word to word to word, how the connections between words are increasingly complicated and convoluted. As I was thinking about that mapping, I remembered some images that I’ve seen several times and that Scott mentioned the other day: a spider’s web after taking various drugs . Here, lines = grids = webs!

The next experiment = putting the 4 paneled poem on cork board, using gray yarn and push pins. Another thing to add: draw more holes (circles), color them in with pencil, then erase them to leave a ghost (afterimage-ish).

during the run: holes

During the run, I thought about printing the New Yorker article on graph paper and adding an x and y axis for plotting the words. I might do that for a few of the Holes — as my vision gets stranger, so do the names of x and y. Maybe Holes 1 is x = time and y = space. Another Holes could be x = real and y = imagined. I should look through the other poems and determine their x and y axis.

questions: Are the lines from the Amsler grid (that is, the lines that make up the grid) and the lines that connect the words and map them on the visual poem the same? Can they sometimes be the same in one poem, and different in another? (note from 16 april: I’m not sure what I mean here with the same and different lines.)

  1. A thought as I wrote this sentence: part of the process of moving from word to word is running into words on a line that I didn’t see. In my Plague Notebook, I have countless examples of visual errors in which I write words on top of each other. This works differently in reading — in reading, I only see the word I am reading — but it connects. This not seeing + words on top of each other could be represented by the increasing jumbled way my lines from word to word are mapped. ↩︎