Tag: no headphones

oct 18/RUNHIKW

3.25 miles
marshall loop
52 degrees

It’s leaf peeping time. Up at the North Shore it was mostly gold, but down here, more reds and oranges. Bright sun this morning and quiet. After hearing Scott talk about how the Marshall hill was helping him get into shape, I decided to try it. I did it! I ran up the entire hill without stopping to walk — a mental victory. The thing I remember most about the run was rowers on the river. Running east, I could see a single shell out of the corner of my eye. Only a dark form moving in the water. Running back west, I stopped at the overlook for a longer view. Another single shell. The person was rowing with one paddle, the other moving on its own.

45 minute hike
minnehaha off-leash dog park
58 degrees

The weekly dog park hike with Delia and FWA. What a morning for a hike by the river! Cool, sunny, some leaves the color of pears, others apples and oranges. Inspired by my mention of the pear, FWA started recounting Annoying Orange stories and the grumpy pear.

10 Things

  1. a hovering helicopter, the loud choppy buzz of its propellers
  2. what were they doing? searching for someone who fell in the river? Nope. Fixing power lines! one dude was hanging off the end of a rope with a ladder
  3. the incessant bark of a far off dog
  4. the flash of white and black — the fur of a fast dog
  5. wore hiking sandals — fine, soft sand right by the river seeped through the gaps in my sandals and gathered under my big toe
  6. a woman picking up a toddler and smelling them, then saying, nope, you must have stepped in dog poop
  7. the river, burning a bright white
  8. Delia stomping through the water, lifting each paw all the way out
  9. a woman in bright red pants, and a bright red jacket
  10. an almost medium-sized dog in a cute/stylish sweater, their owner wearing burgundy tennis shoes and an orange jacket

oct 15/RUN

2.35 miles
2 trails
49 degrees / humidity: 94%
occasional drizzle

A quick run this morning before FWA and I drive to Duluth to meet up with Scott after his gig in Bemidji. His band is being interviewed and playing a concert for the public tv station up there. Very cool.

Felt strong and faster (not fast, just faster than I have been for the last year). Wore shorts and my bright orange sweatshirt. I wasn’t cold. In fact, I was sweating by the end.

Everything was wet. Heard the water falling out of the 44th street pipe and gushing out of the 42nd street pipe. Entering the Winchell trail, I mistook a wet and dark tree stump for a critter twice.

The best part of the run were the colors of the leaves. Reds, oranges, yellows all around. Two favorites:

1: Running down on the Winchell trail, I passed a small tree with pink! leaves — the pink of florescent crayons from the 80s. Wow! I had to stop running and marvel at it for a moment. I might have taken a picture of it if I had my phone, but I didn’t have my phone, and I don’t imagine a camera could capture that color.

2: Stopping at the bottom of the 38th street steps, looking across to the east bank of the river, everything looked orange. Were the trees on the other side all orange, or was the orange coming from the tree on this side that was partly obscuring my view? I tried looking across from different angles, but I still couldn’t tell. The uncertainty of this fascinated me.

I was greeted by Mr. Morning! I didn’t recognize him in his jeans and jacket. I had become used to his summer habit: shorts and a short-sleeved t-shirt. I don’t remember what the river looks like, but I do remember glancing down at the thinning trees on the steep slope.

Anything else? A strange thumping sound somewhere down in the ravine. No geese or chickadees or albino squirrels. No roller skiers or fat bikes or kids laughing on teh playground. No umbrellas or packs of runners. Lots of empty benches and bright headlights and wet leaves. Once, the sploosh! of a car driving over a puddle.

oct 14/RUN

5.4 miles
franklin loop
48 degrees
drizzle, on and off

Feeling stronger and faster with every run. A overcast, rainy morning. Not gloomy, at least not to me: full of reds and yellow and oranges. Encountered Santa Claus in a bright orange, or was it yellow?, jacket. Heard lots of water everywhere, falling off the trees, gushing in the ravines, seeping out of cracks in the limestone, dripping down the steps on the bridge. I heard a lot of water just before reaching the trestle. I wondered if it was the inaccessible spring that I’ve read about.

When I started my run, the roads and sidewalks felt slippery, but I didn’t have any problems on the trail. I thought about the water section in my GGG collection — what does water do? Today, it: dripped, puddled, pooled, slid, (over)flowed, sprinkled, gushed. And, it exposed things that are difficult to see: cracks, fissures, slightly uneven ground. Water — as puddles or ice or snow — reveals what is normally hidden.

10 Things

  1. the river from the lake street bridge, 1: flat, smooth, pewter
  2. the river from the lake street bridge, 2: leaning over the railing, see the faint brown sandbar beneath the surface
  3. the shorter rock next to the ancient boulder almost looked like a little bear to me as I ran by — the rain had darkened the rock making it look like black fur
  4. still green down in the tunnel of trees
  5. the bright reddish-purple leaves on some trees lower to the ground
  6. empty benches
  7. on the east side, birds were chirping as I ran under the trees
  8. on and off, rain — mostly, I was sheltered from it by the still leafed trees, so it was difficult to tell what was rain and what was drips
  9. some kids laughing and yelling up on the hill
  10. puddles on the franklin bridge

Before sitting down to write my list, I remembered something to add to it, but by the time I started I had forgotten it. What was it? a few minutes later: this isn’t it, but I remembered something from the other day. There was a Palestinian flag made out of yarn on part of a fence somewhere on my run a few days ago. It might have been down near the tunnel of trees. I wonder if it is still there?

GGG update

During my “on this day” practice, I found some inspiration:

1 — 14 oct 2019

Looked up vista and found something interesting: “Vista is generally used today for broad sweeping views of the kind you might see from a mountaintop. But the word originally meant an avenue-like view, narrowed by a line of trees on either side. And vista has also long been used (like view and outlook) to mean a mental scan of the future—as if you were riding down a long grand avenue and what you could see a mile or so ahead of you was where you’d be in the very near future.”

My view is the opposite of these older meanings of vista in two ways: First, the narrow and tree-lined view makes me think of tunnel vision, when you only see what is straight ahead of you in your central vision. I see mostly with my peripheral. Second, my desire for a view is not in the hopes of seeing a specific future. Instead, I want to return to the past, or not the past, but to see a broader and longer view of the now, where everything exists together at the same time — maybe Mary Oliver’s eternal time?

also: there is an avenue (one article about the grand rounds and the gorge called them ornamental avenues) beside the river, but that is only the formal path to take. There’s the walking trail which meanders and (roughly) follows the terrain and is designed, not to get somewhere faster, but to engage with the gorge. And then there are dirt trails, alongside the paved trail, and deeper in the gorge, that don’t offer a clear or direct future. Not sure if this will make sense to a future Sara. I’m also thinking about Wendell Berry and the distinction he makes in “Native Hill” between roads and trails — I’ll have to find it.

Maybe I should do a You Are Here about a view, or I could call it an Overlook? Yes.

2 — 14 oct 2021

Earlier today I was thinking about pace — and only slightly in relation to running pace, more about pacing and restlessness and ghosts that haunt the path. Pace and pacing, like watches or clocks, impose limits and boundaries: a running pace uses seconds and minutes per mile (or km) and pacing involves walking back and forth in a small or confined space, retracing your steps again and again until you rub the grass away and reach dirt, or wear the carpet bare. What to do with that information? I’m not quite sure…yet.

to remember: Scott just told me that the musician, D’Angelo died today from pancreatic cancer. He was 51, my age. Scary and sad. My mom died of pancreatic cancer; it sucks.

oct 13/RUN

4 miles
minnehaha falls and back
55 degrees

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;/lengthen night and shorten day; (Emily Brontë). Ran at noon because I got my hair cut this morning. A great time for a run, at least today. Sunny, calm, cool. I wore my bright yellow shoes and felt strong. Chanted in triple berries, then one of my Your Are Here poems:

Held up by the openness,
Not hemmed in by the trees.

Admired the golden leaves, but forgot to look at the river. Did I notice it even once? If I did, I can’t remember. I did notice the rushing creek and the gushing water fall. Saw a school bus, then heard some kids laughing at the playground by the falls. At my favorite spot, I stopped to look at the falls. Then I walked up the hill and put in Taylor Swift’s new album.

10 Things

  1. bright blue, cloudless sky
  2. the faint outline of the moon above a still green tree
  3. folwell bench: one person sitting there
  4. bench above the edge of the world: empty
  5. benches at the falls: all empty
  6. a runner behind me — were they catching up? for a few minutes I could hear their shuffling feet, then nothing — did they turn off somewhere, or was I just going faster?
  7. something on the bottom of my shoe was making as shshshsh sound as I ran. Stopped at a rock to rub it off
  8. the sweet smell of tall grass near “The Song of Hiawatha”
  9. a leashed dog spinning around and jumping up, then sitting calmly beside a human
  10. puddles on the part of path near the ford bridge — a result of last night’s rain

GGG — before the run

I think I’m getting closer to being done with this collection? One of the poems I still have to write is called “Everything.” It is two pages wide. In the upper left corner of one page is: I go to/the gorge/to witness. In the lower right corner of the second page is: everything. These lines are the rock walls framing the open space of the gorge above the water/ground. In the open space, I’m planning to fill it with things I’ve witnessed at the gorge, culled from the 10 Things I noticed lists I’ve been making for at least 5 years. Just now, a thought: what if I organize the things to reflect the seasons, so the upper right quarter = spring, lower right = summer, lower right = fall, upper left = winter. In theory it sounds good, but what will it look like?

oct 12/RUN

1.75 miles
neighborhood to old stone steps to winchell
69 degrees
wind: 33 mph gusts

Overcast, windy, a few drops of rain. A fall afternoon. Everything slowly turning golden. Wow! I needed to run less than a mile today to reach my 20 miles per week goal. I decided to mix it up and add in a few detours. Ran through the neighborhood over to 32nd then down to the river road trail. Stopped to walk down the old stone steps and stand on the shore at longfellow flats. The forest was all green and thick. The flats were not flat but a steep ridge. Guess it’s time for the parks department to do some more dredging and dumping here. I stared at a yellowed maple leaf bobbing on the surface of the water. Encountered 2 people on the steps. I said, it’s a beautiful day, because I thought it was, but I wonder if they thought I was strange describing wind gusts and lack of sun and intermittent drizzle as beautiful. When I got to the top of the steps, I started running again and kept going past the welcoming oaks and the ravine to the entrance to the Winchell Trail. I went down the worn wooden steps and hiked in the ravine, above the two ledges. I studied the rip rap at the bottom of one. Some of the stone are wedged vertically, but more of them are horizontal. Should my riprap poems mimic this shape and spread out across the page?

Yesterday’s Ironman Championships was crazy. 80% humidity, a feels like temp of 96. Dangerous conditions. Both of my favorites — Lucy Charles Barclay and Taylor Knibb had to drop out during the run. Taylor Knibb was in first and had less than 2 miles (out of 26.2, 15 minutes out of 8 1/2 hour race) left to run, but she was completely empty. She wobbled and wandered then sat down in the middle of the road on asphalt that had to be more than 100 degrees. It’s scary and a little inspiring (but more scary), to see how deep these athletes can dig. I haven’t heard any interview with her, but I imagine she’ll be a bit disappointed, but also satisfied with her effort; she tried as hard as she possibly could and left everything out there on the melting road.

GGG

I’m working on a looping poem and trying to write some lines that echo these:

Each loop adds substance,
tightens the tether,
but never enough
to stop the looping.

Here’s what I’ve come up with, inspired by the riprap and how they shore up a slope:

Each chant offers a
memory, a way
back to the other
shore, but never more
than a trace of
something witnessed and
found familiar.

Or, should it be made familiar? I like how found sounds, but I like the idea of making it familiar through the looping.

oct 11/RUN

2.8 miles
sliding bench and back
49 degrees

A shorter run before Kona Ironman begins. I have loved watching this race since I was a kid when they showed the hour long recap of it on NBC. Now, I can watch the entire thing — all 8+ hours of it — online. I don’t want to race one, too much time on the bike, but I love watching them.

My run was good. Wore my bright yellow shoes and felt strong and fast — or faster than I have been for the last couple of years. Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker twice. The second time, he wished me happy birthday again! Dave is the best.

10 Things

  1. hello friend! good morning! — greeted the Welcoming Oaks, slower turning golden
  2. 3 or 4 stones stacked on the ancient boulder
  3. a few people walking on the trail in bright yellow vests — were they volunteers or rowers?
  4. some red, some orange, still mostly green
  5. click clack click clack a roller skier
  6. empty benches — the one just north of the old stone steps, above the rowing club, the one sliding into the gorge
  7. a biker handing a water bottle to a runner — what marathon are they training for? New York?
  8. stopping at the sliding bench: on the bluff, the trees were yellow, but down in the gorge, near White Sands beach, still green and thick
  9. tunnel of trees: still green
  10. passing a runner on the other side of the street before starting my run — their breathing was labored, heavy

I don’t remember what the river looked like — did I even see it? Don’t remember squirrels or birds or dogs. Oh — I recall hearing a collar clanging. Did I, or was that only my key in my zipped pocket? One small pack of runners. No coxswain’s voice or sewer smells or overheard conversations. No sirens or honks or geese. Where are the geese? I have heard a few this fall, but not that often. No chants or drums or protests on the lake street bridge, no burnt coffee smells, no Daddy Long Legs or Mr. Morning! or Mr. Holiday or All Dressed Up. Were these things not there, or was I just not noticing them?

oct 9/RUN

3.6 miles
bottom of locks and dam no. 1
48 degrees

Another cool morning! Today, I glowed: a bright orange sweatshirt, bright blue running shorts with lighter blue swirls, bright yellow running shoes, a purple-pink-blue running hat. Did it make me run faster? Maybe. I felt much better on the run this morning. Was it because I didn’t have any unfinished business, or because I was going only about half the distance? Or a little bit of both? I ran south and recited part of my new You Are Here poem about the grassy boulevard. I like it.

10 Things

  1. red leaves
  2. the occasional thump of an acorn hitting the ground
  3. the loud rumble of a school bus approaching Dowling
  4. scales on the river near the locks and dam — no clear reflection of the bridge today, instead more of an impressionist painting of it
  5. the bridge in the 44th street parking lot was empty, so was the one near folwell
  6. a dog’s bark, deep and loud, in the trees near Becketwood
  7. more golden light through the trees
  8. heading north, descending on the path that dips below the road, seeing a big but not the trail — hidden behind leaves
  9. the bench at the edge of the world: empty
  10. a buoy (not orange) bobbing in the river under the ford bridge

Listened to cars and dogs as I ran south. Put in “Taylor Swift” essentials retuning north.

Since I wrote about the grassy boulevard this morning, and being alone, and freedom, here’s a fitting poem:

Grass, 1967/ Victoria Chang

When I open the door, I smile and wave to people who only
have eyes and who are infinitely joyful. I see my children,
but only the backs of their heads. When they turn around, I
don’t recognize them. They once had mouths but now only
have eyes. I want to leave the room but when I do, I am
outside, and everyone else is inside. So next time, I open the
door and stay inside. But then everyone is outside. Agnes
said that solitude and freedom are the same. My solitude is
like the grass. I become so aware of its presence that it too
begins to feel like an audience. Sometimes my solitude grabs
my phone and takes a selfie, posts it somewhere for others
to see and like. Sometimes people comment on how
beautiful my solitude is and sometimes my solitude replies
with a heart. It begins to follow the accounts of solitudes
that are half its age. What if my solitude is depressed? What
if even my solitude doesn’t want to be alone?

Chang’s version of solitude involves being watched, stared at, judged and assessed, evaluated. And it involves a distance created with eyes and staring and being on display. My solitude, or maybe my loneliness, involves a lack of seeing — not of being seen, but of seeing when I’m being seen.

oct 8/RUN

6 miles
hidden falls and back
48 degrees

48 degrees! Wore shorts again with my compression socks. Wasn’t cold at all. In fact, felt warm and sweat a lot by the end. Not as easy of a run as it was yesterday. Unfinished business, tired legs. Even so, a few mental victories. Made it to Hidden Falls for the first time this year! (I checked and my last run to Hidden Falls was on 8 dec 2024).

A beautiful run along the river road, on the edge of Wabun Park, over the ford bridge, by the river again, above Hidden Falls. I stopped at the overlook there and marveled at the view. Such a view of the river valley on the way to St. Paul. I thought about the openness of this view: wide, far and also uncluttered, not much to look at, just open space. Nothing to try to see and not be able to. A chance to focus on other senses or not focus at all, but just to be.

There were a few things I saw that delighted me. My view was of the tops of trees. In the distance, some leaves silvered and shimmered in the sun light and wind. Glittering trees — I’ve written about that before. Then, a plane high overhead. At first, dull and dark, but as it hit the light, it sparkled and flashed, a shiny dot in the otherwise blue.

I listened to hammers pounding nails, kids yelling, and cars driving by until I reached Hidden Falls. Then I put in Taylor Swift’s “The Life of a Showgirl” on the way back.

today’s study of Air, before the run:

I’m thinking about how/why something becomes/is open: the planning by rich men of spaces, both as inviting — for experiencing wonder and stillness, and as buffers –protecting from the unwanted; the process of succession (see 4 may 2025) and meadow becoming thicket becoming forest becoming open/barren field; how Minneapolis Parks, National Parks, and the Longfellow Neighborhood Association work to keep spaces within the park; how the city of Minneapolis clears out encampments in the gorge. I’m thinking about my own experience with my blind spot: an opening that won’t close, that stays open to how vision really works and it limits, that opens me up and softens me, offering room to dwell in a place without judgment and enabling me to experience the world differently and outside of, or on the edge, of late capitalism and Progress! and excessive growth.

And then, a pivot. I started thinking about Canadian wildfire smoke and air quality and smells — sewer smells. I wondered, why does it sometimes smell so bad, and how do they handle those smells? Looked it up:

Sewage pipes from much of the West Metro converge at this site. Here, they drop their contents into deeper pipes that then carry the sewage under the river and on to the Metropolitan Wastewater Treatment Plant east of downtown St. Paul. When the sewage drops, sewer gasses are forced out. For years, smells were managed through use of a biofilter (a.k.a. woodchips), but results were mixed and local residents and park users requested improvements.

The new odor-control structure will house four carbon filters that should prove far more effective. Scheduled to come online in early 2017, the small building will soon be fitted with a charcoal gray metal roof along with frosted windows in the north and south roof peaks. Next spring, it will be painted more natural colors and the lot will be revegetated with grass.

source

after the run

I think I’ll leave smells and sewers for another day. Back to space-as-buffer-zone. Way back in 2017 or 18, when I first read the Gorge Management Plan from 2002, I encountered a description of the Boulevard that I’ve wanted to write about:

West River Parkway marks the transition between the natural communities of the River Gorge and the residences of the Longfellow neighborhood.

To function as an effective transitional zone, the boulevard should retain the natural character of the Gorge but also be visually acceptable to local residents and those using the boulevard and its pedestrian trails.

Gorge Management Plan, 2002

A transition zone, a threshold space between private (neighborhood) and public (park) land. Back in 2017, I imagined this transition as a way for me to prepare myself for the sacred practice of my run. A place to pass through — to leave behind the mundane world and enter the sacred. A place for getting ready to notice and slow down and let go. I think there is room to imagine that as an intent of Cleveland and early park planners. But, when I discovered the terrible history of Edmund Boulevard, named after Edmund Walton who brought red-lining and racial covenants to Minnesota, I read this buffer-zone differently. A buffer as “protection,” exclusion, denying access, keeping out, creating distance and division. And, Edmund’s white supremacist work is not in the past. These racial covenants and red-lining continue to shape the racial mapping of Minneapolis and who has access to home ownership, especially homes in places with open spaces and good air.

How do I want to reference this context in a poem? I’m not sure, but I’m thinking it will be in a poem titled, You Are There: Lena Smith Boulevard.

oct 7/RUN

3 miles
trestle turn around
51 degrees

Fall, finally! Wore my bright orange sweatshirt and black shorts with gray compression socks. Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker. Hi Dave! It’s a beautiful morning! Not too long after that I spotted an albino squirrel by the edge of the bluff. I didn’t stop, but I slowed down and took an extra glance to check that I was seeing what I thought I was. I think so, but how would I know? I saw some rowers emerging from the hill that leads down to the rowing club, but didn’t hear any of them on the river. Since I went north, I didn’t hear any kids on a school playground. Noticed lots of trash bags beside the already full trash cans. Marathon clean-up or a clearing out of camps in the gorge? Also noticed some flowers at the trestle in a makeshift vase — an open cylinder where a railing used to be attached. Orange cones were still next to the crack, warning runners and walkers — stay away. The crack looks like it hasn’t gotten any bigger or longer.

In mile 2, I started chanting a part of my poem, You Are Here: Tunnel of Trees:

Oh, where is the sky?
And where is the ground?
Neither can be seen.

Moving feet strike
only air,
and eyes see
only green.

To fly, to float,
to pass through with ease.

held up
by openness,
not hemmed in
by trees.

The last lines didn’t quite work with my movement, so I changed them slightly:

held Up by
the openness,
not hemmed In
by the trees.

Then I began repeating certain verses instead of reciting them straight through. To float, to fly/to pass through with ease//to float, to fly/to pass through with ease//to float, to fly/to pass through with ease and Held up by/the openness/not hemmed in/by the trees//Held up by/the openness/not hemmed in/by the trees.

I noticed a difference in how it felt as I switched up the lines. To float, to fly had a lot more open space around it. This is how my foot strikes matched up with the words: (x = foot strike without word)

To float x
To fly x
To pass through with ease

The silent extra beat created space and felt slower, maybe a little more labored? In contrast, the last verse was faster and easier for me to sync up my feet with lungs and brain and heart and the gorge.

Held up by
the openness
Not hemmed in
by the trees

No silent foot strikes, just one word per strike.

This experiment was fun and made the run easier, and, as a bonus, it helped me with my poem!

Air

I am little late with picking a theme for this month. I’ve been too haunted by my Girl Ghost Gorge project. Editing and adding new poems every day. Finally, a week in, it has come to me: AIR. Air is the section I am working on right now. It’s the third (love those 3s!) element of the collection: rock, river, Air.

Air as: air quality, good air, bad air, lungs, breathing, syncing up lungs with my feet and the feet and the lungs of others (human and non-human), open space, Nothingness/void, emptiness, a clear view, secrets revealed, thresholds, late October to mid-November before the snow flies, when the veil lifts or thins, boulevards and parkways, ventilation and purification, things not seen but sensed, a stillness within the flux of happenings, fleeting/ephemeral/weightless, smells, plagues, rust, erosion, fire, uncluttered and calm

Walked over to the split rail fence above the ravine and the sewer pipe that freezes in the winter and creates an icy tunnel, then drips blueish greenish water as it melts. The Winchell Trail winds around this ravine, over a steel grate and beside a wrought iron fence that once displayed dozen of keys with social justice-y messages until they were ripped out–by who and why? I wish I could remember the messages. A few: Be nice. We are One. Resist Fear. From up above, at the end of my run, I cannot see the ravine or the sewer or the keys. Sometimes I smell the sewer or hear someone talking below me, but I can’t see anything but green until the leaves fall in late October, early November. This is my favorite time at the gorge. I love being able to see deep into the gorge when its bare bones are exposed, its secrets revealed. I love the color palate of rich browns, pale blues, dull grays, rusted reds. I love the smell of mulching leaves, the sharp, crisp air, the paths that aren’t yet covered with snow but with crunching, crackling leaves.

log entry 7 oct 2019

flame and rust, flame and rust — another October poem (along with Louise Glück’s and May Swenson’s Octobers): Leaves

Today, while I ran, I thought about how chanting in the lines, held up by/the openness/not hemmed in/by the trees, made me feel how I was floating through the air. I noticed the space between foot strikes, that small instant when both of my feet are off of the ground, instead of when they’re striking it. My Apple watch measures my ground contact time while running, the time each foot is on the ground per stride (in ms), but it doesn’t measure the time you’re not on the ground. I guess I could figure it out, but couldn’t the watch do it for me? What percentage of my running is in the air versus touching ground?

With some help from Scott and AI, I determined that my stride time (60/170 — cadence) is 353 ms. Then subtracting my ground contact time from my stride time: 353 – 230 = 123 ms. To find the percentage, it’s ground contact time / total time. For me, I’m on the ground roughly 65% of the stride, and in the air 35% of the stride. It might be fun to work on increasing my cadence (time for the metronome!) and see if that makes any difference in my floating/flying time. Sounds fun!

oct 6/RUN

4.3 miles
minnehaha falls and back
50 degrees

The heat broke! Hooray. My run felt so much better, and dreamier, everything fuzzy and soft. My right knee felt a little strange at the very beginning of the run, but better the longer I ran. The air was crisp, the sun was bright, and the leaves were orange and red and yellow. Today I noticed a stretch of yellow just north of 42nd.

Listened to kids biking to school, water rushing over the limestone ledge and the falls, and at least one song out of a bike radio as I ran south. Put in Taylor Swift’s new album, “The Life of a Showgirl.”

10 Things

  1. Nearing a walker, about to pass them from behind, they suddenly spit. It missed me, but I was grossed out and stuck out my tongue without thinking. Morning! Oh no — it was Mr. Morning!
  2. a row of buses lined up in front of Dowling Elementary — another school week begins
  3. remnants of the marathon — not trash, but barricades, waiting to be picked up
  4. more red and orange leaves — not full trees, but slashes in the bushes
  5. the surface of the river was burning white again
  6. a white truck with an arm and bucket parked in a falls paking lot — was it there to clean up after the marathon?
  7. a rushing creek with foam that looked silvery purpley, oxidized green, blue, then pewter
  8. water trickling out of the sewer pipes
  9. empty benches
  10. the sweet smell of the tall grass — a thought today: is this a smell from my childhood in North Carolina?

some things for future Sara

1

Yesterday, Scott and I walked over to the river and watched the first wave of marathon runners reach mile 17. We saw the wheelers — I love seeing the motion of the silver handlebars turning turning and turning. We saw the men’s lead pack, their heels bouncing rhythmically like balls. We saw the lead woman and second place — a runner I’ve been following for 5 or 6 years now on Instagram. And we saw the GOAT of Ultra running, Courtney Dauwalter. I wish I had remembered to where (added the next day: where instead of wear? wow. a mistake, or is it? In that moment, I was, in fact, lamenting, oh, where are my glasses!) my glasses — in addition to losing my cone cells, I’m near-sighted. If I’m standing still, glasses can help see some far off things, like “exit” signs or moving bodies. Scott and I were inspired and have decided that we want to give the marathon another go, hopefully next year.

2

Finished the novel, Victorian Psycho yesterday. The final section was an epic bloodbath. The violence didn’t seen gratuitous, but fit, and it was so beautifully written. Descriptions of scarlet ribbons streaming from throats. After I finished, I suddenly realized that this final section must be a reference/homage to the Odyssey and Odysseus’s slaughtering of the suitors, which was also a bloodbath.

3

When Scott and I walked into Costco, we discovered that they were offering free, no appointment necessary, flu and COVID shots. Nice! We needed them so we waited about 5 minutes and then got jabbed. So convenient! Past Sara, who drove up to Duluth to get her first vaccine in 2021, would be shocked.

Lena Smith Boulevard

Last year — 29 jan 2024 — I wrote about an effort to rename Edmund Boulevard because of its namesake, Edmund Walton, who was responsible for racial covenants in this area and across Minneapolis. The efforts of community members and a community organization worked! The boulevard is being renamed after Minnesota’s first black woman lawyer, Lena Smith. The renaming was approved on sept 11, 2025. When will we see new street signs?

I’m thinking of this renaming today because I’m working on poems related to Air. Ever since I read a few lines in Gorge Management Plan from Minneapolis parks about this boulevard as a threshold space, I’ve wanted to write something about it. Now I want to add in some lines about the renaming, and the ongoing history of this place, and who is and isn’t given access to these open spaces.

Speaking of AIR, I’ve also wanted to write about lungs and breath and idea of room to breathe out by the gorge. A thought just popped into my head: the Canadian wild fires! I’ve been writing about the Air Quality Index and the thick smoke that travels south from Canadian wild fires for a few years on this blog. Maybe that could be part of my AIR section, too?