4.45 miles under franklin bridge and back 31 degrees
Sunny, still. Another beautiful November morning! Around the trestle, I encountered a road race. I think it was a 10 miler — nope, I looked it up: 5k/10k/15k Hot Chocolate Run. Wish I would have known about this; Scott and I probably would have signed up for it. A great day for a race!
shadows: So many delightful shadows. Flashes of birds flying overhead, my sturdy silhouette running beside me, curved branches, and my favorite: the shadow of someone walking above on the lake street bridge as I ran under it. The railing distorted their shadow so that it was shaking or flashing or cutting in and out as they passed by a slat. Cool!
10 Things
click clack click clack — the sound of ski poles hitting the asphalt from a small group (5 or 6?) roller skiers
the BRIGHT white jacket of a woman running in the race — the jacket was tied around her waist
the sound of a kid laughing somewhere deep in the gorge
a sour sewer smell wafting up from the sewer vents
bang bang bang — someone banging something repeatedly near the minneapolis rowing club
the caboose of the race — 2 people walking and talking as they “raced” — 2 official cars slowly fillowing them — one walker to the other: I guess they’re about the open the road back up
beep beep / beep beep — the sound near the timing mat as runners ran over it
BRIGHT yellow leaves covering a few stretches of the trail
frost on the trash can as I left for my run
my breath, frozen, hovering in the air in front of me
Scott and I watched Friday the 13th last night, in honor of Friday the 13th. It didn’t disappoint! Last night’s revelation from Scott: Brenda, Bill, and Alice (the final girl) are playing strip Monopoly. Just as Alice is about to take off her blouse, the front door is pushed open by the rain. Brenda says: Oh no, I think I left my cabin window open! Just when it was getting interesting. The revelation: Brenda was hitting on Alice.
a note for future Sara: My legs — mostly hamstrings, a little calf, some glute — are often sore at night. A dull ache that isn’t painful, just dull and irritating. Is it because of HRT patches? A slight running injury? Something else? Future Sara, let us know!
Almost 21 miles of running this week. I’m back on track! For most of the year, I average 20 miles a week. I don’t think I’ll make it to my goal of 1000 miles this year, but I’ll probably get around 950.
5.8 miles hidden falls and back 36 degrees / feels like 25 degrees wind: 9mph / 15mph gusts
The feels like temps have begun. Winter is almost here! It was cold enough today for me to wear gloves. I didn’t mind the cold, although I wasn’t happy about the wind. It was in my face for most of the second half, tiring me out. But, who cares? I was able to run outside for an hour on clear trails!
Today’s image: a silver surface. Maybe it’s because I was just looking at an entry from my gray month (November 2022) about silver, but when I looked at the surface of the river glowing through the trees I thought, silver. The sky is overcast, which I think helped to make it look even more silver (at least to me). Beautiful.
Twice last week and twice this week, I’ve run for an hour. Never really a formal plan; it just happened. 11 sets of 4 minutes of running, 1 minute of running, then 5 minutes of running at the end. I’ve been tracking how far I can go in 60 minutes and trying to make it a little farther each time. Today I went the farthest: 5.8 miles. Over the years, I’ve slowed down. 5 years ago, I could have easily run more than 6 miles in an hour. Oh well.
10 Things
the surface of the river had wide ridges on it (view from the ford bridge)
deep laughs below (heard from above the winchell road)
construction noises near the ford dam — drilling or hammering
the soft thud of a runner’s foot strikes approaching from behind then passing me
a clear view of the winchell trail below and a curved stretch of the fence
a flash of bright orange, a rumbling noise: a parks vehicle speeding up the hill from the locks and dam no. 1
crush crush the soft sound and feel of crushed limestone above hidden falls
a few bright yellow trees near the tunnel of trees
turning around at the falls, running straight into the wind, making my cap shift on my head
part of the trail near the ford dam overlook has been repaved — smooth, dark — and part of it has not — full of ruts, uneven asphalt, bright orange spray paint marking the cracks
documenting or ditching my ever-growing list of open tabs
For almost a week, I have safari open with tabs spread across the top of the window. Many of these are for past entries re-read during my morning “On This Day” practice. Today is the day to document or ditch them. Here are the ones I’m keeping, in the order they appear from left to right:
1 — lucille clifton’s praising impossible things
This first one isn’t from my “on this day” practice; it’s a poem that I looked up to use for inspiration in a list poem, or in a series of list poems sprinkled throughout my manuscript about the gorge. I love lucille clifton and her unfenced is!
Praise impossible things Praise to hot ice Praise flying fish Whole numbers Praise impossible things. Praise all creation Praise the presence among us of the unfenced is.
A sudden thought: instead of praises, I could make one of my list poems, Oh, Unsee the Beheld! which is a reference to a poem about Ariadne: Altitude/ Airea D. Matthews. Here’s what I wrote about that phrase on 19 june 2025:
I like thinking about to unsee as a verb, an act, a process, a type of prayer? Just as seeing is not a static thing, where you simply see, but a process of light and signals and filtering and guessing by the brain, unseeing is a process of slow (or sporadic) unravelling then adapting — a brain doing mysterious and magical things with the scrambled and limited data it receives, a mind developing new ways to witness/behold without stable and dependable eyes.
And now I’m thinking of unseeing as eroding/erosion and the creation of the gorge. Rock erosion occurs in 2 main ways at the Mississippi River Gorge: 1. soft sandstone slowly and gradually wears away as it encounters water and air and 2. this wearing away weakens the foundation for limestone until it breaks. My unseeing process could be similar: the slow and gradual dying/not working of cell cones until a final break and no central vision. Is this how it will happen? Maybe, but maybe not.
I kept digging through my archive, and found another entry from 13 july 2025 about unseeing the beheld:
Unsee the beheld where to unsee is to observe/witness with a sense other than sight, or to unravel, come undone or redone, transformed. Who/what is the beheld? Me, held by the water. So, to unsee me, to let go of me/I and have an encounter/exchange with that which is not-I: the water. I haven’t written about this bit yet, but yesterday I was thinking about Anne Carson and her anthropology of water and I wrote in my Plague Notebook, encounter with that which you cannot contain, control, that is not You — the not-I. In the lake, I am held by the water — rocked, enveloped, lifted — but in the process of being held I dissolve, or the small part of Sara the ecosystem that is I is saturated. Yes, this makes sense to me, but will it to anyone else, including future Sara?
Oh, this poem. I recall posting it because I was thinking about shadows on 7 nov 2019, and not really getting it. Reading it again this morning, I love it. I’m wondering if I could turn this title into a line in my shadow poem?
3 — Chloe Garcia Roberts and temporal saturation
There is too much good stuff in this entry from 3 oct 2025 about moments and gorges and JJJJJerome Ellis’ stutter and blind spot to repost here. How many poems are waiting to be written from this entry? A lot. For now, I’ll post this small bit:
Temporal saturation . . . is used to explain both the canyons that can appear inside moments of great rending, joyous or horrific, entombing an incarnation of the self which will never again exist; as well as the median intervals of floating passivity that resist recollection and whose ending is marked by a feeling of awakening: a drowsy startle or a gradual reconsciousness.
Temporal Saturation/ Chloe Garcia Roberts
canyons. The gorge! The gash, gap, open space where more is possible, between beats, where Nothing happens and where there is (good) Air to breathe. Does it entomb an incarnation of the self which will never again exist? Ooo–I have thought about the idea of different Saras intermingling above/beside/in the gorge. It’s not that they don’t ever exist again, but that they only exist (together) here in this space. It’s the gorge as holding everything — not trapping or entombing, but holding — beholding, witnessing.
a draft of something out of these ideas from today, 12 nov 2026:
anyone who believes
this space is empty is
not paying attention.
All around, scattered,
are ten years of Girls who
once did more than pace.
4 — cells remember
symbiogenesis: we came about not only through competition but through acts of cooperation. We carry evidence of species merger in our cells, and of species relation in almost every structure we daily rely upon. Is there one piece of us that doesn’t also, in some form, belong to someone else? Your fingers ghosting chimp as they slender in the air. Lobe-finned fishes did protolungs, acorn worms might have done something like a heart. The more complex organs, like eyes, had to be developed many times, but jellyfish saw first, and not for us. Biology is remembering. Our cells remember ancient chemical interactions, pre-life, and our limbs remember salamanders. A poem remembers our past in language and posits a future in the simplest sense, like a to-do note, hoping that it will be read at some point hence, reminding us of something worth knowing. It can cast back between the “its” and the “octopus” in the second paragraph of this blog and remember the relation. In addition, it’s an ecosystem that, ideally, like any functioning ecosystem, deals with its own waste. Like the octopus’s smart shadow, a poem’s shadow also always knows more than we do.
Biology remembers. Cells remember. Cells remember? Here’s some future reading: How a cell remembers
This is from 10 nov 2025. Reading it two days ago, I was inspired to write some lines that I put at the end of a poem and then decided they didn’t quite work. Now, they’re looking for a new home at the end (or the beginning?) of a poem:
You remember
what the cells that dwell in
your body, have never
forgotten: you are more gorge than girl.
5 — a word remembered, inosculation
Yesterday, I was writing about the tree that is growing through a fence. I wanted to know what that phenomenon is called, and remembered that its mentioned in a favorite poem by Catherine Barnett, “Epistemology“:
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.
Initially, I had named one of my vision lost poems with this word, Vision Lost [osculation], but I switched it to [tree & fence]. Tuesday night, after band rehearsal, I mentioned trees growing through fences, then trees growing through bicycles to another clarinet. Yesterday, I decided to look it up: Story Behind the Bicycle in the Tree on Vashon Island, WA
6 — 12 nov 2021, a poem to add to My 100 list of poems memorized
The river rose wildly every seventh spring or so, and down the hatch went the town, just a floating hat box or two, a cradle, a cellar door like an ark to float us back into the story of how we drown but never for good, or long. How the ornate numbers of the bank clock filled with flood, how we scraped minute by minute the mud from the hours and days until the gears of time started to catch and count again. Calamity is how the story goes, how we built the books of the Bible. Not the one for church, but the one the gods of weather inscribed into our shoulder blades and jawbones to grant them grit enough to work the dumb flour of day into bread and breath again. The world has a habit of ending, every grandmother and father knew well enough never to say, so deeply was it stained into the brick and mind. We live in the meantime is how I remember the length of twilight and late summer cicadas grinding the air into what seemed like unholy racket to us, but for them was the world’s only music.
I love this poem! So much so, that I want to add it to my list of 100 poems memorized. I think it would be #62.
A Window to an Alligator’s Soul
I’m always interested in gathering examples of the idea that looking into someone’s eyes somehow gives us access to their soul (scroll down for my “eye contact” section on this page). It’s an idea so insidious that many (most?) of us rarely question it and it’s constantly reinforced in our stories. Today’s example: the Peacock show, Poker Face, season 2 / episode 4: Taste of Human Blood. I searched for the scene on YouTube, but couldn’t find it, so I recorded it myself. My framing isn’t the best and, at one point, you can see my reflection on the screen (which I kind of like), but the video is clear enough for you to get the gist of the story. Charley (or is it, Charlie?) the main character, is told that if she looks deep into the eye of this alligator, she will see that he is a gentle soul. She looks, and sees that he is.
the eye as the window to the soul
I like this example because the ridiculousness of it (alligator as Buddha!) seems to be mocking this belief that you can somehow see a soul (whatever that is) or who a person really is by looking deeply into their eyes.
update, a few hours later: I’ve decided to rework an earlier manuscript that includes snellen charts and mood rings, and submit it to a contest. The original title of the manuscript was, Vision Test,but I wanted to come up with a new name that allowed me to expand it beyond the two visions to include my poems about color. The tentative new title is taken from the opening line of Elizabeth Bishop’s wonderful poem, “One Art”: The Art of Losing. The collection is written in the midst of losing vision (from the time it got bad enough in 2016 to be noticed until now, when it’s much worse but not as bad as it will most likely get), and it’s about how I’m using art (poetry + living a creative life) to navigate and respond to deteriorating vision. Will this title stick? I hope so; I’m excited about it! When I told Scott, he suggested making it, The Art of Losing Vision. My initial reaction: not sure I like the addition of vision, but I’ll sit with it for a few days.
Wow, another beautiful morning. With the sun and the still air it felt warmer than 47. I was over-dressed in my running tights. I’m still doing the run 4 minutes/walk 1 minute. I like it. Every so often a thought creeps in: shouldn’t I be trying to run without stopping? Then I remind myself that it is fine to walk and that I like the rhythm of 4/1.
10 Things
kids in front of Dowling Elementary raking up leaves, every so often a kid yelling out, Bucket! I need a bucket!, which at first sounded like, fuck it!, to me
soft and sharp shadows, crossing over each other: my sharp shadow crossing over the soft shadows of branches
a railing’s shadow on the bridge
even though I couldn’t feel the wind, I saw it on the surface of the water
shadow falls softly falling — not seen, heard
my shadow, far down in the ravine
the sloping path on the east side, leaning towards the edge
a small group of bikers –6 or 7 — all in BRIGHT yellow jackets, entering the trail at 42nd
kids voices drifting over the fence of the daycare at the church
a quick flash of somethings small and dark passing overheard — the shadows of a trio of birds in flight?
Before the run, I was thinking about the idea of intimacy and connection. As I ran, I thought about the intimacy of shadows, tangled up on the path, crossing over each other, some still, some in motion. Can/should I add this to the vision lost poem I’m working on?
intimate / intimacy
I decided to search my posts for the word, “intimacy.” I found some great stuff:
This morning, I’m reading another chapter of RWK’s Gathering Moss: The Advantages of Being Small: Life in the Boundary Layer. I was excited/please/inspired to encounter this passage:
Mosses inhabit surfaces: the surfaces of rocks, the bark of trees, the surface of a log, that small space where earth and atmosphere first make contact. This meeting ground between air and land is known as the boundary layer. Lying cheek to cheek with rocks and logs, mosses are intimate with the contours and textures of their substrate.
Gathering Moss/ Robin Wall Kimmerer
surfaces / where earth and atmosphere meet / boundary layer / intimate / contours / textures
I’m interested in surfaces, both ground surfaces by the gorge and water surfaces at the lake. I’ve gathered poems and thought about them before. And there is a line from my Haunts project that I’m still trying to write around/beside/through: It begins here: from the ground up, feet first, following. Today, I want to think about surfaces and boundary layers and textures and the intimacy that is created when air and land, foot and ground, meet.
note: there is some great stuff in this entry about small “enough” spaces and being still vs. being restless that I think could be useful for another poem I want to write, Exhaust, a place!
Near the end of the entry, I wrote this helpful bit: “Intimacy and Forrest Gander and Anne Pringles’ conversation about intimacy as an encounter that transforms you and Scott describing two trees growing out of the same spot and intertwining as intimate.”
see 28 april 2025, for the Gander/Pringles conversation.
2 — 12 may 2025
After discussion Susan Tichy, and the immersiveness of her wonderful collection, North | Rock | Edge, I mention this:
wrote in Plague Notebook, no. 25: To be with the gorge, to witness/behold it, demands participation not observation. It is intimate — contact, meeting, interfacing — and transforms you. You transform it (the gorge world), too.
intimacy / touch / entanglement / bodies next to each other, intertwined
felt, not seen — deep in, you can’t rely on eyes — in the muck of making, not floating, untethered, above it
Almost perfect mid-fall weather! Sun, clear paths, crisp air. I wore running tights, shorts, a long-sleeved purple shirt, orange sweatshirt, cap. Overheated at the halfway point, I took off the sweatshirt and tied it around my waist.
10 Things
my shadow — sharp, solid, in front of me
most of the leaves on the trail on the double bridge and the path below the road were gone — was it wind or a leaf blower? I heard both a few days ago
in the beginning, the sky, especially above the river, was hazy — humidity, I think
so much openness everywhere! limbs are bare so I could see the other side of the river
openness 1: between ford overlook and hidden falls — the idea of the river/valley below, endless air then a the tops of trees, far off
openness 2: running north on the west river road near 44th, a clear view of the curved wall and ravine
the sound of water rushing over a cliff near the ford bridge
a runner in light but BRIGHT orange shorts — the color of a creamsicle
the loud thwack of fast feet striking the ground behind me then beside me then in front of me
the wind pushing from behind, helping me feel fast
overheard: a mom, running, with 2 young kids on bikes
kid: whaaaaaaaaaa!!!!! how much longer? mom: we have to go to the end of the road (note: another 3+ miles) kid: (distraught) WE’RE NOT EVEN HALFWAY?! mom: Get it together Charlie!
For the past week or so, my legs have been sore after runs and for the rest of the day. It’s a dull ache. It could be muscle fatigue, but it feels different than that. I looked up “dull ache, after run, vitamin deficiency” and google AI suggested electrolyte imbalance or dehydration. Yes, it feels like dehydration. I better drink a lot of water today.
time traveling
On Thursday, Scott and I went to hear Carolina Ebeid read at Milkweed/Open Book/the Loft. I have known Carolina since I was in my early 20s — maybe when I was 21? She is the sister of my sister’s ex-husband. Is there a name for that? I have read her beautiful poetry for the past decade, but I had not seen her for almost 20 years. As a poet, she has continued to be a part of my life, as a person, she is part of a past life I rarely have access to. A life when my mom was still alive, when we had family gatherings and holiday parties and book clubs and traditions, when I had a sister of a brother-in-law named Carolina and an aunt named Carolyn.
At the reading, Carolina read “Winternet” and I remember hearing the line,
I play a tape of conversations, everyone young again
And I thought about the last time I recall seeing and talking to Carolina. Then, both of our mothers were alive, now they’re both dead. In her words and in talking with her, a flash of feeling, a remembering of what it felt like to be in my 20s with a mother still alive and an extended family all still together.
She ended her reading with this poem:
I Can’t Hear You When You’re Screaming/ Carolina Ebeid
line like a piece of twine, line like a piece of dry grass plant, nail, a finger pointing there, a finger-shush, line like a cut sewn up, a rupture stitched, like a bicycle cutting snow, a game of telephone, line like a shift of cord between cans, mouth-to-ear-to-mouth-to-ear repetitions, a human chain saving a driver from flash floods (on loop in the gallery), a barrette, a strand of hair latched in, we are each of us from somewhere else, aloft for city miles the telephone wire, line like city avenue traffic, dotted-with-shit avenue where the horses have been, horses become beautiful noise, line like string tied to a balloon, string tied to a door handled tied to a tooth, every time there’s a boundary, we must appoint the messenger to cross it, line like the space between a camera and the calamity, line like an x-rayed rib, like a track of menstrual blood thick down the thigh, parade spectator line, trombone slide, a column or air inside, a column of air with its spit trap, I can’t hear you when’re whispering, a sunwind line, line of hair blown into a camera’s eye
So many versions of line, so many associations, wow!
5.65 miles almost to the dog park and back 45 degrees / blustery
Windy this morning. Good bye colorful leaves! Lots of yellow, some pale, some a rich gold. A few darting squirrels, an occasional goose honk. A school group arriving at the falls the same time I did — such a cacophony of flailing arms, spinning legs, and screaming voices as the kids were let loose from their bus. I heard a loud rushing sound that I thought was the falls, but it was coming from a sewer drain. The creek was moving fast because of all of the rain the past 4 or 5 days. I wore my BRIGHT yellow 10 mile shirt, my hot dash pull-over with a hood, tights, shorts, a hat. The path was slick from yesterday’s rain, the air above the river was misty.
As I ran, I occasionally recited poems — “Crows”/Marilyn Nelson, “Turkey Vultures”/Ted Kooser, “Invitation”/Mary Oliver. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes….
Right after I finished my run, I remembered to stop and take a picture of the vine on a fence that I admire in the winter when it blooms frost. Today it is covered in deep red leaves, some big, some small.
wooden fence / red leaves on vine / 5 nov 2026
Vision Lost [still] / Vision Lost [grass]
still
As I ran, I thought more about my still poem. Some of my thoughts were about specific word choices — instead of go or run in one of my lines, I’d like to try float or fly. Some of my thoughts were about images — 1. still = the stone-like features of faces that are smudged and stuck/frozen, but that I’ve gotten used to and know that even though I can’t see them, a face/a person continues to exist (they are still there) and 2. stillness as a thickening and slowing, being enveloped and encased in an opaque something
grass
Reading through old entries, I came across a beautiful grass line from Mary Oliver in a log entry from 5 november 2019:
the prayers that are made out of grass? (Mindful/ Mary Oliver)
I’d like to write a Vision Lost [grass] poem. How will it relate to my vision loss?
Wet this morning. Rain a few hours ago. Overcast, dark. The river road was blocked off for the Halloween half marathon. Scott and I wanted to run this race, but when we tried signing up for it, it was full. Bummer. We’re doing a turkey trot in St. Paul next month instead.
Everything was dripping. I listened to the water streaming through the sewer pipes and over the bluff as I ran on the ford bridge, then above Winchell on 44th and 42nd. From high up on the ford bridge, the river surface to the south looked smooth, even as I ran into the wind.
10 Things
a roller skier’s BRIGHT yellow jacket
many of the trees blazing orange and red
the sharp bark of a dog somewhere near hidden falls
puddles in the cracks on the path
soggy leaves — yellow, red — lining the edges of the path that descends from the ford bridge to the locks and dam no. 1 parking lot
the sound of plastic hitting metal at the frisbee golf course in Wabun Park
a kid doing a trick with his skate board at the skate park, being praised by someone — a parent?
cracks everywhere: splitting a boulder in two*, buckling the asphalt, making puddles
a walker wearing full winter gear: a zipped up jacket, a stocking cap — did he have gloves on, too? I can’t remember
more leaves gone = a wider view
*I stopped to take several pictures of the giant boulder. It was at one of the new playgrounds in Highland Bridge.
I’ve never noticed the huge crack in this rock before! I wonder when/how it happened? Was this rock on the grounds of the Ford plant or did they move it here a few years ago? Did they find it with the crack in it, or did the crack happen when they moved it? I think it’s part of this park: Uŋčí Makhá Park
On my walk home, I passed by some favorite ornamental grass in someone’s side yard. I thought about my poem, “Vision Lost [field]” and the grass in it that has been softened by my central vision loss. Currently I describe it as feathering grasses but I’m not sure that’s quite the write words. I studied the grass — touched it, gazed at it, took a few pictures of it. When I looked at it closely, it was all fuzz and out-of-focus like I was holding blur in my hands. How to describe that? The grass looks fuzzy because it is always in motion for me. A flash: I should return to A.R. Ammons and his descriptions of motion in garbage and grass in Grassy Sound.
close-up of purple grass / 31 oct 2026
morning memorizing, a ramble x 2
1– 29 oct
I am writing this bit on Halloween, but I started this entry on the 29th, while refreshing my memory of a poem.
This fall, in the morning, I’ve been refreshing my memory of My 100 (my growing list of poems that will eventually reach 100 that I have memorized and can recite whenever I wish to myself by the gorge, but not to others because no one else wants to hear them). This morning, it’s “Before I got my eye put out.” This line stopped me:
But were it told to me, Today, That I might have the Sky For mine, I tell you that my Heart Would split, for size of me–
my Heart/would split I’m thinking of Mary Oliver’s breaking heart and my poem about the cracked asphalt near the railroad trestle! In “Before”, ED’s heart splitting would be from too much joy at being able to see again. The Meadows–mine–/The Mountains–mine–/All forests, stintless stars/As much of noon as I could take–/Between my finite eyes— To be beside/outside of yourself, in a state of exuberant joy.
And now I’m thinking of more examples of ED’s splitting — the mind, not the heart. I felt a Cleaving in my Mind–/As though my Brain had split and breaking, And then a plank in Reason broke. And I’m thinking of her interest in edges and seams.
I decided to search through my Emily Dickinson entries for “seam.” 18 entries. The one I thought of immediately is, too silver for a seam, from “A bird came down the walk” The next one that came up was near the end of her poem, “Wind”:
On deserts, in the sky, Had broken rank, Then knit, and passed In seamless company.
I started thinking about ED’s love of knitting and stitching and sewing and then an early poem that I had put in my Haunts series about stitches:
Loosen
threads that guide. Worry
stitches, rip seams, seek
space unplaced. A break
in the trees. Not here —
there. Close to the rim.
On the edge, near an
opening, next to
an exit. Ever
ready to ghost it,
to flare and flicker,
register only
as shadow, flashing
as what else could be
possible.
I feel like the mood of this poem — the I telling You that haunts it — is missing in my latest version. I’d like to bring some of it back in. What if the crack is a way into somewhere else — new understandings? possibilities? ways of noticing, feeling, bearing witness?
I had no idea that the gate I would step through/ to finally enter this world/ would be the space my brother’s body made (“The Gate”/ Marie Howe).
Could I write a poem about the crack that imagined me entering/passing through it and into somewhere else? Here I’m thinking of the fairy-tale feeling in “What Would Root/ Katie Farris.
added on 31 october: I did write a draft of a poem about the crack, then was inspired to write an additional poem about it for my Vision Lost series (a thought: I could turn the vision lost poems into a chapbook — so far, I have three — could I write more? and what if they were almost like fairy-tales? or, ghost stories? — what are some classic “ghost stories”? beyond A Christmas Carol?)
2 — 31 October
Another morning of getting up too early (6:30 on a Saturday!) because my body was too sore or restless of something to get up. Now I’m sitting in the dark with a glowing computer screen, refreshing my memory of past poems memorized. Today’s poem: “Turkey Vultures” by Ted Kooser. I posted it on this log in the thick of the pandemic (April 2020). After reciting it, I started reviewing all of the other poems I’ve re-memorized. I got to W.S. Merwin’s “To the Light of September” and his series of Yous near the end and thought of what I wrote above, about the You that haunts my Haunt manuscript:
you who fly with them
you who are neither before nor after you who arrive with the blue plums that have fallen through the night
I was reminded of some other Yous in poems on My 100 list:
I expect you. I thought one night it was you at the base of the drive, you at the foot of the stairs,
you in a shiver of light, (Dear One Absent This Long While/ Lisa Olstein)
And, from Mary Oliver’s “Invitation”:
Oh do you have time to linger for just a while…
I beg of you,
do not walk by without pausing to attend to this rather ridiculous performance.
It could mean something. It could mean everything. It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote: You must change your life.
A lot of MO’s poems feature a You. Another MO favorite I’ve memorized, “Wild Geese” has some yous:
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Some others: Perhaps you tire of the birds (Donika Kelly) . . . I’m Nobody, who are You? (Emily Dickinson) . . . Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor You (Christina Rosetti) . . . The webs of your eyes are fastened to the flesh and bone of you (Wallace Stevens).
I’ve written about You before. I’ll have to find where on this log (after breakfast and maybe after running?).
after my run, hours later: Found it! This is from my log entry for 27 feb 2020, which is a few weeks before the world went into lockdown for covid:
Before I ran, I had a great morning. Started by listening to part of an episode with Victoria Change on Commonplace. At one point, they discuss their shifts in writing in first and third person which got me thinking about my own choice, in my latest project, to write in second person. Why am I using you? Who is you? Found some very interesting essays on second person online: Stuck on You: an ode the second person and the intimacy of writing in the second person in a bar. Then I started thinking about how Mary Oliver uses you, like in Wild Geese (You do not have to be good/you do not have to walk on your knees…). Finally I thought about who the I and the You are in my project. One answer: I = Teacher self and You = Student Self.
When I got to the Falls I stopped for a minute to take off my hood and to look at the water. Then I started again. I noticed as I was running that my shadow was right in front of me. So clear and sharp and fully present! Then I had a revelation: my shadow is who is writing my workbook. My shadow is talking to me and giving me advice on what to do. In my exercises, my shadow is the implied I and I am the you she’s talking to. Very exciting to figure this out.
Fall running — I love it! Mostly I felt great running, only my left IT band and my right glute started to ache. I ran into some wind on the lake street bridge at the end of the first mile, but I noticed it for the rest of the run. It rained all day yesterday so everything is wet, slippery, squeaky. When I checked last night, the weather app predicted showers around 10 this morning. At 9:30, around mil 4.5, I looked up at the gray sky and thought, I’ll make it home before it starts! As if to prove me wrong, the clouds opened up and started raining. I had to stop and put my jacket back on. Was it rain or just lots of water collected in the trees and loosened by the wind? I can’t be sure. Wherever it came from, it stopped in a few minutes.
As I ran, I thought about how I’d like to have a better second half in the marathon next year (we already signed up for it!). I decided that one of my big problems this year was mental. On every long run, my approach was: once I’ve made it halfway, I’ve done the hardest part. Whatever happens in the second half doesn’t matter. This approach helped to make big distances seem less intimidating, but it also led to a habit of stopping more in the second half — taking breaks, walking. During the marathon, even as I was more intentional in my running/walk plan, I still took more walk breaks in the second half. This year, I want to give more attention to the second half of runs — going faster, staying stronger, building not falling apart.
To keep myself steady for today’s run, I chanted in triple berries. Strawberry / blueberry / raspberry
10 Things
more reddish pinkish leaves in the neighborhood
almost every tree is orange or yellow, I only remember seeing one that still had green leaves
stretches of sidewalk covered in leaves — they squeaked as I ran over them
ran past the house on the next block and noticed that the guy wasn’t sitting on the steps, thought about how he hasn’t been sitting there the past few times. Even as I’m glad to not breathe in his cigarette smoke, I hoped he was okay
the planters in a neighbor’s boulevard garden near lake street have some ripe tomatoes
the strong smell of tar, rumbling — trucks, people paving a driveway for a fancy house on the river road
wild turkeys — 4 of them, just off the path, grazing in the wet grass
mud on the dirt trail — squelch!
the paved trail on the east side of the river is in bad shape — slanted and cracked
an open view from the ford bridge, looking north — a patch of glowing yellow on the east side, mellow oranges and reds everywhere else
fun fun fun with the IT band
When my IT aches, I like to play with IT. Usually I turn it into an acronym. Today, how many works can I think of in 5 minutes that begin with it?
And now I’m thinking (again) about it’s and it is and its. Yesterday, I refreshed my memory on Shirley Geok-lin Lim’s poem, “Writing a Poem,” and I was struck by her use of it’s and it is and its. I wondered why she chose it’s and then it is — why not it’s or it is both times? Double-checking the text just now, I noticed something cool:
It’s eating up the hours
as if they were the sweet nectar of day, which they are. It is impossible to think or write. Its buzz takes away feelings, takes over ears, is drilling a hole
It’s / It is / Its — Fun! I love stuff like this — a fun challenge for the writer, a fun discovery for the reader, a fun way to ensure that I’ll always remember the exact words the poet uses. If I hadn’t memorized this poem, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the echoing of it’s/it is/its — and that opportunity to notice more carefully is a key reason why I love memorizing poems.
added on 28 oct: I’d like to work on a series of poems about echoes and echolocation as it relates to my vision and the gorge and language. Trying something like this — the echoing of the it(i)s could fit here!
This past week, it was warm. So warm that when we (me, Scott, FWA, RJP, and my sister) went out for dinner Friday night, the restaurant had all of the garage doors open. Mid-70s in late October. Yesterday afternoon, the wind picked up, rain moved in, and so did cooler air. 48 and running tights this morning. We are past peak fall now. More open views, more yellow leaves.
My IT band seems to be mostly okay, but some muscle on the inside of my hamstring just below my glute is sore. It aches at night. Looked it up: semimembranosus. Way back in 2017, I wrote a poem about hamstring muscles that included a line about how another one of the hamstring muscles, biceps femoris, should be pronounced feMoris and not FEMoris because feMoris sounded more like a spell from Harry Potter. I’ll have to dig it up. (see below)
My semimembranosus (if that is what is sore) didn’t hurt while I was running, but my right glute started to around mile 4. Other than that, it was a good run. I’ve shifted to running 4 min/ walking 1. I like how easy it is to keep track.
10 Things
the light shifted several times — sun, then overcast, then sun again
the surface of the water viewed through the trees: glowing white
the leaves on the trees on the bluff are thinning, offering a better view
dead, yellowed leaves on the ground, covering the dirt trail
kind pedestrians: on at least two occasions, walkers moved to single file to let me pass easily — thank you! / you’re welcome!
a greeting from a woman walker in subdued orange puffer vest: morning
a crowd admiring the falls at the main overlook
the bells of the light rail ringing out a warning as they exited the 50th street station
the bridge over to the veterans home is completely blocked
already at 10am the Horace Cleveland Overlook parking lot was full
Before the run, I refreshed my memory of “Writing a Poem” by Shirley Geok lim Lin. The air is buzzing./ Someone is operating a giant machine… In the last mile of my run, I heard the buzz of a leaf blower. Boo — death to leaf blowers!
more fun with medical terms
I found my poem about the hamstring muscles (which I refer to as hamstrings in the poem): More Fun with Medical Terms. Here’s the part of it about bicep femoris:
semitendinosus, semimembranosus, biceps femoris the first two terms aren’t that hard to figure out how to pronounce so I’ll focus on the third. I’d like to say that the femoris in biceps femoris is pronounced: fee moor iss like some sort of Harry Potter spell. wave your wand: BICEPS FEEMOORISSSS! or better yet: BICEPS FEENORMISS! (for really big biceps) I’d like to say that but I can’t because it’s pronounced: femme a ris
semitendinosus, semimembranosus, biceps femoris wait, you might ask and I did and then looked it up, we have biceps in our hamstrings? in fact biceps is a general term for a skeletal muscle with two “heads,” or points of origin. when we, and by we I mean me and anyone else who isn’t a doctor or a medical student or really into anatomy for whatever reason, think of biceps, we’re thinking of biceps brachii pronounced: brackey or, my preference, bracky eye. looking it up online, I discovered that biceps bracky eye can actually have more heads! up to seven “have been reported”! is that true? and what causes these extra heads? do each of these heads have bracky eyes that stare at you when you’re wearing a sleeveless shirt?
I like it — although I’m not sure how I determined my line breaks, and I think it’s too long. Could I edit/condense it? Possibly. I like the idea of turning these fun with medical term/spells into a chapbook. Fun! Could I put one together soon enough to submit to something in the next month?
Warmer than I expected. Thankfully I knew not to wear tights under my shorts. Beautiful, but humid — a haze in the gorge, above the water. On the way back, stopping at the sliding bench, sweat was dripping down my forehead. As I looked over the bench and down the slope, I realized that it was not quite as close as I had imagined in my poem about it. In that poem, the bench is inches away from the edge, when in reality it is feet. Do I change the poem to be more accurate, or keep it because it feels inches away when I remember it?
I’m glad I ran north and down into the flats. The view of golden tree line on the hill and reflected on the surface of the river was gorgeous. Wow!
10 Things
the view in the tunnel of trees above the floodplain forest is all yellow
running north, past a trashcan and a bench and a rock with a WPA plaque on it almost under the lake street bridge: a small metal table with a single leg in its center and three feet, upside between the bench and the trash can
running back south, past a trashcan and a bench and a rock with a WPA plaque on it almost under the lake street bridge: someone had pulled apart the table and stuffed in the trashcan — the three feet were sticking out of the opening and over the path
the port-a-potty at the 35th parking lot, the only port-a-potty that had remained between the falls and the flats is gone
running above the rowing club, 1: a view, opening, as leaves falls
running above the rowing club, 2: a sour sewer smell
a roller skier, skiing down the franklin hill then back up it, halfway, then down it again
the limestone slabs that had been stacked under the franklin bridge and that looked like someone sitting are gone
the crack north of the trestle is still cracked and blocked off with barricades, part of the crack is growing tall grass, part of it is marked with orange spray paint
2 stones stacked on the ancient boulder
Last night, Scott signed us up for the marathon next year!
Fall! Such a beautiful morning — sun, cool-ish air, less wind. Ran north through the neighborhood, then over the lake street bridge. Early this morning, my IT band ached, but on the run it was fine. In fact, it seemed to help to run. I ran 4 minutes, walked 1 12 times.
10 Things
running through the neighborhood on the sidewalk, passing the garage of a house, suddenly hearing a robotic voice call out, you are being recorded
a bright reddish orange tree near a public mailbox
the river — scaled and sparkling white in the middle, smooth and pale blue near shore
stopping briefly to listen to water seeping through the limestone below me, near St. Thomas
a pleasant encounter with a biker — you have runner’s calves, they look good
a person walking through the grass to a bench near the edge of the bluff with a clear view of brightly colored leaves on the other shore
running past a break in the trees, seeing sky and the other side of the river, feeling wide openness
a runner who was just slightly slower than me with a big white dog, up ahead on the trail
the desire path I’m writing a poem about: a cluster of three trees, 2 dirt trails, 2 street lamps
the dirt trail on the grassy boulevard used to be wider — in some spots, there’s barely room for one foot
I thought about putting on a playlist, but decided it was too fiddly, so l listened to seeping water, a whining leaf blower, and my foot strikes as I ran. Did I hear any birds? I don’t remember.
to behold / not look away / not take, but give
As part of a submission for a chapbook contest, I need to submit a statement about interests/investments/inspirations in relation to craft. I suddenly thought of a discussion between David Naiman and Ross Gay on the podcast, Between the Covers. I was sure I had posted it on this log before but I couldn’t find it. Here’s a key part from David Naiman:
DN: I’m glad we’re fully in this second meaning of behold, so behold as witness, being beholden, being indebted to. In my conversation with Natalie Diaz, she would often use the word is something extractive or is it reciprocal. Are the stories being told being taken out of the community, and told to others, not for the benefit of the people in the community? Similarly with resources, are we perpetuating systems of domination and exploitation or are we harvesting something truly based on the need? All of the questions of entanglement and extraction feel connected to this second notion that you mentioned with the Fred Moten notion of debt but beholden also to the Earth and just to other people, like we couldn’t even breathe one breath without plants. I was thinking about that when I was thinking about this conversation like, “What parts of my day, in relationship to the Earth, aren’t extractive on a species level versus relational and giving back?” It feels 99 to 1, I don’t know, I don’t want to overstate the power of poetry or the power of looking in this regard versus tangible, ecological, remediation, reciprocity, and actually placing humans back within a system where everything’s not on our terms but I think about how you say “the more you look at something, the more it grows,” I wonder if looking better and looking longer is the beginning of it all? Then not looking away when we see something during that type of looking that we might not want to see because I think we’re partially not looking because of what we might see. If beholding is what will get us beholden again, I mean I wonder about spiritual technologies that we used to use, like in its best form, the Sabbath where you’re not supposed to do anything that moves you forward in the world, you don’t exchange money, you don’t get in a car, you spend time with people you love, you attend to the moment with no sense of the future. It’s supposed to be this recreation of the Garden of Eden once a week but also, along with that, in the Bible, you were supposed to let the land rest every seven years, I don’t know if this is even a question but I guess I wanted to hear more about the beholdeness and debt that we have as humans.
What parts of my day, in relationship to the Earth, aren’t extractive on a species level versus relational and giving back?
funnel and sheet webs
For the past month, a sizable spider has been weaving webs on our garage. First, on the garage door, and when that didn’t work, on the side door. I’ve noticed it but not really thought about it until yesterday. I said to Scott, that’s not a classic orb web, it’s some other kind. But what kind? I looked it up and I think it’s a funnel web. Unlike orb webs which are sticky and vertical, a funnel web is a horizontal sheet of web with a funnel. It’s not sticky; the spider hides on the edge of the funnel and waits for its prey to wander in, then it swoops out and bites it. I took a few pictures, but I can’t see the web that well in them. Here’s the best (?) one:
*a few days ago, Scott showed me how the weather app on our iPhones gives the average wind speed and a description of the Beaufort scale. Not today’s number on the scale; you have to figure that out yourself.
3-4 on the Beaufort scale. Between gentle and moderate breeze. Between Leaves and small twigs in constant motion; light flags extended. Large wavelets on sea and Raises dust and loose paper; small branches moved. Small waves, fairly frequent white horses. Between “Sailing” by Christopher Cross and “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas. Between I am stirred, I’m stir-able, I’m a wind-stirred thing (Carl Phillips) and The rising wind pulls you out of it,/and you look up to see a cloud of leaves/wheeling in sunlight, flickering against the blue/and lifting above the treetops, as if the whole day/were sighing, Let it go, let it go,/for this moment at least, let it all go (Jeffrey Harrison). (see my Beaufort Scales in Song and in Lines of Poetry at the end of this page). Between pulling my hat down (to make it more secure) and taking it off (so it wouldn’t fly over the bridge railing). Between leaves that shimmer and branches that creak and groan.
I ran into the wind at the start of my run, then it ran into me on the bridge. When I turned around, it was at my back.
A good run. I did 4 minutes run, 1 minute walk, but had some difficulty keeping track of the time. The bright sun made it hard to see the numbers of my watch face.
A beautiful, cool morning. I wore running tights and my bright orange sweatshirt, which I took off around mile 3. There are still lots of colorful leaves on the trees, but that won’t last long if we keep having this much wind! I was able to run up the wabun hill, over ford bridge, and to hidden falls. The short stretch of daylighted creek on the part of the trail that passes under the road, was gushing and rushing towards the ledge of hidden falls. A pleasing sound to hear. At the start of the run, the surface of the river was bright, glowing white. On the bridge, corrugated and gray. As I neared the new trail close to the double bridge, I would hear voices — so many voices! Young adults, older adults, kids. Was it a big group? An extended family? Just a lot of random people enjoying the sun and leaves on a Sunday morning? Whichever it was, I was glad I wasn’t down there and that I was able to pass before they emerged from the woods and into the light!
5 miles around john stevens house and back 46 degrees wind: 28 mph gusts AQI: 12!
The air quality is 12?! That’s why I love fall and winter: much better air to breathe! Very windy, which is mostly a bummer because it means more of the red and yellow and orange leaves will fall sooner. But, it’s partly okay; it’s a chance to recite some of my favorite wind lines: I am the wind and the wind is invisible, all the leaves tremble but I am invisible and Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor You, but when the leaves hang trembling the wind is passing through.
A nice run, even if my left leg — my IT band or something else in my hip/hamstring/glute — hurts. I ran 4 minutes and walked 1 and it felt fine. It wasn’t hard or easy, it just was.
10 Things
lots of dead leaves on the paved path — hiding twigs and acorns
the surface of the water, glowing white through the trees
voices below me, on the winchell trail
a neighbor’s sidewalk covered in soft, yellowed pine needles
a parks’ riding lawn mower rumbling behind me — loud and getting closer
the bridge over to veterans home is still blocked off, to cars and pedestrians
a line of people on the edge of the parking lot, waiting to pay for parking
kids voices — loud, ebullient — at the playground
mostly empty benches, but at least one person sitting on one
the flash of lime green: the basket of a lime rental bike parked at the bike rack beside the 38th street steps
The wind was mostly at my back on the way south, and in my face on the way north. As I ran north, I tried to notice the milliseconds when both feet were off the ground and i was flying between beats, but I kept hearing the strong striking of my feet on the ground. I recalled my metronome experiment: listening to a metronome on my phone and syncing my steps up with the beat until I became it. I thought about running chants — my 3 beats then 2 and how they are the form for ghost/not quite tethered Sara — the Sara between beats. Then I thought about Sara the sturdy girl who wants connection and to belong and how her form could be these strong beats: Beat / Beat / Beat / Beat. All stressed, strong beats. Then I turned it into an echo:
I i i We we we Us us us All all all Here here here Now now now
Took Delia for a walk on a brisk, yet beautiful afternoon walk. For the first mile, I thought the wind had completely gone, but when we arrived at the grassy boulevard, there it was.
3 favorite images
one: that mid-afternoon light shining through the trees — one tree with yellow leaves in a soft glow
two: movement in a purple flower, black and yellow fuzz, a bumblebee — I think I saw it’s wings opening and closing
three: a small, blob-like shadow, flickering past my feet — I think it was the shadow of a butterfly
Walking through the alley, almost home, I felt a small flare in my calf. I realized suddenly that the flare was in my soleus (that’s the lesser known of the 2 calf muscles). I rarely stretch or work my soleus. I think that that was the calf problem I was having in the marathon. I bet it would help to do some exercises for it!
walk with Delia the Dog neighborhood / tunnel of trees / grassy boulevard 49 degrees / feels like 44
The heat has broken! 90 degrees on both Saturday and Sunday. Scott told me that, in the recorded history of Minneapolis weather (130ish years), it has only reached 90 in October 6 times. We did 1/3 of that this weekend! I wore 2 shirts and the outer layer of my winter coat and wished I would have worn gloves. Brr. I’m not complaining; I love the cooler air.
5 Walk Things
a few trees are still green
yellow red orange leaves
some trees, including the Welcoming Oaks, are bare
overcast — a bright grayish-white sky
a very strong smell of cigarette smoke near one house — was one of the construction workers smoking?
run: 4.1 miles monument and back 51 degrees
Even thought my IT band — or is it something else? — still hurts a little, I decided to go out for my first cool fall run. My reasoning: it’s too nice out here to not run, and more importantly, I think running actually helps stretch out my legs (this proved to be true; my IT band felt better on the run, my legs more relaxed). I wore a short-sleeve shirt, my BRIGHT orange sweatshirt, black running tights, and black shorts. I was only a little overheated in the second half and took my sweatshirt off.
5 Run Things
the ravine/gulch above shadow falls was in full color, mostly reds and oranges
the river was scaled and grayish blue and empty
written across one railing on the Lake Street bridge: Free Palestine
a street lamp near the monument: wires gutted, little door housing the wires missing, a date: 1989
crossing over lake street bridge, nearing the Minneapolis side, hearing a woman yell or shriek below — was she okay? Looked again and couldn’t see anyone
As I walked the last few blocks, after finishing my run, I thought about the street lamp and the date. Maybe I could write a poem about this street lamp? Then I thought about how I’ve written about these gutted street lamps before on this log, which led to another idea: what about a poem for my Girl Ghost Gorge collection (tentatively) titled Prints with a series of short images collected from my log entries. Each image would be in a small form — 3/2? — and be brief.
My first run after the marathon! It didn’t feel great — my legs were sore, it was humid — but it didn’t feel terrible, and it was beautiful above the gorge. That autumn morning light! Golden, illuminating the trees, some of which were yellow, some still green. One tree near the double bridge was a silvery, pale yellow. Saw two regulars: Santa Claus and Skirt with sandals.
10 Things
2 wild turkeys near the 44th street parking lot
a biker with an empty trailer, an orange flag at the back — I’m assuming she just dropped a kid off at school
a car alarm beeping beeping beeping beeping then silence
nearing the bridge over the falls, seeing a flash of blue then a person wearing a blue jacket
the creek was almost still, with a flat, smooth surface
heard, not seen: the falls rushing over the limestone ledge
slashes of bright red in the otherwise green (a small red splotch in the band of monochromatic green/ Diane Seuss)
a water bottle on top of the drinking fountain at the edge of the falls
the light rail bells ringing as the train pulled out of (or into?) the 50th street station on the other side of the wall
the strong smell of cigarette smoke somewhere close by — I couldn’t avoid breathing it in for 20 or 30 seconds as I entered the park
the light
There was something about that light this morning. It was golden and glowing and, at times, burning. As I ran, I wondered if it felt brighter and more like it was burning because there were less leaves to soften it? Two October poems discuss October light; I think I’ll study one of them today:
from October/ Louise Glück
The light has changed; middle C is tuned darker now. And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed.
This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring. The light of autumn: you will not be spared.
The songs have changed; the unspeakable has entered them.
The songs sound over-rehearsed — I think this might be what I was trying to remember when I was talking with Scott the other day about how a poet described the vegetation in the fall as it became past its prime: over-rehearsed.
Does the unspeakable always have to be bad? Looked it up in Merriam-Webster. “Inexpressibly bad” is one of the definitions, but so is “incapable of being expressed in words.” Unspeakable points to the limits of language, which is something poetry is speaking to and about. And darker has other meanings than worse or more menacing. Darker is less light — I’m thinking of a steps poem and the idea of going deeper in, where there is less light.
Now I’m wondering about middle C being darker. Iasked one of the resident music theory experts (we have 2 — Scott and FWA) about what is meant by dark notes and I learned a few things: 1. dark notes have nothing to do with pitch, so the idea of tuning middle C darker doesn’t quite work, 2. darker note = fuller, richer, deeper, 3. the opposite of dark notes are bright notes which are tinny and shrill — Sousa marches have a lot of bright notes.
I’m imagining dark as soft, warm, rich, full/depth of feeling, matured, sustained, slow and bright as sharp, cold, high-pitched, short and explosive, fast, punctuated.
26.5 miles* minneapolis to st. paul 49-63ish degrees
*officially, it was 26.2, but according to my watch, it was 26.5
I’m writing this the morning after because I was too wiped to write it yesterday. I woke up feeling stiff and sore — my quads are sore, my right knee is stiff, the side of my right foot hurts a little. Nothing that terrible. Once I get moving; it gets easier. Going down stairs is one of the most difficult things to do. As I walked down the basement steps to get frozen blueberries out of the freezer, I had to tell my legs what to do: down down down.
Yesterday’s race was a success. I achieved all of my goals, which were modest:
figure out the unfinished business situation so I don’t have to use the port-a-potty 4 times, like in the last marathon. Number of port-a-potties used in this race = 0!
hydrate and fuel better: in 2024, I didn’t drink enough water and was very dehydrated by the end. This year, I carried a bigger water flask and stopped at every water station (well, almost every water station after Scott and I split up). I also started drinking the electrolytes they offered before the water and 6, or was it 7?, Cliff blocks. And, when they offered half bananas around mile 22, I took that too
be more intentional with run/walk breaks when things get harder. Things got hard early on: about 9 miles in. As I ran around Lake Nokomis, I did 90 sec run/ 30 sec walk. For the second half of the race, I did, 1 min run / 1 min walk
finish happy: 2 years ago, as I finished and met up with Scott, I was irritated and hostile. This time, I was chill and happy, even though I was tired and suffered several calf spasms (almost, but not quite, cramps) as I neared the finish line
go faster. I ran 15 minutes faster this time — from 5 hours and 37 minutes in 2024, to 5 hours and 22 minutes in 2026
So, I’m happy with what I did yesterday. I am also not satisfied, which means that sometime in the future, I will run this marathon again. No one and done, or two and through for me!
I wouldn’t say I enjoyed the race, but I’m very glad I did it. From the beginning, it felt difficult. And, it never got any easier. I just kept going for more than 5 hours. Often, runners will talk about having a “bad patch” in a race, and then getting out of it. If you keep going, it will get better. I suppose that happened a little for me; I wasn’t suffering every second of the race. But, I never really felt better. It was always hard. Some part of me always hurt. I was always hoping I could get to the finish line sooner. And, in that state of suffering and exhaustion, I couldn’t spin the experience into anything other than hard. I had to confront something difficult that couldn’t be sugar coated or re-imagined as not hard.
I’m good at finding ways to make things seem not hard. Often, it serves me well. But, there are times when things are just hard and you have to endure them as hard. As I write about enduring, I’m thinking about Marie Howe and Ross Gay and their discussions of not looking away, of being present and aware and witnessing suffering. They are both talking about the suffering of others, but I think it applies to your own suffering too. In this marathon, I couldn’t look away from the difficulty of it, and I didn’t, and I finished. I’m proud of that.
26 Things
very crowded in the beginning, difficult to run a full stride, lots of cracks and holes in the downtown streets. After just a block or two, a woman fell and was able to get up and continue
a line at the port-a-potties, about a mile in, near the Walker Art Center
more cracks as we ran toward lake of the isles — it had rained recently, and water had collected in the cracks, making them easier to spot
another runner, (perhaps too) enthusiastically, jumping up and down and side to side as they ran
song, heard at least twice: Rihanna’s “Umbrella”
song, heard once: Whitney Houston’s “I wanna dance with Somebody”
the song that started the race: Doobie Brothers “Taking it to the Streets”
no bells today ringing out from the basilica this year — they’re being repaired
Justice Page playing his tuba somewhere near Lake of the Isles
overhearing another runner saying, I’m not even paying attention to the lakes! I wasn’t either
a spectator to a runner: I love your vest! I have no idea why they loved it, or what it said, but the runner called out, I am NEVER doing this again!
a man on a microphone: remember any finishing time is finishing! we were at Lake Nokomis, just past the halfway point. It was not inspirational to me, instead, it seemed to be reminding us that we were all running slow
people handing out pickle juice a few minutes later — it’s good for muscle cramps
seeing RJP just before mile 15, giving her a sweaty hug, first saying to her, this is hard! then telling her about what the guy said
a daughter in her 20s with her dad who seemed to have an injury and needed to take it slow — he was very enthusiastic: he called after me as I powered up a hill (which was a mistake) that’s how you do it! then later, hearing some taiko drums, raising his hand and yelling, taiko drums! yes!
running by the house near the trestle with the bleachers that blasts music every year: last year it was “the impossible dream,” this year some old country song about “fresh cool water”
this year, my name was on my bib — it was so encouraging to hear dozens of people call out, Go Sara! You can do this Sara!
before the race started, waiting in the port-a-potty line beside a tall, 20-something guy in a bright pink breast cancer awareness shirt — we were in corral 3 (slowest), he was in corral (1) — he was so kind and soft-spoken — I wonder how fast he went. I heard him say to the guys ahead of us, this is my first and my last marathon!
near the Walker, a guy spoke into his watch, hey siri, call bill
peeling 1/2 of a banana, dropping it on the ground, picking it up and eating it anyway, feeling some grit on my teeth
hearing, and not believing: this is the last bit of the hill — it’s all downhill after that! dear reader, it was not the last bit of the hill and it was not all downhill after it!
nearing the finish line, cramping up, noticing what I think was a spray of puke off to the side
some stretch between franklin and summit — a series of dark shadows on the concrete — birds flying overhead, then a bigger shadow softening the sun — a plane!
song: Lean on Me, at least I think that was the song?, thinking about my mom, then almost crying until I felt a calf spasm — I think this was the first spasm — mile 20
a woman pulling out her phone, telling someone, go the truck and get the cold beer and bring it to the finish line!
as I walked and struggled near the end, a woman touched my back gently and said, you can do this! And I decided I could — I ran faster down the hill, feeling great, until my calf started to knot up and I didn’t — I tried to run it off, but had to step 25 feet from the finish line and walk it in
(26.1) a dog barking near the course, sounding like the perfect form of a dog bark, I said to Scott, that’s classic dog or something like that
(26.2) many intense, unpleasant smells from bodies working too hard: too sour, too sweet, musky / other, better smells: doughnuts, the faint hint of bubble-gummy perfume, which I normally strongly dislike, but not today
I don’t remember noticing the river or any wild turkeys. No fun Halloween decorations, barely a view of the lake. Many of the familiar paths/roads seemed strange.
The organizers did a wonderful job with everything (but, the number of port-a-potties, according to Scott. Thankfully, I wouldn’t know about that!). The entertainment on the course — a brass band, a community band, taiko drums, xylophones — was great. The water/electrolyte stops were abundant, and the volunteers handing out fluids were incredibly supportive — you’ve got this Sara! Unlike two years ago, there were lots of people out on the course cheering us slower runners on. And, the food hadn’t been packed up before I finished. Once I was done (Scott finished 25 minutes ahead of me), we sat on the grass for almost an hour — that hour felt like 5 minutes. Running for more than 5 hours, makes time and place strange.
It’s now the afternoon, and I’ve finally had a chance to finish this entry. My thighs and knee feel less sore; only my right foot is still sore. I might have more to write about the marathon, but I’ll save it for another day.
4 miles over ford bridge and back 57 degrees wind: 9 mph / gusts: 19 mph
This might be my last run before the marathon on Sunday, although I might run a mile or two on Saturday. My feet and form felt very strange for the first mile. It might be all the foam in my shoes; I wish stacked shoes and more foam weren’t the trend in running shoes. I prefer feeling the ground. Since I’m complaining, another problem with my shoes for the past few years: the laces always loosen and my feet slide around. I had to stop less than 2 minutes into the run to tighten the laces. Something positive: I have done enough running for 3 minutes, walking for 1, that it feels like a habit now, something I’ll be able to do during the race, almost automatically, when things get harder.
Today’s beautiful color: more bright red leaves on several of the trees closes to the edge of the trail. Also: the feeling of changing leaves as I ran across the ford bridge. I write feeling, because I’m not sure I was actually seeing anything more than the slightest hint of reds and oranges and golds in the trees, but it felt like change was about the happen or, already happening but very slowly.
10 Things
after the double bridge: brown and red leaves covering the paved path
the sound of a frisbee hitting the chain as a man threw it in at the frisbee golf course in Wabun
some sort of wake on the water: a thin trail, not too far from shore
overheard, one biker to another: everyone has their subjective experience
passing by a walker in a BRIGHT yellow jacket — I was heading up the hill to wabun, they were heading down
the buzz of chainsaws in the oak savanna
passing by a parks maintenance vehicle, parked on the path with their BRIGHT lights and very LOUD engine
my shadow, faint, ghostly, off to the side of me
empty benches
the orange spray paint marking off the part of the path with a big crack looked even more orange-y today — I wonder when they’re planning to fix it?
Recited the poem I re-memorized this morning, “Rhyme for Halloween,” as I walked back to my house. I thought about its dark whimsy and wondered if I’ve managed to achieve any of that in my Haunt poems. I’d like to.
On my walk, I also noticed tons of wild mushrooms in yards and decided the next poem to re-memorize is Sylvia Plath’s “The Mushrooms.” Decided, too, that I should memorize Emily Dickinson’s mushroom poem: The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants — (1350)/ Emily Dickinson
5 miles minnehaha falls and back 62 degrees / humidity: 80%
Overcast with thick air, humid. Wore shorts and a tank top. I’m ready for cooler, crisper weather. It’s coming. More leaves are changing — deep reds, some yellow, orange. Still more green than not. 5 or so wild turkeys hanging out at the edge of the falls parking lot. Running closer to the light rail station, I could hear the bells — they were out of sync, maybe one train coming into the station with their bells at a different rate than another train leaving?
Before heading out for my run, I refreshed my memory on another poem I’ve memorized before: “I heard a Fly buzz when I died” by Emily Dickinson. Love the last lines: And then a Window shut/ And then I could not see to see.
Listened to the steady line of cars, the rush of falling water, the wind through the trees, the out of sync train bells, a leaf blower on the way there. Listened to my “Hello Goodbye” playlist on the way back.
from Wintergreen Ridge/ Lorine niedecker
Nobody, nothing ever gave me greater thing than time unless light and silence which if intense makes sound
10 miles east on Summit / west on Summit 60 degrees / 91% humidity dew point: 59
A week from today, right now, at almost noon, I’ll be deep into the marathon. For my last long (ish) run before the race, I decided to run miles 20.5 – 25.75 of the course. The first half was almost all uphill — not steep, but steady. I didn’t mind it today, but I bet I’ll be feeling it next Sunday. It’s a beautiful and painful way to run the last 10k of a marathon.
I had two memorable animal encounters. The first one occurred about 2 miles in. Standing at a stoplight, waiting for the light to change, something fell on the bill of my hat. Was it drips from a big tree? I looked up to see. No tree, but a utility pole and on the wire, a single bird. Gross! I started running for about a minute and then thought, I better check to see if there’s bird poop all over my hat. Yep. Luckily the grass was wet and I could use it to “clean” off the poop.
The second encounter happened a few miles later. With no warning, a squirrel ran out from the trees on the edge of the sidewalk and ran straight into my ankle bone, then kept running. My feet banged into each other, but I didn’t need to do any stutter steps. The ankle bone burned for a few minutes, but I think I’m okay.
After this second encounter I thought about how bad things happen in threes and I wondered what my third thing would be. Thankfully, it never happened.
10 Things
thick, foggy air
wet leaves, in oranges and reds and yellows, squeaking under my feet
the smell of cigarette smoke — passing a woman, watching her lift a cigarette to her mouth, then a puff of smoke
bright pink and yellow flowers at the front gate of a fancy house
crossing Ayd Mill Road, noticing a new bike path below
passing the governor’s mansion, running beside the fence, orange cones in front, on the edge of the road
the bells of St. Thomas ringing
more splotches of yellow and red and orange in the trees — fall is here!
having to wait through 2 cycles of lights at Lexington before I got a walk sign, hearing the recorded voice calling out, wait wait wait wait wait
shadow falls creek was flowing steadily, the falls were falling
Crossing back over the bridge, a favorite image of the run: rowers! 6 or 7 single shells spread across the river, the strange, whiteish gray light, making the front end of each shell glow in silvery white. Wow!
Here’s an excerpt of poem that is the poem-of-the-day at Poetry Daily. I like the easy way the story unfolds:
Here on a rock I see the loon does not perceive me as a threat. She ate her lunch looning around in circles, going under & coming back, always within 12 feet of me but in water if I approach she goes under & disappears disliking boat’s vibration in her element
But on the ground a mother grouse and 2 young freely walk around the cabin—they’re not afraid of people, said Gillian that’s why they get hunted but we don’t hunt them she said, & I brought you some eggs pullet eggs and these purple flowers clustered on spindly stems—fresh thyme or is it oregano
3 miles trestle turn around 60 degrees / humidity: 89%
Back to sticky running this morning. Overcast, but humid and wet from an early morning rain. I wore my BRIGHT orange YWCA Tri shirt from 2013 and my BRIGHT yellow running shoes. I wonder, did I brighten the otherwise gloomy gorge for anyone? I’m continuing to do my 3/1 method. The first 3 felt good, the second 3 did not, then after that, they all felt about the same: not hard, but not effortless either. Lots of sweating. After climbing up from under the lake street bridge I saw my first “road closed for an event on oct 4” sign. That’s for the marathon! For the next mile, I had a big grin on my face. It’s coming!
Two days ago, I came across WS Merwin’s “The Light of September” in an log post and I decided I wanted to re-memorize it (I memorized it a few years ago). Then yesterday, I decided to re-memorize Diane Seuss’ “I Look Up From My Book at the World Through Reading Glasses.” Today, it was Jorie Graham’s “Still Life with Window and Fish.” As I ran, I recited the lines in my head: Down here this morning in my white kitchen along the slim body of the light . . . Such a wonderful poem that has so much to say about vision and light. As I was memorizing DS’s poem yesterday, I thought about how brilliant it is in describing my experience of seeing the world sometimes — the world, italicized/Douglas fir blurs into archetype. . .Then I thought about a new project: picking some of the favorite vision poems I’ve gathered by others and writing about how and why they resonate for me. Seuss and Graham would definitely be on that list, along with several Emily Dickinson poems.
10 Things
a small pack of shirtless runners — I heard the loud slapping of their feet first, then saw them as they flew past me
scuff scuff scuff — a runner in a BRIGHT yellow shirt, scuffing his feet on the path with every step — he was slow but had a fast cadence, so there were a lot of scuff noises
a few more slashes of yellow, red — I think a few orange too
the squeaky whirr of wheels on an orange motorized something — not a bike, not a scooter — it was orange and had 3 wheels and the old guy in an orange jacket riding it was moving fast
the sliding bench was empty
any view of the river, forgotten — was I able to see it, or was it blocked by leaves?
a white sky
no geese, no blue jays, no chickadees, one cheeseburger from a carolina wren
cars driving on the river road in bursts — a line-up, then no cars, then a line-up again
waving to Daddy Long Legs who was over on the bike path while I was on the walking path
haunt / overlook
Today, since I’m writing about the overlook — the ones by the gorge, the act of ignoring or passing by without noticing or forgetting — I decided to search for “overlook” on Poetry Daily (poems.com). Jackpot! A great poem by the wonderful Maggie Smith:
Our honeymoon was a strand of scenic overlooks. I first wrote strange—a strange of scenic
overlooks—my mistake, and strange enough was the desert penned in red ink. The scene
was either Sedona or Mars. They say the iron in the rocks calls to the iron in our blood,
so it tugs on us. It tugged. We stayed on Airport Mesa, where we called the crowds drawn to sanguine
sunsets “tourists,” as if we weren’t, and where, each night, the Milky Way made a mess of the sky.
Was I the only one who wanted
to wipe its white smudge away, to polish the night
black again? Our honeymoon was a stranded scene I overlooked. We posed for photographs \
we never took. I remember the moon framed above the landscape, looking silvery as a tintype
taken in a modern-day ghost town. The last day, we reached the canyon and saw where the river
had over millions of years chewed it down to bone, clear to the canyon’s strange marrow, riven
into red, copper, and purple—bands like sunsets compressed and recorded in rock. That view
remains. Our honeymoon was a strand, a strangeness, a look ahead. I wrote only what I could see.
1 — look / scene (seen) / tourists (gawkers) / a blocked view (Milky Way) / photographs (staged looks) / a view (of the moon) framed / landscape (visible feature of an area of land) / looking like / saw / view remains / look ahead / could see
What a variety of uses of view/see/look here, related to vision! I’d like to try this out in my overlook poem — or, maybe the same approach (gathering and using a wide range of descriptions related to a concept) on my dirt path poem, which has two sections: desire and abandon
2 — overlook as view / overlook as not seeing
3 — geologic time / iron in rock connected to iron in body — references to Lorine Niedecker and “Lake Superior”?
4 — a beautiful description of the carving out of a canyon, both literal and figurative as what happened to a marriage years after the honeymoon
5.6 miles above locks and dam / ford bridge / under lake street 54 degrees
The first mile was rough. My feet were sore. Mile 2 wasn’t that great either. But, by mile 3, I started to feel better. And by mile 4, I decided that instead of stopping at a certain distance, I’d stop at a certain time: an hour. This run gives me confidence for the marathon. I can remind myself that even if it feels hard in the first few miles, it starts to feel better around mile 4. Better = a little easier, more relaxed, my legs and lungs and arms in sync.
One of the goals for my run today was to visit a few overlooks that I might use in a poem tentatively titled, overlook. On my way back from the ford bridge, I stopped at Horace Cleveland Overlook and took some video. As I ran from there above the river, I started thinking about unofficial overlooks — like above the ravine or above the floodplain forest in the tunnel of trees. Suddenly it hit me: these unofficial overlooks are often overlooked because people aren’t giving them enough attention as they move through the gorge, or because they are hidden from our “normal” ways of looking — the river, the floodplain forest, the steps that wind down to the flats. I decided this poem should have both meanings of overlook — or, maybe even other meanings too, similar to one of Jane Hirshfield’s assays. I need to revisit some of her assay poems to figure out if they fit with what I’m trying to do.
10 Things
a squirrel who had no fucks to give — didn’t even bother to be startled as i ran by
white heat on the river’s surface — the sun bouncing off the scaled surface
a group of bikers meeting up at the locks and dam no. 1 parking lot
a red bag, under a tree, just below the ford bridge
the river near the eastern edge, just off of the ford bridge, was a pale greenish blue
the view of the east bank from the ford bridge: hints of reds and oranges in the trees
a tall guy, running fast in bursts — doing strides? the first time I saw him stop, I heard him wheezing from his hard effort
almost all of the floodplain forest is still green
some little purple flowers on the edge of the trail — Siberian Squill? — so upright and softly colored, looking like little bouquets spread out along the trail
while most of the benches were empty, more than usual were filled — mostly by a single person, but at one, two women were sitting and talking
Horace Cleveland Overlook / 23 sept 2026
Looked through past entries and found a definition for assay from 11 jan 2024:
definition of an assay
Assays began with a poem written after I’d reread Edgar Allan Poe’s stories while writing an essay on how hiddenness works in poems. Some of the qualities of essay exploration and prose step lingered in its music and mode of thinking. At the time, I was regularly seeing the journal Science. On the back would often be advertisements for half-million-dollar machines for performing assays. That word—close to essay and sharing its root in the idea of an attempt, a try—refers to discovering a thing’s nature by breaking it into its elemental parts. The poem became ‘Poe: An Assay.’ That approach to writing, of testing a subject for its discoverable parts, imaginative and factual, caught. I began writing others. ‘Judgment: An Assay.’ ‘Tears: An Assay.’ ‘And: An Assay.’” Jane Hirshfield
assay (def): the testing of a metal or ore to determine its ingredients and quality
Does this fit with what I’m trying to do? Not quite.
20 miles lake harriet and back 55 degrees humidity: 91%
20 miles. For the first 10 miles, I listened to creek water and foot strikes and the rush of traffic — so many cars out there on a Sunday morning! For the second 10 miles, I put in a new playlist that I made yesterday, called 20 miler. I created it by looking through Apple Music playlists for the 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s, and 10s. I put it on shuffle. I recall that Tribe Called Quest and Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” helped me get through my tough moments.
I’m proud of myself for what I just accomplished. Not because it was particularly fast, although it was 16+ minutes faster than my 20 miles from 2024, but because I did it at all. When I woke up this morning, my left hip/IT band was sore. I decided I’d run to lake nokomis and around it, then do the franklin and ford loops for the rest of the distance. If, at some point, my hip felt too sore, I would be closer to home so if I cut some of the distance, I could get home easily. Maybe this plan would have worked, but I imagine it would have been too easy to decide my hip hurt too much and to stop.
This was the plan, but when I got to the creek, which had been almost completely dried up in my past runs, and saw (and heard!) that it was full because of recent rains, I decided I wanted to keep following the creek to see what it looked and sounded like on the way to lake harriet.
A little bit later, I might have turned around before reaching lake harriet, but when I got to the part of the trail that had been closed, it was open. So I decided to keep going. From there, I just kept going until I reached 10 miles, which was deep into the lake harriet trail. Then I took a short break and turned around and headed back.
On the way back, my knees were stiff and sore and my feet hurt. I wondered if I was pushing it too much and should stop — a brief thought: I could call FWA and have him pick me up. Then I wondered if I should just walk the rest of it, or at least the next mile. Instead, I switched to running for 90 seconds, walking for 30. And I just kept going.
When I got to mile 18, I thought I would have to run beyond the turn off to my house to get the full 20 miles. A flash — it’s okay if you only run 19; that’s good enough. But, I didn’t stop at 19. I kept moving, 90/30, until I reached 20.
Lots of fortitude practiced today, which makes me happy because building up my fortitude — not giving up when it’s hard, pushing past what I think I can do, just putting one foot in front of the other even when I think it’s impossible — is one of my top reasons I wanted to train for and run another marathon.
20 Things
leaves: mostly green, but a scattering of yellow and red, some orange too
crossing over the duck bridge and seeing all the water in the creek — no dirt bars or aquatic plants, just water
the part of nokomis avenue that was closed off for road work is open again
the giant images of monarch butterflies are still on the fence of the pickleball court
a full house of pickleballers — a mixture of loud thwacks with cheering
a spot on the trail, just past lake nokomis, that I’ve made note of before: wind rushing through leaves almost sounding like falling water
stretch of the trail that follows the other side of the creek and goes under chicago was open again — hooray!
part of the path and certain slats on the small wooden bridges were slick from friday’s and yesterday’s rain
running under the freeway bridge, wondering if there were any bats up there today — a sudden flurry of movement, something too big to be a bat and gray swooping down and landing — a pigeon?
the bronze bunny did not have a scarf or a garland or any decoration on it
another section of the path is closed — the detour requires you to climb a steep hill then descend it a few minutes later — I walked up it, then ran down it
crossing a bridge, looking down at the creek water as it rushed over a row of small boulders
reaching lake harriet: crowded paths, mostly pedestrians several people wide
a beautiful beach — the buoys are still in! — calm, blue water, an unbroken surface
shshshshsh the feel and sound of feet running on loose dirt on the side of the trail
running into wind on the way back
as part of the detour, had to run on a section of the bike path where bikers can’t see well and often bike very fast — on the way back, noticed a dirt trail cutting through some grass on the hill — took it to avoid fast bikers
darkish sky with wind, then bright sun, then dark sky again
groups of people hiking on dirt trails beside the creek, between chicago and bloomington
2 dogs encountering each other near the mustache bridge — one of them big and excited, the dog’s owner, a guy who was big and looked strong, struggled to hold the dog back
It is now a few hours after I finished my run. I’m wiped out and sore, and relieved to be done. Time to taper! As they (pro runners) like to say: the hay is in the barn.
7 miles ford loop+ 61 degrees / dew point: 59 drizzle, off and on
Moist. Humid air mixed with sweat mixed with rain-soaked bushes mixed with occasional drizzle. Overcast. Encountered several walkers with umbrellas or rain jackets. Ran past some geese, a few wild turkeys. Heard the bells of St. Thomas.
10 Wet Things
my upper arm after brushing against wet leaves
the sidewalk — a little slick
puddles on the path, making visible cracks I might not have seen otherwise
the surface of the river, crossing the ford bridge: scaled, gray
shadow falls was falling vigorously
the big fountain in front of a fancy house on the river road, bubbling
my shirt, soaked at the top
stopped at the water fountain near the skate park
my pony-tail, dripping
they’re doing work at the old steam plant/ Ford Area C — an orange something looking like a thick lane line in the water near shore, a big crane, yellow-vested workers all around
While working on a poem about Ford Area C and the abandoned power plant yesterday, I read about how Ford, which still owns this building/land, had to submit a plan for cleaning up the toxic dump that has been there for more than 80 years — is that what they’re doing down there, cleaning up? Something else they’ve already done is remove a small building up on the bluff, just off of the trail. Today I made that my turn around point (note to future Sara, if you’re planning to run 7 miles, this is about 1/2 mile short). I walked out near the edge and took a few pictures of the open view to the plant below, including this one:
above the power plant / 17 sept
Friends of the Mississippi River (FMR) put together a helpful timeline of Ford Area C. Here are a few key dates:
1945-1966 — Ford dumps waste solvents over the bluff and deposits barrels of paint waste onto the Mississippi River floodplain, creating what is eventually named “Area C.” (The primary manufacturing campus includes parcels “A” and “B.”)
1965-66 — Ford deposits large amounts of construction debris on top of the hazardous waste at Area C.
1979 — The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, with Ford’s permission, adds construction debris to the top of the Area C dump during nearby lock and dam reconstruction, making removal of the hazardous waste underneath more difficult. Ford is paid by the yard for the disposed-of waste.
Fall 2025 — Ford has submitted a draft cleanup plan (feasibility study) to the MPCA. The MPCA will hold a community meeting and seek public comments in January 2026 before selecting a cleanup alternative with Ford.
In January of 2026, the MPCA held public meetings to discuss Area C clean-up plans. I haven’t found much more information. Looking at the MPCA site for Ford Area C, I found a timeline that claims 2027 is when the clean-up will happen.
Returning to the MPCA site and their description of Ford Area C:
From approximately 1945 through the mid-1960s, Ford disposed of paint sludge and solvents used in automobile painting operations at the base of the bluff. Although the specific disposal practices are not known, it appears that liquid solvents may have been dumped over the edge of the bluff, while barrels of paint sludge were buried. Disposal of industrial waste stopped in about 1966. Ford also disposed of construction rubble, contaminated soil, scrap metal, and other types of debris at Area C.
During the reconstruction of Lock & Dam No. 1 in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers disposed of a large volume of construction rubble and sand on top of and surrounding the industrial waste. In the mid-1980s, Ford covered the top of the construction rubble pile with a paved parking lot. The city of Saint Paul placed additional rubble at Area C during reconstruction of Mississippi River Boulevard in the late 1980s.
Dumped over the edge of the bluff, buried in the ground, covered with rubble, sand, a parking lot.
I thought about doing my 10 mile run today but I wondered if it might be too much for my sore hip since I ran 5 miles yesterday. I decided to run a 5k instead, and, to make it more relaxed, to stop at the benches I’m writing about for my poem, “Haunt: the benches.”
It was a beautiful morning. Sun, light wind, good air quality, a few more red trees. Just before I started, I listened to the sharp thud of acorns hitting the asphalt. At the end of the next block, city workers were repairing the sewer: lots of orange vests and loud talking and trucks beeping and banging.
Running south, I stayed above on the paved trail near the road. At the Horace Cleveland Overlook, I turned down and entered the southern entrance of the Winchell Trail. The river was sparkling, the sewer pipes in the ravines were dripping, the cars were steadily heading north. Near 42nd street, I noticed that they had patched all the cracks on the trail that had been marked with orange paint last week — strips that looked like toilet paper criss-crossed the path, covering the patches.
the benches
1 — the bench made out of an ancient boulder
This was not one of the benches I was planning to write about, but as I ran near it, I realized I wanted to. The bench made by time and pressure. How long did it take to make it, I wonder. And, what type of rock is this dark gray/black boulder? Is it taconite (imported from up north) or limestone or what?
boulder as bench / above the oak savanna
2 — the WWDD bench (what would dow do — rachel dow)
The view in front of this bench is blocked by small trees, one of them a memorial tree for Rachel Dow. The bench is made from wooden slats, quite worn, and concrete studded with gravel.
3 — the bench at the edge of the world
In an early draft this morning, I wrote about standing beside this bench to look down at the trail below and out at the river, but that’s not quite true: I’m not standing beside it, I’m standing several feet in front of it. Running under this bench, on the edge of the world, I wondered if I should add an additional verse — I mention fall and winter; I could bring in spring or summer, too.
Yesterday, reading the latest issue of The Paris Review thanks to my local library, I discovered this wonderful poem by one of my favorite poets, Diane Seuss:
She is good at curving/ Diane Seuss
against the constellation of lilies
of the valley, and good at making a nest
where the watercress meets the skirt
of the stream and hems it, and in the green
where the deer dream. They say she’s playing
dead but she’s not playing or
if she’s playing she’s playing living or something in between.
Oh, so good! The line breaks, the quiet rhymes, the idea of someone not playing dead but living.
added a few hours later: I almost forgot about something I wanted the mention — last night, during community band rehearsal, as we did a warm-up exercise with staccatoed quarter notes, the director told us to stop thinking about the notes and just thinking about the space in-between the notes. It reminded me of my poem, “Between Beats” and when I think about the space between foot strikes during my run, when I’m flying.
5 miles bottom of franklin hill and back 61 degrees / humidity: 73%
Warmer today, which meant more sweating and a little more effort. This week is the big one: 5, 10, and 20 milers. Mostly, I felt good. No kneecap slips today. At the beginning of the run, I noticed the wind rushing through the trees. In my head I recited, I am the wind and the wind is invisible. All the leaves tremble but I am invisible. Later I chanted, life is but life is but life is but life is but death is but death is but death is but death is but bliss is but bliss is but bliss is but bliss is but breath is but breath is but breath is but breath / life life life death death death bliss bliss bliss breath breath breath.
10 Things
fall is here, 1: streaks of red in the trees on the edge of the trail
fall is here, 2: a stretch of grass carpeted with red and yellow and brown leaves
a woman near the road down to minneapolis rowing club in a bright yellow vest
cheeseburger cheeseburger — carolina wren
wet and slightly slippery trails, caused by yesterday’s rain
just north of the big crack by the trestle, more cracks returning, widening, spreading
a startled squirrel — it was about to dart out, then decided so abruptly to reverse course that it jumped up to the side and did a frantic spin
empty benches, including the sliding bench
no more stacked slabs of stone looking like a sitting person under the franklin bridge
I think I heard some rowers on the river, but didn’t see them
Listened to the cars and the birds as I ran north. Put in my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist for the last mile.
September is the month when 3 out of our 4 parents died: Scott’s dad on 1 sept 2023; Scott’s mom on 29 sept 2022; and my mom on 30 sept 2009. So, it’s fitting to post this beautiful poem halfway through September:
Not the Bread Machine, but the Space It Takes / Sara Rosenberg
For years it rested beneath the pantry’s floating shelves, sap-sticky with spills:
hot honey and rice slipped from the bag. Then, behind the giant soup pot I used only once,
to brine a turkey the way my mother used to on my first Thanksgiving without her—Prussian blue
and dented, speckled like a bird egg. Later, I wedged it beside the pasta maker and its many attachments,
another thing I never knew I wanted until she gave it to me, as if to say I was worthy
of time-saving, of a homemade dough I didn’t have to knead. For weeks, it sat in the box of waiting donations,
where each time I bent down to haul it away, a stone fell down the back of my throat.
Crusted with the bread I cultivated, crumb of wheat, of banana, of oatmeal, from when I lived
alone in the rat house behind the landlord’s five-bedroom, pretending his black creek was my black creek,
that his chimney’s columns of smoke were my columns of smoke. She showed up
at my door with a box of new cutlery, knives so clean I saw my face in them, with new dish cloths I had never
thought to need. She set the appliance on the green tile countertop like a bouquet of roses.
I heard it whir, warm with promise, loud as rain. A memory so delicate it flakes in my hand.
13.75 miles franklin / ford / the confluence 53 degrees cloudy, some drizzle
The weather was wonderfully cool, which made a big difference. Everything felt easier, and I felt stronger. My 3/1 plan was working well. It was great until my kneecap skipped (or slipped? or stuttered?) around mile 8. It didn’t slide out so far that I had to pop it back into my place (with my hand, or by walking up stairs), but it was enough to make my tendons angry and to shake my confidence. I stopped to walk briefly, then started again. Another stutter. For 2 or 3 seconds I panicked, then I started running, this time more deliberately, lifting my knees. No more stutters — at least, I think there were no more stutters. For the rest of the run, I was weary and distracted. But, I still did it, and I’m choosing to believe that the kneecap skips were an aberration, and I’m choosing to remember how good (relaxed, strong, steady, fast enough) I felt for the first half of the run.
I have two ideas about how to prevent the skips from happening again:
more stretching and warm-up before I begin, especially exercises to get my glutes firing
wear my compression socks
My route involved a figure 8 with the lake street, franklin, and ford bridges, then a (mostly) straight shot to the confluence and back. In the first hour, I saw (and heard the oars of) rowers on the river. Also encountered some sort of bike event — not a race, but a fun ride around the city. I wanted to ask someone what it was, but I didn’t want to stop. Just looked it up: St. Paul Classic Bike Tour. My route was part of the bike tour route — well, not exactly — I was on the path, they were on the road.
a few things overheard by bikers:
one biker: look at the Halloween decorations! another: Halloween? Too soon!
I forgot you went to River Falls (University of Wisconsin, River Falls)
and she was completely naked, except for the towel!
one biker: did you finish all of your projects at the cabin? another biker: nope
I think I just tasted some rain drops! / the weatherman was wrong!
oh, it’s so beautiful here (one biker to another, on the trail between hidden falls and the confluence)
13+ Things
about a dozen wild turkeys spread out over the lawns of some big houses
a dark sky, bright white bike lights cutting through
cheers from people leaning over the franklin bridge for the rowers below — a race? not that I could find online
cheeseburger cheeseburger — a carolina wren
the sound of water falling fast out of a crack in the limestone
stopping to fill my water at the monument — waiting in a short, fast line behind 2 other runners
more fall color on the trees — red and yellow on the trees just above the railing near marshall
at least one roller skier — click clack click clack of their poles
the bike tour had a pit stop at the parking lot and overlook closest to the ford bridge — port a potties, dozens of bikers, music — as I passed by, one biker called out: have a great run! / thank you! have a great bike ride!
a small building on the edge of the trail, part of the ford power plant, is gone — where and when did it go? a gap and a view that hadn’t been there before
the voices of kids playing at a house across the road, hidden by big fir trees
a short drizzle, both refreshing and chilly
studying the river’s surface from the ford bridge: flat, smooth, a thin sliver of bright blue cutting through grayish-blue reflecting the clouds and the small bit of blue sky trying to peek through
a woman emerging from the woods with a dog, her dog running hard into her knee, the woman staggering and calling out in pain — me: are you okay? her: yes, my dog ran into me
For most of the run (the first 12 miles), I listened to the bikers and the birds. For the last 2 miles, I put in my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist.
3.1 miles bottom of lock and dam no. 1 61 degrees / humidity: 65%
Ah, only 65% humidity! My legs and lungs could feel the difference. A beautiful, almost fall morning. Crowded trails — runners doing their final long runs for the marathon? Scott runs his 20 miler tomorrow; I’m a week behind, so I’ll run my next week. My goal is 11:30 – 12:00 minute per mile pace. So I’ll be out on the trails for 4 hours.
10 Things
rowers! a coxswain calmly and clearly explaining to the rowers what they should do
running below on the winchell trail, hearing 2 runners above me — a man and a woman, talking about how they were enjoying the run — good vibes, good conversation
sparkling, burning water in front of me as I turned down to enter the winchell trail at the south end
at the bottom of the lock and dam, stopping to admire the water — scaled, corrugated
encountering a kind man on the hill — good morning! what a beautiful day! congratulations to you for getting out here and getting after it! / thank you!
a voice, above, descending the hill from the ford bridge, talking to someone
that voice, a few minutes later, a solitary runner’s, talking non-stop on a blue-tooth to someone as she ran
a darting squirrel, almost running right in front of me
on the part of the path at the edge of the world, hearing water trickling out of the pipe in the ravine
all green leaves, no yellow or orange or red yet on this stretch
As I ran, I thought about a poem I was working on before my run, Haunt: the Benches. I want to write about 3 of my favorite benches, but which ones? Before the run, I knew 2 of them: the sliding bench and the bench above the edge of the world. As I ran past the Rachel Dow Memorial Bench, I realized I should write about it. Of course! Thinking more about the bench, some words: bench, not as place to sit, but frame — framing of place, of view — the invitation (or suggestion or expectation): look here, at this spot, we (the placers of the bench) have decided this is what is worth noticing — And now, as I write this, I’m thinking about how some of the benches have been maintained, their views kept unobstructed, and some have not.
marathon mantras
Last night, or early this morning, in one of several wake-ups, I thought about how I should have a mantra or mantras or a chanting practice (triple berries?) for the marathon. Something to work on — something I should have worked on earlier, but this marathon build has been strange. Wildfire smoke, allergies, extreme heat, sickness, and shoe and foot problems have caused me to always feel like I’m behind. The other day I said to Scott, I already know I want to run another marathon so I can have a better, more enoyable/consistent, build.
Some lines of poetry that have been helpful in the past: ED’s lines from “‘Tis So Much Joy”:
Life is but Life! And Death, but Death! Bliss is, but Bliss, and Breath but Breath!
On March 10, 2022, on my run and in the log, I experimented with fitting these lines to my breathing/running:
1
Life is but Life is but Life is but Life is but Death is but Death is but Death is but Death is but Bliss is but Bliss is but Bliss is but Bliss is but Breath is but Breath is but Breath is but Breath is but
2
Life xxx Life xxx Life xxx Life xxx
3
(Or, like “The Safety Dance”)
Life life life life Death death death death Bliss bliss bliss bliss Breath breath breath breath
Reading the entire poem again, I’m thinking I should try memorizing all of it to recite in my head:
Tis so much joy! ‘Tis so much joy!If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I, Have ventured all upon a throw! Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so – This side the Victory!
Life is but Life! And Death, but Death! Bliss is, but Bliss, and Breath but Breath! And if indeed I fail, At least, to know the worst, is sweet! Defeat means nothing but Defeat, No drearier, can befall!
And if I gain! Oh Gun at Sea! Oh Bells, that in the steeples be! At first, repeat it slow! For Heaven is a different thing, Conjectured, and waked sudden in – And might extinguish me!
8.75 miles the confluence and back 59 degrees / humidity: 86% 100% sun
Cooler, but still warm because of humidity and sun. Only a few minutes in, my face was dripping with sweat and the top of my shirt was soaked. I need some new running shirts that aren’t light green or any other light color that so easily shows sweat. The first mile wasn’t easy — my feet/stride felt awkward and my legs were sore — but I reminded myself that it would get easier once I warmed up and that I could run almost 9 miles. It worked! I just kept going — 3 minutes of running, 1 minute of walking — and, at some point, it wasn’t as hard.
I tried something new: miles 1-4 — 3/1, miles 5-7 — 2 m/45 s, mile 7 — 90s/30s, mile 8+ — 3/1. I was curious which of these ratios might work best (best = easiest or fastest or lowest heart rate). The verdict: 3/1 was the best. 2/45 was too hard to keep track of and 90/30 elevated my heart rate the most.
For the first half of the run, I listened to the cars and the falls and the birds. For the second half, my “Hello, Goodbye” playlist.
10 Things
middle schoolers walking to school, 1: scuff scuff scuff — a boy in shorts, socks, and slides scuffing his feet as he walked towards me
middle schoolers walking to school, 2: 3 girls, dressed almost identically in white t-shirts and sweatpants — very polite, moving over to give me space — after they passed, a cloud of a scent — sweet, artificial, a perfume that reminded me of pink bubble-gum
car after car after car passing beside me on the river road
empty parking lots at the overlooks
the sound of a frisbee hitting a chainlink net — someone playing frisbee golf in wabun
ford bridge view, south: calm, flat water in several versions of blue
hidden falls falling softly, steadily
a new water fountain at the confluence that fills water bottles fast!
empty benches — no one sitting at my new favorite bench just above the dog park
ford bridge view, north: a small motor boat heading south to the lock and dam — a few seconds later I think I heard the bell at the lock that signaled it was being filled up with water so the boat could enter
A good run. I ran marathon race pace. My left knee was sore afterwards, but otherwise, I felt like I could keep running.
Sometime during the run, I started thinking about my Girl Ghost Gorge manuscript. First, I thought about one of the poems I’m working on, Here, We Speak Void, and how the form for it should be small stanzas surrounded by lots of space — maybe the different stanzas, which are different understandings/examples of Void, would be on different pages. This thought led to more thoughts about the whole collection. In addition to being about a girl, a ghost, a gorge, it’s about rock and river and air. Air = lots of empty or open space on the page, Water = words flowing freely, steadily.
we speak in Void
I found these thoughts yesterday and want to condense them into part of my poem. Today’s task, I think.
Gabbert suggests that the frustration of incoherence, mystery, not being able to make sense of something is alluring, erotic. It’s why many are drawn to poetry — to slow down, notice, get the chance to dwell in the unknown. My perspective is slightly different. I don’t need to be encouraged to slow down or given the chance to embrace incoherence, resist common sense. Because of failing vision and my overworked brain, I am already slow. Much of what I see is incoherent — or never quite coherent. Common sense ideas of how we see or how to be in the world have already been upended for me. I see poetry, and its way of navigating or negotiating or communicating/finding meaning not as desirable, but as necessary, practical, useful, a way to be that speaks to where I already am.
log entry from 29 march 2023
Something similar to, not familiar language made strange, but strange language made familiar. I like the word, familiar — a meaning for knowing to put beside, or replace, mastering or (fully) understanding. And now I’m thinking about becoming accustomed — We grow accustomed to the Dark (ED).
18 miles lake harriet bandshell and back 67 degrees / humidity: 92%
That was hard. Like most of the runs in this marathon build, hot and humid. Lots of sweating. Near the end of hour 2, I looked down and noticed that my shirt was drenched. The first half felt mostly good: 3 minutes of running, 1 minute of walking, over and over. The second half was more difficult. I switched to 90 seconds of running and 30 seconds of walking and did 10 sets before I took a slightly longer walk break.
18 Things
past lake nokomis, on the creek path, the wind passing through the trees, sounding like water — no specific memory, but a reminder of the farm and how I would often hear that sound there
cracked asphalt on the creek path — marked with orange paint, some of the paint was zigzagged and some of it was loops, looking almost like flower petals
signs on the pickle ball fence: 2 giant monarch butterflies for the monarch butterfly festival — is that today? no, I checked, it’s 12 sept
a real monarch butterfly, fluttering through the trees next to the path
just after mile 1: a shirtless runner, pushing a strollers and holding onto a dog’s leash — talking to the kid he was pushing and/or someone on the phone — at one point he called out, GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE! did he see a turkey, or were he and his kid just remembering another time when they saw/heard a turkey
the dog was a beautiful golden retriever — not light golden fur, but dark, like copper — and was also very graceful and relaxed as they ran
an e-bike blasting “Let it Be” from their radio — the voices were clear until the bike passed, then distorted from the doppler effect
the creek continues to be very low, a lot more mud and dirt showing than normal
a mom on one bike, her very young daughter on another, carefully crossing the road and passing by an older man in a recumbent bike — he greeted them and called out to the girl with an encouraging, hey!
reaching the bandshell at lake harriet, looking for a water fountain, encountering about 50 people doing yoga on yoga mats, facing the lake — what an image! I think I heard to woman leading them say something about gratitude — wow, I looked it up and they had free yoga EVERY DAY this summer at lake harriet! today was the last day — I wish I would have known; I would have gone at least once
windy at lake harriet, I watched/listened to the water lapping the shore — I briefly thought about taking a 5 or 10 minute break to sit on the beach and be with the water, but decided it might be too hard to start up again
what a crowded path at harriet! too many people taking up too much space, making it hard for me to run easily
a group of adults gathered around a little girl, laughing (not at, but with the girl) and calling out, oh, her face, look at that face! not sure what was happening
2 bikers, one of them explaining to the other that they were redoing a bridge — it’s going to be really cool!
slowing down to let a faster runner pass me — good morning! / good morning!
a few honks, up in the air, geese far off somewhere
stopping at the back of the nokomis rec center to refill my water bottle with the jet-powered bottler filler, noticing a group of 6 or so older people standing around — from what I heard, I think they were about to rehearse a song they were planning to sing — I left before they started
two school gardens, one at Hiawatha, one at Howe, spread over several big planters, looking abundant and desperate for water
That run was not easy. My quads and hips and, occasionally my knees, hurt, so did my left ankle. And everything was sore by the end. I was slow and walked way too much for the last 4 miles. But, I did it. I was out there moving for 18 miles, and I was able to be on a trail that I’m rarely on these days. And I got to run all the way to lake harriet. I didn’t have to go to the bathroom. I didn’t have any terrible cramps. And, any negative thoughts I had (this is too hard or how will I be able to run a marathon in 4 weeks) didn’t last long. Victory!
For the first 14 miles, I listened to water and wind through trees and cars moving and dogs barking and some dad yelling out, gobble gobble gobble. For the last 4 miles, I put in headphones and listened to my “Remember to Forget” playlist.
5.7 miles ford loop 74 degrees humidity: 92% / dew point: 72
No sun until mile 4, humidity’s haze instead. The air, so thick! From the beginning, it felt like a steam bath and, when I reached the lake street bridge, it looked like one too. Running over it, my face was damp — was it sweat or the liquid air? I’m not sure.
Other than one longer walk break on ford bridge, I stayed steady with 3 minutes of running/1 minute of walking. Sometime during the run, it seemed to click. Even though it was uncomfortably humid, the run wasn’t that hard. A nice confidence boost.
10 Things
river surface: corrugated — blue-gray, small ridges, a streak in the middle — the wake of boat?
bright pink graffiti on the sidewalk on the bridge
a new water fountain at the monument, with a fast-filling bottle station — excellent!
shadow falls, falling, soft but insistent
the jangling of a dog collar somewhere nearby
feeling like fall, 1: piles of leaves on the edges of the paved trail
feeling like fall, 2: even more red leaves sprinkled throughout the tree line
several benches, occupied, each one with only one person
sun and blue sky as I ran over ford bridge
laughing kids on a school playground
On the Ford bridge, I stopped for a few minutes to admire the view upstream and to take a few pictures:
mississippi river looking north / blue sky / haze / blue waterford bridge railing / 4 sept 2026
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
Morning Sara! / Oh, hi! good morning Dave!
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
sun, then clouds, then sun again
brittle, brown grass
a few more red leaves, a yellowed tree — were the leaves on it changing for fall or dead?
minnehaha creek above the falls looked still
the creek water falling over the ledge, subdued and diminished
the water at the water fountain on the edge of the park was unpleasantly warm
one roller skier — click clack click clack
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:
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.
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 Fieldsonce 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.
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.
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
empty benches
a recumbent bike, speeding past me — too close
a few more red leaves on the bushes near the trail
a large group of older, (all?) white people standing above the falls, listening to a guide tell the history of the falls
the faint, fake sound of the light rail bells ringing as it neared an intersection
veteran’s bridge is completely blocked with chain link
a man sitting at a picnic table near John Steven’s house
rushing water as it tumbled over the limestone ledge
a trilling bird
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.
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.
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.
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
rowers on the river! I could hear the coxswain barking out instructions at the start of my run
minnehaha creek was so low, pt 1: near the duck bridge, there has hardly any water, but lots of green aquatic plants
minnehaha creek was so low, pt 2: under the echo bridge, a huge sandbar (or, dirtbar?) in the middle of the creek
a biker, biking slowly, and singing to herself, I am so tired
minnehaha creek was so low, pt 3: mostly, the creek was quiet and still, with only the occasional whisper/babble
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?!
thud thud –– the steady feet of a fast runner behind me, then beside me, then in front of me, then gone
thwack thwack thwack pickle balls being hit hard on the pickle ball court near lake nokomis
the strong gust of water coming out of the water bottle refill fountain — nice!
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!
lake harriet trails were crowded — lots of runners and bikers and walkers (and talkers!)
a BIG peloton (30 or more riders) on the road
mostly cloudy, every so often, sun
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
people packing up after a church service at the falls
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:
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.
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
looking down from the ford bridge, the water was smooth and still — I think I saw some sandbars just beneath the surface
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
the gate that K and I had to squeeze through because it was locked a few weeks ago was open today
hidden falls was quietly falling
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
the click of a bikers shoes clicking into their pedals
uneven brick — not broken but raised by (un) settling ground
stopping at my favorite bench, which was in the shade, reading the plaque beside it as sweat dripped off of my face
a lone skateboarder at the skateboard park — saw them in flash, heard the scuffing of the wheels
more filled benches than empty ones
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:
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.
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
a carolina wren — cheeseburger cheese burger
the gate at the entrance to the no longer used for power plant was locked again
a shimmering sound — water leaking out of the limestone below me
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*
click clack click clack — a roller skier hitting, then scraping their poles
the sliding bench — shaded, surrounded by green
on 2 different occasions — a tall man, walking alone, talking very loudly on a phone — their voice echoing
no tent near ford bridge today, but someone sitting on a tall chair, facing the road, an umbrella giving them shade
click click click click a walker approaching me, striking the asphalt rhythmically with her hiking poles
the sky was blue and a little hazy — was it humidity burning off or my bad vision?
I stopped at a bench above hidden falls to tighten my shoe laces: it was in the sun and empty
a single red leaf on an otherwise green tree — fall is coming
the flat, smooth surface of the river as seen from above on the ford bridge
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 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 2026split open / 23 aug 2026
Ran with Scott through the neighborhood, over the lake street bridge, up the hill beside Shadow Falls, over to the Monument, up to Cretin, down the Marshall hill, back over the lake street bridge on the north side, to Loons Coffee.
A goal for today’s run: find the sign for Shadow Falls that tells its history. I read about it on someone’s blog yesterday. I thought it would be at the top of the hill, at the (relatively) new entrance to the ravine. It was not. Next, we thought it might be near another entrance, next to the monument overlook. It wasn’t there either. Maybe St. Paul Parks removed it since the blog entry was written in 2021? No worries; I found the text online on the very helpful Historical Marker site:
Shadow Falls are hidden in a deep ravine north of Summit Avenue, where Shadow Falls Creek flows over layers of limestone, shale, and sandstone. The layers expose the recent geological history of the Mississippi River Gorge, and are part of the story of Glacial River Warren and the retreat of St. Anthony Falls more than 11,000 years ago. Shadow Falls is one of several small waterfalls cut into ravines along the sides of the gorge. When the soft St. Peter Sandstone was eroded by the seepage of groundwater springs, the ravine and waterfall were created by collapse of the overlying layer of hard Platteville Limestone. The Decorah Shale layer contains excellent examples of Ordovician fossils deposited more than 400 million years ago, including bryozoans, crinoid columnals, brachipods, and gastropods.
layers of limestone, shale, sandstone / a rare location for exposed shale / Ordovician fossils (400 millions years ago)
The Falls were a very popular destination for picnickers, hikers, and riverboat tourists. In the 1880s investors proposed to build a summer resort. Landscape designer H. W. S. Cleveland, however, encouraged the cities of St. Paul and Minneapolis to preserve the forested bluffs of the gorge for public use. Early park planning focused on development of Mississippi River Boulevard from the Minneapolis border to the Fort Snelling Bridge.
a summer resort proposed in the 1880s / Horace Cleveland and his boulevard
Shadow Falls Park In 1899, John Ireland, Archbishop of the Diocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis, donated 18 acres of land to the City of St. Paul, including Shadow Falls. The parcel extended from Summit to Marshall Avenues. It was the first major acquisition for the future river boulevard. Shadow Falls Park was created in 1902. The ravine and riverbank were left in their natural state, although Shadow Falls Creek was combined with several other small streams to ensure maximum flow over the ledge. The maple-basswood forest around the falls still shelters plants such as wild ginger, Solomon’s seal, leatherwood, and smartweed. Many plants are valued by native people who use them for cooking, medicinal, and spiritual purposes.
1902 / first acquisition for boulevard / Shadow Falls Creek combined with other creeks / maple-basswood / wild ginger – Solomon’s seal – leatherwood – smartweed
Nearby, in 1923 the St. Paul Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution placed a memorial dedicated to the soldiers and sailors of World War I at the foot of Summit Avenue. The 36-foot octagonal monument is carved in granite quarried near Cold Spring, Minnesota. It was designed by St. Paul architect Thomas Holyoke (1866-1925) of the firm Holyoke, Jemne & Davis.
So, the Monument was created out of granite? I should put that in the poem! Maybe I’ll reference EDickinson’s “granite lip”?
If I shouldn’t be alive/ Emily Dickinson
If I shouldn’t be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb – If I couldn’t thank you, Being fast asleep, You will know I’m trying With my Granite lip! – F210 (1861)
This is among Dickinson’s most droll poems and one of my favorites. Thinking of a grave stone as a “Granite lip” has changed the way I view cemeteries. It’s as there is a subterranean crowd all trying to speak but struggling to get the sound out (the Prowling Bee). Oh — I like this ida of imagining the monument as a granite lip, with its subterranean crowd!
It was a great, easy run. I greeted people as we passed them: good morning! a beautiful morning! morning! We ended in the middle of the bridge and stopped at the overlook to admire the rowers below. Half a dozen rowing shells congregated near the rowing club dock, while three more appeared from under the bridge. One of the shells held at least 8 rowers. Scott remarked on how wide the river is at this point and wondered how the surface area of the Mississippi River as it runs through the cities compares to the total surface area of all the cities’ lakes.
added on 23 aug 2026: While I was doing my 14 mile run today, I remembered something else Scott had talked about on the run. As we walked up the Summit Hill, was passed a rectangular block that was part of some utility thing. Scott said, let’s start running at the lego. I asked if it was actually and lego and he said no but then explained how/why it looked like one. He noticed that someone has spray painted a smiley face on it and said, If I had spray painted on that, I would have done the Lego logo, but I’m a nerd.
an hour later: a series of thoughts — I should write a poem that refers to/uses the 2002 Minneapolis Park plan for the stretch of trail that I run on the most. I should take phrases from it and turn them into a cento. I should also find phrases from the 2020s Park plan and turn that into a cento. And, I should find early text from Cleveland (and Theodore Wirth) about the planning of the river gorge park area) and turn that into a cento. A triptych cento poem!
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
passed a regular: skirt with sandals
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
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
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?
one skate boarder at the skate park — he was skilled — as I ran by, I admired his grace as he went up a ramp
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
just before I reached my bench, I heard a dog bark at the off-leash park on the other side of the river
there were no stones stacked on the top of the ancient boulder, but little pebbles piled in several indentations on the boulder’s side
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.
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.
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? ↩︎
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
buzzzzzzz of cicadas
a faint voie down below — the coxswain instructing the rowers
waving to Santa Claus and to Mr. Morning!
2 different birds — one was a bluejay, I think — squawking at each other: what? / WHAT!
puddles on the trail from last night’s rain
empty benches
park workers mowing a stretch of grass near the road
some faint moaning sounds coming from a house near 7 oaks — was it a dog, or a person?
my shirt, soaked with sweat — not sticking to me1, but saturated, making the color of it a deeper blue
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.
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.
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.
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. ↩︎
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
running over the lake street bridge, looking down at the river — blue, scaled, the wake of some small boat streaked across the surface
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
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
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
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?
the view from the confluence overlook: a parking lot below — will the view be better once the leaves are off of the trees?
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
hearing the roar of the water rushing over the concrete dam at locks and dam no. 1
waving a thanks to a guy who moved out of the way as I ran by the parking kiosk
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.
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 ↩︎
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
a carolina wren calling out cheeseburger cheeseburger cheeseburger
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?
a single canoe on the river with at least 3 people in it, hugging the west side of the shore
a coxswain’s voice, giving instructions, his voice distorted by a bullhorn
Mr. Morning! — morning! / good morning!
a spring gushing through the rock on the east side of the river — not seen, only heard
footsteps behind me, never gaining, just hovering in the air
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
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
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.
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?
10k ford loop + ford overlook 67 degrees / humidity: 86%
No sun this morning, so it felt cooler, less difficult. Because of the smoke, the heat, and my cold last month, I’m behind on my marathon training, but I’m not too worried. This week, I’m getting back on track.
For the first two miles, I didn’t have my headphones in. Other than traffic, I don’t remember hearing much. Oh — a sprinkler turning on, a biker laboring up the hill, the soft thud of my feet striking the ground, a kid running and jumping as they crossed the street, a fountain at my fancy house, bubbling. For miles 3-5, I listened to Olivia Rodrigo’s latest album. Mile 6, my “Doin’ Time” playlist.
The surface of the water, viewed from the lake street bridge was scaled and empty. No rowers this morning. The surface viewed from the lake street bridge was more of the same, with the addition of a thin trail in the center — the wake from a canoe or a small motorboat?
I passed a tall man who was walking with ski poles, twice and a regular, skirt with sandals (who no longer pairs her skirt with sandals but white socks and running shoes.
I don’t remember what I thought about. For my next run, I’d like to memorize a new poem to recite in my head, or return to one I’ve already memorized. Could that make the run easier? Or, maybe not memorize an entire poem, but fragments related to stillness (inspired by “the deepening and quieting of the spirit”). Maybe a fragment or two from this one:
August, driving from North Bend, from Empire, we saw how the waves gut the bluffs until they are pocked, whole scoops of rock being pawed out by water. But this year nothing moves at Shore Acres, the water is static as land, and stripes of foam bone its slate like a corset. We are here for the end of movement. You stay to watch the ocean. I go back to the Japanese garden. I only want to see stillness where I expect it, the sombre willow, the colossal Monterey pine; I sit, making myself limestone and basalt, on the grounds of what was once the summer house of a pioneer shipbuilder. Now it is nobody’s private estate, but the home of a gardener who pulls yellow roses through the mist in hedged circles. I think I am stone as the arrowheads of pines vanish into the understory of cloud. I have stopped longing for whatever it was I desired and have given in to the body’s basic need for rest. Bare feet, bare face, I wait at what I imagine to be a shrine’s gate gathering the kind of force required to stop loving, as only stone can.
I sit,/making myself limestone and basalt, and I think I am stone — I want to remember and reflect on these lines and put them into conversation with what A Oswald wrote in an interview for the Paris Review:
“They read me my rights and asked whether I knew I was breaking the law, and did I want to come easily or did I want to be an obstruction. And I said, ‘I’m happy to be arrested, because I don’t believe it’s an offense,’ and that I didn’t want to come easily, and so I lay down and imagined my heaviest self. I was imagining I was made of gold or lead, just enjoying the difficulty the police were having picking me up.
Two more additions to this conversation:
1
The ones who leave come back with stories: an excitement in their eyes. But the ones who stay
witness little changes: dust, weather, breath. What happens to them happens so slowly it seems not to be happening at all. (the ones who stay :: faith shearin
2
The girl wants to be too big to lift, too much trouble to move, a boulder beholding small changes: dust, breath, weather, rocks and cone cells eroding — what happens so slowly it seems not to be happening at all. (Platteville Limestone / Sara Lynne Puotinen)
swim: 4 loops lake nokomis open swim* 90 minutes 85 degrees
*It is a Monday and open swim is usually at Cedar Lake on Mondays, but the parks department closed Cedar’s beaches because of blue-green algae so open swim moved to Nokomis
I think this is the first time I’ve ever swum across the lake on a monday evening. As Scott drove me over, I wondered how different it would be. It wasn’t that different, but it was trivia night at Painted Turtle, so it was extremely crowded for Scott, who has a beer and works on his laptop while i swim. During lap 3 or 4, when I paused in the middle of the lake to admire the sun, much lower in the sky than in July, I could hear the noise from the restaurant. Wow! So many LOUD voices — a proper din. Also — I overheard one swimmer say, as we waited an extra 10 minutes for them to set up the course, the lifeguards are from Cedar and they’ve never set the buoys up here before. A group of 5 or 6 swimmers had a lot to say about how the buoys were being placed in the water as we waited. Another difference: many more menacing swans, a few of them getting way too close to the course. Near the beginning, I swam right next to them; I kept looking to make sure they weren’t going to turn into me.
The water was a wonderful temperature; not too warm or too cold. It was mostly calm and buoyant and easy to swim through. With the bright sun that was lower in the sky, it has almost impossible for me to sight on the way back to the big beach. It didn’t matter, I still knew where to go, it was just a little less fun always (as opposed to only some of the time) swimming into a void.
There were several swimmers faster than me, which was a nice change. A few of them passed me quickly, others I could swim behind to see where I needed to go. Here seeing = the flash of a bright pink buoy, tethered to one swimmer’s waist, or some white foam from another swimmer’s stroking arm or kicking feet.
For several stretches, I recited Mary Oliver’s “Swimming, One Day in August.” I was trying to think about the stanza:
Something has pestered me so much I though my heart would break. I mean, the mechanical part.
I particularly wanted to think about the word mechanical, but I don’t think I did. All I remember now (I’m writing this next morning because I didn’t have time or energy last night after a late dinner) is reciting all of the lines over and over. Oh — and I remember that I was struck by the first stanza’s time now and the last stanza’s time again. In my head I repeated, time now / time again / time now / time again.
Anything else? Bubble, but no sparkle friends; a few planes above me; water sloshing over me; 1 2 3 4 5 breathe right 1 2 3 4 5 breathe left 1 2 3 4 5 6 / 1 2 3 4 5 6 7; always the swan boats lurking in the background; the surface of the water beside the buoy, bright orange; seagulls in the sky; a whistle being blown on shore — 7 pm; the occasional strand of floating milfoil wrapping around my head or my shoulder; some other vines of milfoil reaching up from the bottom; the patch of milfoil just off of the swimming area thickening again; a canoe or two crossing the course; the surface of the water on the way to the big beach glowing from the sinking sun.
The course seemed longer than it usually is, with the buoys placed farther from each other. How does it compare to other 4 loop swims this summer?
*Looking at the data from today’s swim vs. 17 aug, I know what the strokes don’t seem to add up with the corresponding distance. It’s because I started my workout early, then had to wait in the water until they let us go. The watch recorded 35 or so yards of distance while I stood there. Also, I read through the entry and realized last year’s 4 loop swim was at Cedar and not Nokomis.
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
there were a lot of people near the falls and waiting to pay for parking in the parking lot
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)
the sky was dark — thick, heavy, holding a storm waiting to happen
small puddles all over the trail
sometimes windy, sometimes still
the trail that dips below the road south of the double bridge was especially dark and mysterious-looking
a tiny kid — maybe 2? — running away from an adult and another kid near the parking lot
as the run went on, the sky got darker and heavier
someone has painted the tops of two wooden railings on the path bright colors: one is orange, one yellow
another runner emerged near 42ndas the winchell trail climbed out of the gorge, then they immediately turned and followed the trail back below
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:
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
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
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:
don’t forget the water bottle
don’t forget snacks
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
running over the ford bridge, admiring the river, 1: the brownish water was calm, still, flat, not even a ripple
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
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
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?
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
near the far entrance to hidden falls — a roller skier perched at the top — were they about to bomb down the steep hill?
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
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
2 men running on the ford bridge, one of them was turned around and running backwards
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 thembeside 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.
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?
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 her? 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
Mishearing
Misunderstanding
Mistranslating
Mismanaging
Mislaying
Misreading
Misappropriating cliches
Misplacing objects belonging to roommates or lovers
Misguided thoughts at inappropriate times, funerals, etc.
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.
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
bobbing green caps
bright yellow orange pink buoys
the water’s surface was corrugated (a word Anne Carson used to describe a lake she swam in)
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?
a strong spray from behind — waves crashing into me?
so many scratchy vines floating in the water — one got stuck on my back and I had to stop to fling it off
a pale blue sky, a few patches of bright blue
a group of women in the shallow water in the swimming area — chanting and taking pictures — a party? a cult meeting? a religous ceremony?
leaking goggles
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!
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
running up the hill above the ravine, hearing the water falling at shadow falls
another runner passing me, then the sour smell of someone working hard
a peloton on the road — a dozen riders
a big group of shirtless runners: 20 or so? a college cross country team?
encountering many runners (most) approaching me, running the other direction
a sour, sharp smell near the overlook at hidden falls — from the creek water?
so much sweat — my shoulders were soaked
baby turkeys! near the 44th street parking lot, grazing in the grass
a boisterous group of runners — 5 or 6 women laughing
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 by 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.
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.)
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?
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.
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
rowers’ voices, down below
click clack click clack — a roller skier’s poles hitting the sidewalk
running parallel with another runner — I was on the paved path, they were on the dirt trail near folwell
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?
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*
minneapolis park workers, mowing the grass beside the trail, stopping and waiting for me to pass
the smell of freshly cut grass
the river, below me on the ford bridge: flat and still and empty
spots of sunlight on the trail, stained orangish-pink
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.
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.
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!
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
the bright purplish lights of a bike approaching
a group of 5 or 6 bikers, chatting loudly, biking on the road and backing up cars
Regular, 1: waving to Santa Claus!
Regular, 2: passing Skirt with Sandals — she wasn’t wearing hiking sandals, but running shoes!
a group of women, walking together down the locks and dam hill
a man with a fancy camera on the walking side of the pedestrian bridge, taking pictures of the ravine
a woman, looking down at her phone, standing in the middle of the path
3 people standing on the sidewalk, talking, completely blocking the entrance
adjusting my cap so it wouldn’t blow off in the wind
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.
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 AQIand 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:
123
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.
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.
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
2 girls — older high schoolers or in college? — flirting with 2 guys at Painted Turtle: loud, awkward giggles
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”
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
swallowing a wave of water, which made me more careful about when and where I breathed and stroked
1 2 3 4 5 breathe right 1 2 3 4 breathe right 1 2 3 breathe left
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?
slosh slap
bubble friends!
being routed by lifeguards when I swam too wide of an angle
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:
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
dappled light, jagged patterns of light on the trail
kids on bikes in bright yellow vests
2 bikers stopped near the trail, recovering or fixing something on their bikes after climbing the franklin hill
no bugs — no swarms of gnats encircling my face or single gnats trying to swim in my eye juice
the crack north of the trestle is still blocked off — this stretch had the most sun
passing a walker on the path in flip flops, near the rowing club — did they just finish rowing? probably
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
air quality is good — no smoke from colorado fires this year!
bright blue sky
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.
