3.3 miles trestle turn around 35 degrees / humidity: 92% haze/fog
The annual Thanksgiving 5k with a little extra. Was greeted by Mr. Morning! near the trestle: Good morning and Happy Thanksgiving! Everything was a light gray, shrouded in a fine mist or fog. The tall pine trees, dark gray green. The cars, light grays and dark grays and pale green grays. The only other color I remember was the burnt orange of the dead leaves still on the trees. Forgot to look at the river. Smelled some smoke from chimneys. Near the end of my run, the smoke was so intense I could taste it—hickory, mesquite.
Another sunny, warmer (than last week) day. The paths were clear, the sky was blue, the sun was out. Earlier today, driving over to my annual mammogram, there was a haze in the gorge, but by a few hours later, during my run, it was gone. No headphones on the way to the falls, Lizzo’s Special on the way back. The falls was half frozen, half dripping. All the steps down below are blocked off now for the winter. The steps down to Winchell are too. Heard the general chatter of birds, sounding like spring. Greeted Mr. Walker (I named him in an entry on sept 12 of this year) — Hello not Good morning.
11 Things I Noticed
the strong smell of pot as I passed a car in the 36th st parking lot
a guy walking, listening to music without headphones — can’t remember what kind of music it was. Passed him twice
a woman and a kid walking above the falls, admiring it at my favorite spot
bright orange below the double bridge — somebody must have spray painted it
a lone walker below me on the Winchell Trail
Later, 2 laughing women on the Winchell Trail
the river was burning white again — shimmering in the sun through the trees
running past the southern entrance to the Winchell Trail, I could see through the bare trees all the way to the stone wall that wrapped around the grassy overlook
also had a clear view of the oak savanna and the mesa through the leafless trees
a loud scraping noise from some part of a car, dragging on the road
my shadow, running beside me — strong in form and definition, a very dark gray in color
Hide what is far from my eyes, pale fog, impalpable gray vapor climbing the light of the coming day, after the storm-streaked night, the rockfall skies… Hide what has gone, and what goes, hide what lies beyond me… Let me see only that hedge at my boundary, and this wall, by whose crumbling edge valerian grows. Hide from my eyes what is dead: the world is drunk on tears… Show my two peach trees in bloom, my two pears, that spread their sugared balm on my black bread. Hide from my eyes lost things whose need for my love is a goad… Let me see only the white of the stone road – I too will ride it some night as a tired bell rings. Hide the far things – hide them beyond the sweep of my heart… Show only that cypress tree, standing apart, and here, lying sleepily, this dog at my side.
Warmer this morning. Hardly any ice or snow on the path. My foot is only slightly sore at the end, but otherwise okay. Sunny and bright. A blue sky. As I reached the river at the beginning of my run I heard then saw a lone goose. Thought about color, especially yellow and gray. Listened to my breathing. Focused on taking deep breaths in through my nose, out through my mouth. Was good morninged by Mr. Morning! He called out from across the trail, Good morning! and I called back.
10 Colors I Noticed
the yellow dotted lines on the bike trail
the orange spray paint around the cracks that need to be replaced
a pale blue sky
a dark blue trash can
the dark gray pavement that seemed to have a hint of blue
the silver river — or was it white gold? through the trees, the river burned a bright white
beige or sepia-toned ice on the river
the grayish-dark brown of the bare trees
the slab of white snow decorating one side of the ancient boulder
the dark greenish-gray of a fir tree
In other color news: an essay I wrote 5 years ago popped into my head while I was running — “My Purple Toe” — and I thought about how the toe in it is not purple but lavender gray
Update on my foot: Scott and I had to go pick FWA up from Gustavus, so I’m writing the rest of this later in the day. A few hours in the car, not moving much, my foot felt stiff and sore again. I walked around a bit and it felt okay. I asked Scott if that’s what happens with his foot and he said yes. Does this mean I have plantar fasciitis? I hope not!
Here on this edge I have had many diminutive visions. That all at its essence is dove-gray. Wipe the lipstick off the mouth of anything and there you will find dove-gray. With my thumb I have smudged away the sky’s blue and the water’s blue and found, when I kicked it with my shoe, even the sand at its essence is pelican-gray. I am remembering Eden. How everything swaggered with color. How the hollyhocks finished each other’s sentences. How I missed predatory animals and worrying about being eaten. How I missed being eaten. How the ocean and the continent are essentially love on a terrible mission to meet up with itself. How even with the surface roiling, the depths are calmly nursing away at love. That look the late nurser gets in its eyes as it sucks: a habitual, complacent peace. How to mother that peace, to wean it, is a terrible career. And to smudge beauty is to discover ugliness. And to smudge ugliness is to be knocked back by splendor. How every apple is the poison apple. How rosy the skin. How sweet the flesh. How to suck the apple’s poison is the one true meal, the invocation and the Last Supper. How stillness nests at the base of wind’s spine. How even gravestones buckle and swell with the tides. And coffins are little wayward ships making their way toward love’s other shore.
5.6 miles franklin loop 19 degrees / feels like 9 5% ice and snow covered
Because it was sunny and because there wasn’t much wind and because I had the right number of layers on, today’s run was great. Not too cold. Maybe it helped that I did a 5 minute warm up on the bike in the basement? Very happy to be out there, beside the gorge, breathing in the cold air, and greeting Mr. Morning! and Dave, the Daily Walker.
The arch of left foot hurts a bit. I think I overdid it with the old shoes, the yak trax and the ice clumps on Thursday. I should not run tomorrow. Bummer.
Layers: 2 pairs of black running tights; pale green long sleeved shirt; pink jacket with hood; gray buff; black fleece lined baseball cap; 2 pairs of gloves — pink with white stripes on top, black underneath
Took the pink and white gloves off about 1 1/2 miles in. Pulled down the buff 5 minutes in, pulled off the pink hood at 1 mile. Unzipped and re-zipped my jackets throughout. At the end of the run I wasn’t cold, just soaked with sweat, my pony-tail dripping.
10 Things I Noticed
the river, 1: running on franklin bridge the river was a clear blueish gray, no ice yet
snow was covering the north face of an ancient boulder on the east side of the river
random goose honks throughout the run, usually a lone goose flying low
the sky was a pale blue, the gorge was giving off a blue-gray hue
the only other colors: brown, white, a runner’s orange jacket, another runner’s pink one
the river, 2: standing above the lake street bridge at my favorite spot on the east side I admired the open river, stretching wide, looking calm
the river, 3: off in the distance the water glowed, burning a silver fire — not white, or any color, just shimmering light
the river, 4: from the lake street bridge the river was studded with ice
a voice on a hill on Edmund: a kid going sledding
ending the run and crossing over to the boulevard the snow crunched in an unusual way. It sounded almost like the crinkle in a dog toy, or like I had some brittle paper stuck on my shoe
I made a recording of the crinkling snow:
crinkling snow / 20 november 2022
Scrolling through twitter, this piece — a prose poem? an essay fragment? — by Mary Ruefle from My Private Property. I might have to buy this book; I’ve posted at least one other essay/poem from it on here already:
from My Private Property/ Mary Ruefle
Gray sadness is the sadness of paper clips and rubber bands, of rain and squirrels and chewing gum, ointments and unguents and movie theaters. Gray sadness is the most common of all sadnesses, it is the sadness of sand in the desert and sand on the beach, the sadness of keys in a pocket, cans on a shelf, hair in a comb, dry-cleaning, and raisins. Gray sadness is beautiful, but not to be confused with the beauty of blue sadness, which is irreplaceable. Sad to say, gray sadness is replaceable, it can be replaced daily, it is the sadness of a melting snowman in a snowstorm.
The everydayness of gray sadness, its mundane, real, nothing special-ness, reminds me of a bit from the lyric essay I posted last week, Ode to Gray. Especially this bit:
Look at enough black-and-white photography and color comes to feel like an intrusion. Eggleston’s photos seem too vital to be real, as though depicting an alternate reality. Each image is delirious with hue, spectacular, delicious, but a little bit too much. The eye craves rest—and mystery, the kind of truth that can be searched only in subtlety. Dorothy may tumble, tornadic, into Technicolor, but still she always wishes to go home.
In addition to exploring gray this month, I’m also thinking about color in general, and colors that have been significant for me in this running log, like green. Here is a great green poem I found a few days ago. I haven’t thought of the coming of green as fire and flame before, but it works.
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
And I, what fountain of fire am I among This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed About like a shadow buffeted in the throng Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.
5.5 miles franklin hill turn around 26 degrees / feels like 20 light snow / wind: 15 mph gusts 100% snow-covered
Winter! Woke up to another dusting — maybe an inch? — on the ground. Wore my old yak trax, the ones I got 3 or 4 years ago that are worn down, but still work. Mostly I’m glad I did, but several times snow clumped up in the grooves. Was it because of the yak trax, the high water content of the snow, or something else?
My Favorite Things
the feel of snow under my feet — more interesting than boring asphalt
the creaks and crunches of that snow
greeting Mr. Morning! and Dave, the Daily Walker
3 geese flying west — I heard their harsh honks first, echoing across the gorge, then they appeared, flying low near the trestle
open water, brownish-gray
in the second half of the run, the snow stopped and the sun was trying to pierce through the thick clouds. Everything looked slightly blue — the snow, the sky, the trees
the graceful runner who passed me, their feet bouncing up and down, up and down
in the first half, when it was much darker, the headlights cutting through the dim
running up the Franklin hill — I felt strong and free, untethered
ending at the ancient boulderS after (almost) sprinting up the hill — my winter running tradition
Ishihara colorblind plates as form
Still thinking about my next series of vision poems. A plan seems to be forming. Here’s what I wrote:
A series of colorblind (Ishihara) plates describing how I see and don’t see color and what that means for how I move through the world.
The actual series of plates for the test are 38. I think that might be too many. Each poem will consist of 2 plates: the “actual” plate (designed by Scott) with the circles and the hidden message. In the original, it’s numbers. In mine, it’s a word that can stand alone as a poem, but also (might) connect with the other plate words and is the unifying theme for a prose poem that is on the second plate. This second-plate poem will (most likely, but maybe not?) take the form of the circle of the plate. Tentatively, I’m imagining it as a prose poem, but it might be its own thing, a series of words, descriptions related to seeing and not seeing color.
The plates will be divided into different topics related to color:
a story about why this test matters to me what everything looks like, how it feels struggles/quirks/strange a focus on gray — contrast — light and dark, not in color
Scott found something on github that enables you to easily (or easily for Scott) design your own plates. Here’s a sample of what he did. He put the word red in it. I’ll take his word for it because I can’t see the letters at all.
Scott’s Ishihara plate, “Red”
today’s gray theme: duck duck gray duck
Still thinking about gray this month. Today, inspired by the wonderful geese I heard while running, I’m thinking of the passionate way Minnesotans defend their name for the childhood game, Duck Duck Gray Duck over what the rest of the country calls it, Duck Duck Goose. I am not one of those passionate Minnesotans because I grew up on the east coast in North Carolina and Virginia. We played Duck Duck Goose. I’m fine with calling it Duck Duck Gray Duck, but I don’t really care. Scott does. No matter how often we’ve discussed it, he gets fired up every time the topic is mentioned. It is fascinating to me that Minnesota is the only state that uses gray duck and not goose, especially thinking about how many kids who grew up in Minnesota probably have a moment when they realize that not everyone else calls it that.
Because I’m that person, I had to wonder, are gray ducks rare? Yes, especially in Sweden. According to my quick googling, the most common color for ducks in Sweden is blue.
I already have 2 wonderful poems about wild geese — Wild Geese/Mary Oliver and Something Told the Wild Geese/Rachel Field — but I can always use another!
4.5 miles minnehaha falls and back 30 degrees / steady light snow walking path: 60% snow-covered / bike path: 10% snow-covered
The first winter run in the snow of the season! Wonderful. Slushy, a few slick spots, little snow flakes occasionally pelting my face. Loved it! Not too many people on the trails. Exchanged greetings with Mr. Morning! Morning! Good morning!
I forgot to look at the river or, if I looked, I don’t remember what I saw. It was probably blue gray. There’s no way it was white yet.
We already have a few inches on the ground, so it looks like a winter wonderland. Some of the snow has painted the trees white.
The falls were falling, but not gushing.
The sky is a very light gray. Almost everything some shade of gray. Somewhere on the trail — maybe near the falls — I saw some light green leaves decorating a tree. How is that possible?
Thought about Emily Dickinson and the idea I had earlier this morning, based on my current reflections on gray and my devotion to her poem, “We grow accustomed to the Dark –“: I grow accustomed to the Gray. For me, not everything is dark, really. It’s gray. Literally — as colors drain away in light that isn’t just right, many things often look gray. I don’t usually notice it until I think about how that dark car over there isn’t dark blue or dark red, it’s just dark gray. Or that fir tree outside of my writing studio window isn’t dark green but a very dark gray. It’s also metaphorical — I’m in this in-between state, where I can sometimes see, sometimes can’t. Or I can see well enough to get by, but not very well. I’m in transition, in the process of losing, not in the state of having lost.
today’s gray: gray area
definition from google: an ill-defined situation or field not readily conforming to a category or to an existing set of rules.
Not sure if this really fits, but the in-betweeness and ambiguity of a gray area, makes me think of optical illusions like the duck and the rabbit, or the old lady and the young woman, or the white and gold or blue and black dress, which makes me think of this passage from Georgina Kleege:
I surmise that my general visual experience is something like your experience of optical illusions. Open any college psychology textbook to the chapter on perception and look at the optical illusions there. You stare at the image and see it change before your eyes. In one image, you many see first a vase and then two faces in profile. In another, you see first a rabbit then a duck. These images deceive you because they give your brain inadequate or contradictory information. In the first case, your brain tries to determine which part of the image represents the background. In the second case, your brain tries to to group the lines of hte sketch together into a meaningful picture. In both cases there are two equally possible solutions to the visual riddle, so your brain switches from one to the other, and you have the uncanny sensation of “seeing” the image change. When there’s not much to go — no design on the vase, no features on the faces, no feathers, no fur — the brain makes an educated guess.
When I stare at an object I can almost feel my brain making such guesses.
Sight Unseen / Georgina Kleege
Sometimes, but not always, I can feel my brain making guesses. I usually notice this when it guesses wrong and then I realize what the thing I’m looking at actually is. Or, maybe it is more like this: I see something that seems strange to me, like a dead or sleeping squirrel on a big rock. That’s what it looks like, what the visual data is telling me (Sara’s brain) it is, but I can’t quite believe it. It seems off. I look closer. Finally, after staring for too long, I realize it is a stocking cap with a furry brim.
Ambiguous. It could mean this or that or this and that.
Yes! Love this weather: cold, but not too cold, hardly any wind, no snow or ice on the paths yet. Cold enough to keep the crowds away and for me to keep my gloves on for the whole run. Calm enough for the river to be a mirror reflecting an upside world — the arches of lake st bridge smiling instead of frowning.
Layers: black running tights (the thicker ones), green base shirt, pink jacket with hood, pink head/ear band, black and white polka dot twins cap (used to my daughter’s because, yes, my head is small enough to fit into a girl’s cap), black gloves
Heard a strange bird call in the gorge, which made me think “whip-poor-will,” but it’s most likely not that bird because they’re nocturnal and they’re listed as rare in my birds of the mississippi river guide.
Just as I neared the river road on the east side I heard a honking goose and the bells of St. Thomas.
Saw a few, and by a few I mean less than 10 total, snow flurries in the air.
This route is only 5.6 miles and takes only a little over 50 minutes, but it felt like I ran through a lot of places: cooper neighborhood, on lake street, over the lake street bridge, up marshall in st. paul, beside St. Thomas, on Summit, above the river on the east and west sides, past grand old houses, big brick apartment buildings, corner stores, salons, ice cream parlors, gas stations, cafes, a university, a WWI monument, falls hidden in ravines.
Today’s gray theme is: gray as (the absence of?) color
Thinking about color: Yesterday afternoon, in the chapel at Gustavus, which was not dim but not bright either, I started to notice that looking one direction, toward the far window on the other side, the only color I could see was an occasional red square embedded in the walls (I double-checked with Scott; there were also a bunch of blue squares too). The hymnals 15-20 feet away, which I know are red, looked dark but colorless. Staring out at the crowd of people, everyone looked like they were dressed in dark or light — not quite black or white, just dark clothes or light clothes. No variation, no purples or blues or oranges or anything but dark and light. It was strange, partly because it didn’t feel strange. It wasn’t like I thought, where is all the color? It felt more like when I wake up in the dark and, after my eyes adjust, I see the room and it looks like the room, but just darker, dimmer and without color. And, usually I don’t think there’s no color — sometimes I might even think I see color because I know my robe is purple or the pillow is yellow, or I don’t see yellow, but I recognize the pillow on the couch as that yellow pillow because I already know it’s yellow. Hope this description makes sense to anyone reading this, including future Sara.
Anyway, because my theme for today is gray as color (or colorless) and because I was still thinking about my experience in the chapel last night, I gave particular attention to noticing colors today. I wondered if I would struggle to see colors because it was a gray, darker day. I don’t think so. Would I be able to tell? Here’s the colors I noticed:
10 Colors I Noticed
green grass, green stoplight
red stop sign, red stop lights
yellow stop light, yellow leaves
rusty brownish red stain on the lake st bridge
blueish water
pinkish, purplish jacket on a walker
orange traffic cone
brown dirt
white patches of snow in the corners of the sidewalk
my black running tights
A few grays that come up a lot in poetry: gun metal gray, pewter
added a few hours later: Thinking about color more and how I see it or don’t see it. This afternoon I was wondering about how others describe their inability to see color in the dark/low light, like when you wake up in the middle of the night, look around, and nothing has color. It’s all dark or light or gray. Using the search, “seeing color in the dark,” I came across this article: Why We See Swirling Color When Our Eyes Are Closed. Among other interesting things, it mentions intrinsic gray or eigengrau:
The color black is often referred to as the absence of light, but when it comes to the human visual system, eigengrau is the color perceived in the absence of light. Eigengrau is a German term that roughly translates to ‘intrinsic gray’ or ‘own gray.’ When deprived of light — as in when our eyes are closed, or when we are in darkness with our eyes open — we are unable to perceive true blackness, and rather, perceive eigengrau. This is because light provides the contrast necessary to perceive darker-ness. For instance, the black ink of text might appear darker than eigengrau because the whiteness of the page provides the contrast the eyes need to understand black.
Here’s a little more info from another article:
Scientists believe that Eigengrau is the dark grey colour that human eyes see in perfect darkness and this is said to be the result of visual signals from optic nerves.
German philosopher and physicist Gustav Theodor Fechner is believed to have investigated and popularized the term Eigengrau. He is also known for his key role in the genesis of the measurement of human perception.
The term eigengrau is not used that often now. Instead, it’s referred to as visual noise or the static in your retina. In the article, eigengrau was also called “brain gray.”
5 miles bottom of franklin hill turn around 64 degrees
Warm, sticky, damp. Thunderstorms coming in a few hours. Blizzards possible up north. A gray morning. Right before I left for my run the sun came out, then left again. Hazy, gloomy. I like this weather, although I’d prefer it to be colder, less humid. The gray sky looked smudged and made the bare branches seem extra wispy and fragile. I felt good running, relaxed. Ran north with no headphones, south with a Lizzo playlist.
10 Things I Noticed
A runner passing me wearing an orange shirt that lost its glow in the gloom of the gorge
A walker wearing bright yellow (like me)
A roller skier climbing the Franklin hill. I don’t remember hearing any poles clicking or clacking or scraping
Unlike yesterday, the cars on the river road had their headlights on
Passing under the bridge at the bottom of the hill, I noticed a big blue circle on the ground with the numbers “94” on it. Interstate 94. Maybe now I will always remember that this bridge is 94, and the bridge near downtown is 35?
Running north above the gorge, from the left (closer to the road) the wind was blasting very warm air, from the right (near the gorge) the wind was blasting cold air. Overdressed in long sleeves, I preferred the cold
A bird flying up above me. Every time I tried to see it straight on, it disappeared. I could only see it off to the side
I don’t think I looked at the river once, even when I was right by it below Franklin
The pavement is wet, the dirt trails soft and muddy
a big truck with a chain track like a tank instead of wheels on the road near the Danish Center — why was it there?
I don’t have one big theme for gray today, just a few smaller thoughts:
gray as a mix of white and black and gray as the mix of 2 opposites — like the hot and cold air I experienced as I ran above the gorge
what the gray of the sky did to the bare branches of the trees, making the small branches at the tips look wispy or like they were fading or dissolving or just soft and fuzzy
Googled “poem the color gray” and found this wonderful lyric essay: Ode to Gray
the color of cubicles and winter camouflage, of sullage, of inscrutable complexity, of compromise. It is the perfect intermediate, an emissary for both black and white.
It is the color of soldiers and battleships, despite its dullness. It is the color of the death of trees. The death of all life when consumed by fire. The color of industry and uniformity. It is both artless and unsettling, heralding both blandness and doom. It brings bad weather, augurs bleakness. It is the color other colors fade to once drained of themselves. It is the color of old age.
I’m drawn to gray, as to a dream, but not to any old gray. Not storm-cloud gray or corporate monolith. I prefer tranquil gray: the undyed wool of sheep in rain, the mood inside a Gerhard Richter painting, the mottle of an ancient cairn. I don’t mean any one gray either but the entire underrainbow of the world, the faded rose and sage and caesious. Liard, lovat, perse. The human eye perceives five hundred—not a mere fifty—shades of gray. Paul Klee called it the richest color, “the one that makes all the others speak.”
Gray is the endless and. It can be cooled or warmed, made magic or mundane. It’s almost always tinged with color, but nothing quite so bold as to commit.
In the realism of the black-and-white, gray is every color—without the tartness. The understudies take the stage, and not one seems to miss the headliners. We see the world without distraction. Andre Gide called gray the color of the truth.
Gray in the wild opens and spills. Put two grays together and you’ll see the color each one hides within, the “endless variations” noted by Van Gogh. I think of the handful of river pebbles I once snuck into my pockets on a day trip to a waterfall: they were dusty gray when I got home, but underwater, each concealed a secret separate life as green or red or blue. So many things that seem gray on the surface have a treasure to unlock—myself, I hope, included. [note: this idea of seeming gray on the surface reminds me of something I read about gray matter yesterday. The brain tissue only looks gray when it’s outside of the body being observed, inside the brain it’s more pink — I wish I could find the source for that now]
It is the perfect neutral, balanced and dignified—and yet it is so effortlessly swayed; it is the pool that takes in other colors as they bleed. It complements; it brightens light and lightens dark. It isn’t flat. It’s deep, endlessly deep. Gray is the dark end of the light. The light end of the dark. Unsettling, perhaps, but full of possibility. Just think how beautiful we all look in the gloaming. It’s liminal, the color of our own potential to become.
4.3 miles minnehaha falls turn around 53 degrees / humidity: 96%
A great run this morning. I felt strong and relaxed and never like I wanted or needed to stop. A gray morning. At the start, the sky was almost white with a little gray and the idea of light blue. By the end, the sky was still white, but a little more gray and thick, heavy. Returning above the gorge, there was some haze over the water.
10 Things I Noticed
gushing water from the sewer pipe at 42nd st
trickling water at the falls
most of the leaves are off the trees, the ones that remain are burnt orange
other colors: blue-gray asphalt at minnehaha park, green grass, my bright orange sweatshirt
a runner in a light colored shirt passed me going fast under the ford bridge. I enjoyed watching his bobbing shoulders bounce off into the distance for the next 5 minutes
almost empty parking lots at the falls, a few groups of walkers
the beep beep beep of a car alarm from a car being towed through the roundabout near the falls
even though it was a little dark and gloomy, few cars had on their lights
the river was half light, half dark
a elementary school class visiting the ravine, a line of them stretching across the sidewalk. I found a big gap and tried to quickly pass through. Some kids sprinted, trying to catch me or run into me (they didn’t)
Little Gray Cells
Today’s gray theme is: the brain, the little gray cells, gray matter. When I think of gray matter, I first think of the “little gray cells” and Peter Ustinov as Hercule Poirot, especially in one my favorite movies, Death on the Nile:
“And to rest the little gray cells.”
Gray matter is tissue found in the brain. It contains a lot of neuronal cells. Reading about it, I could feel myself shutting down. Too much science-y jargon! Here’s a description of their function to remember for later:
Grey matter serves to process information in the brain. The structures within the grey matter process signals from the sensory organs or from other areas of the grey matter. This tissue directs sensory stimuli to the neurons in the central nervous system where synapses induce a response to the stimuli.
These signals reach the grey matter through the myelinated axons that make up the bulk of the white matter. The grey matter that surrounds the cerebrum, also given the name cerebral cortex is involved in several functions such as being involved in personality, intelligence, motor function, planning, organization, language processing, and processing sensory information.
Reading this description I’m wondering how they work with vision for both motor function and processing sensory information. As I walked through my alley at the end of my run I also wondered, How does exercise affect gray matter? Looked it up and found a pop description of a recent small study from an Australian site that suggests aerobic activity increases the gray matter, especially in terms of cognition. I found the word choice in this line interesting:
Recent research from Germany shows that aerobic exercise increases local and overall gray matter volume in the brain by an average 5.3 cubic centimetres.
This is a significant increase and more than the total brain volume of some American Presidents.
Well played, Australia.
I looked up “gray matter vision poem” and this one came up. I’d like to spend more time with it and Forrest Gander’s notes about his translation.
It would not sound so deep Were it a Firmamental Product— Airs no Oceans keep— —Emily Dickinson
Afloat between your lens and your gaze, the last consideration to go across my gray matter and its salubrious deliquescence is whether or not I’ll swim, whether I’ll be able to breathe, whether I’ll live like before.
I’m caught in the bubble of your breath. It locks me in. Drives me mad.
Confined to speak alone, I talk and listen, ask questions and answer myself. I hum, I think I sing, I breathe in, breathe in and don’t explode. I’m no one.
Behind the wall of hydrogen and oxygen, very clear, almost illuminated, you allow me to think that the Root of the Wind is Water and the atmosphere smells of salt and microbes and intimacy.
And in that instant comes the low echo of a beyond beyond, a language archaic and soaked in syllables and accents suited for re-de-trans-forming, giving light, giving birth to melanin hidden within another skin: the hollow echo of the voice which speaks alone.
It would have taken me a lot longer to understand (some of) what’s happening with Emily Dickinson in this poem if I hadn’t listened to Forrest Gander’s introduction, or read his translator notes. First, he says in his introduction before reading the poem:
Her poem seems to take place at a time when she’s undergoing physical trauma, which is cancer, and in this poem she is sort of slipping under a narcotic before some kind of treatment or operation, and in the last moments of consciousness what’s going through her mind is a poem of Emily Dickinson’s
And then he writes, in his translator notes:
Written at a difficult time in the poet’s life, at a time when her life was emphatically at stake, this poem includes an echo of Emily Dickinson’s #1295:
I think that the Root of the Wind is Water— It would not sound so deep Were it a Firmamental Product— Airs no Oceans keep— Mediterranean intonations— To a Current’s Ear— There is a maritime conviction In the Atmosphere—
In Pura López-Colomé’s “Echo,” it seems as though the poet, going under in both the sedative and the psychological sense—”the last consideration to go”—finds her mind looping a Dickinson poem concerned with going under, for if air is water, we drown in it. (There are allusions to other Dickinson poems as well.) But Dickinson’s re-de-transformational language brings her into the living poet’s present, even as that present may be slipping away. (I’m reminded of Shakespeare’s hope that “in black ink my love may still shine bright.”) Dickinson’s addictive syllables and rhythms bring her to life—her flesh takes on color (so the melanin). And López-Colomé, who has been speaking to herself alone, finds in herself a place where another poet is speaking to herself.
Wow, it’s funny that I randomly came across this poem because lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how Emily Dickinson is shaping my experiences of understanding and coping with vision loss. I’ve wondered about how to gesture at this influence in some new poems about my current seeing status. Also, I’ve been quoting some Dickinson, especially, “Before I got my eye put out” and “We grow accustomed to the Dark” in my head as I drift off to sleep.
one thing thing, added on November 13: Last night, while out for dinner with my son after his fabulous fall band concert, I happened to mention that I did a day on gray matter. FWA, a Breaking Bad fan, said, Gray matter is the name of the company that Walter White co-founded and then was cheated (or did he say screwed?) out of. It’s why he had to become a chemistry teacher and why he started making meth. I’ve never watched the show, although FWA really wants us to check it out. Maybe I will…
update, 9 nov 2023: Not too long after writing this, Scott and I started watching Breaking Bad and loved it. It took most of the spring, but we watched (and enjoyed? appreciated?) it all. After an extended break from the Walt world, we started watching Better Call Saul last week.
*south on river road trail/under ford bridge/up to Wabun/over ford bridge/continue south on the east river road trail/above Hidden Falls/cross over to the Highland Bridge (the old ford plant site)/north on trail/cross back over to east river trail/under Ford bridge/across Ford bridge/north on west river road
A 10k without stopping. Hooray! Completing a loop I’ve wanted to try for a few weeks. Double hooray!! Today it wasn’t bright blue, or gray, but sepia-toned. Subdued, weathered. Lots of light brown and brownish-orange leaves on the trees and the ground. Colder. I wore some of my winter layers: pink-hooded jacket, winter running tights, black winter vest, gloves. I felt good. My left kneecap shifted a bit about 5 minutes into the run. Maybe not as much? After the run, it’s a little stiff, but not too bad. A great run. I love this colder weather.
Before heading out for my run, I wrote the following:
The theme for November is gray, inspired by Gwendolyn Brooks’ poem “The Crazy Woman” and the line, And sing a song of gray. I came across a reference to gray hair and getting rid of it this morning and it immediately made me think of a commercial I remember watching as a kid. In 1980, I was six.
I’m pretty sure I heard this commercial way before the original song from the musical South Pacific, “I’m Gonna Wash that Man Right Out of My Hair.” Also, when looking up this commercial on YouTube, I found three versions, 1980 (above), 1983, and 1985. It’s fascinating to see the evolution to working girl/power woman.
For the record, I like my gray hair. I have a lot of it. And I don’t want to get rid of it. I don’t mind being old. Okay, not totally true. I mind the aches and pains, the witnessing of more loved ones dying, the gradual breaking down of my body. I’m not sure if I always embraced old age, but I know that a passage from Bernice Johnson Reagon’s “Coalition Politics: Turning the Century,” has had a huge impact on me. I love this essay. I devoted a whole chapter of my dissertation to her concepts of home and coalition, and I taught her words many times in my feminist theory classes. Here’s the passage that I’m thinking about in terms of old age and survival:
None of this matters at all very much is you die tomorrow—that wouldn’t even be cute. It only matters if you make a commitment to be around for another fifty more years. There are some grey haired women I see running around occasionally, and we have to talk to those folks about how come they didn’t commit suicide forty years ago. Don’t take everything they say because some of the stuff they gave up to stay around ain’t worth considering. But be sure you get on your agenda some old people and try to figure out what it will be like if you are raging radical fifty years from today.
Think about yourself that way. What would you be like if you had white hair and had not give up your principles?
These words above, the whole essay actually, are important to read and digest as I anticipate tomorrow’s midterm elections. They could be bad.
I thought about grey hair (I like spelling it grey too, which is more common outside of the US. Why? Not sure. I also like writing European 7s) and getting older and being able to endure and survive. Suddenly I understood Brooks’ poem in a different way. I’ve always been drawn to it because I love November and gray, colder, barer days. I imagined this crazy woman as literally singing in November, which is what I like to do (and terribly too — as Brooks’ line continues in the next verse). But, Brooks is talking about an old woman who has gray hair, and her song of gray is the song of a woman who has managed to survive to old age. Duh. This interpretation seems obvious to me now, but I was hung up on the gray, early winter days of November and my love of them. Managing to still be around when you’re old is not easy. Both my mom and Scott’s mom weren’t able to do it — my mom dead at 67, Scott’s at 74. That’s too young. And to be able to sing about it? To me, that feels like a real accomplishment. To live to your 80s is a lot about luck and managing to avoid cancer or car accidents or any number of calamities. But some of it, I hope, is about how you take care of yourself and whether or not you embrace a longer view. When I think about what my goals are for running, this is a big one: I want to be running in my 70s. That’s my long view. I want to do what it takes to keep me healthy and able to run for several more decades. And, if I can’t run, at least walking along the gorge.
As I ran back across the Ford bridge, I was still thinking about old age and running and how completing a long run might serve as a metaphor for living a long life. In the past, I’ve thought about this in terms of enduring and pushing through pain and bad thoughts (I can’t do this, it’s too hard, I want to stop) by keeping moving, putting one foot in front of the other. Whatever bad thoughts/feelings I’m having almost always pass within a few minutes. Today, I thought about it in terms of a phrase I heard several times when I watched the Ironman World Championships a few weeks ago: burning a match. One woman was going out too fast and burning a match. Another woman looked like she was feeling good and had to decide if she wanted to burn a match now and probably pay for it later. And yet another woman — Daniela Ryf, maybe the GOAT of Ironman — was burning several matches to catch up to other racers. Not sure what to do with this phrase, but it popped into my head as I ran.
an aside: 2 other running phrases I often encounter: the wheels come off (when your race falls apart, when your body stops working) and go out there and rip it (run as fast as you can).
The idea of burning a match and endurance and old age makes me think of 2 poems: Dylan Thomas’ “Do Not Go Gentle Into the Dark Night” and Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “First Fig.”
My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— It gives a lovely light!
I don’t like the Dylan Thomas poem, and I can’t relate to the Milay’s candle burning at both ends. I should say more about what I mean, but that would take more time than I have right now. Maybe in a vague way, my dislike of both of these poems has something to do with my love of gray?
one more thing: I just realized that Dylan Thomas’ poem is in villanelle form, which I was just writing about in my reconstructed post for November 1st. I need to spend some time reviewing poetic forms!
