4 miles river road, north/south 30 degrees 100% loose snow
Loose snow. Difficult to move through. For almost all of the run, it was fine. I was careful, deliberate, light on my feet. On the last stretch, running up that a hill, I ran faster to pass a woman with 2 dogs. She was walking fast and I was irritated? Was she doing something worthy of irritation? She and her dogs were walking in such a way that took over most of the path and forced me into the uneven snow. And, she seemed to speed up as I neared her, like she was racing me. Not long after passing her, it happened. I rolled my ankle in the loose snow. oh shit, I exclaimed. It was fine for the rest of the run, and it seems fine an hour later. I’m RICEing (rest ice compression elevate) to be safe. To increase the odds that all will continue to be fine, it’s time for some fun with medical terms: RICE
R I C E
routinely, I crave eggplant
rust is corroding energy
rapt, I consider everything
rippled ice concerns Edgar
reciting Issa causes enlightenment
rabbits implore, cancel Easter!
rooted in creative excess
restive, impatient, contrary, edgy
rude individuals can’t empathize
ribald, irritating, caterwauling, egomaniacs
Rosie is counting elements
Rankled, I cry, Enough!
river island causeway eddy
Other memories from the run: the bells of St. Thomas playing a Christmas song, but which one?; crows cawing steadily, and syncing my steps to their song; several cars swinging wide to avoid splashing me with the melted snow; waving twice at a guy in a red jacket — once on my way north, then again on my way south; stopping several times to walk when the snow became too soft and uneven; small splashes of yellow dotting the snow, some bright, some faded; the road was bare and wet, the trail was not; feeling strong as I lengthened my torso, stretched out of my hips, opened my chest, and increased my cadence.
On This Day: January 5, 2025
Found these beautiful lines from the wonderful Carl Phillips while revisiting 2025’s January 5th entry:
Moving With: Carl Phillips
What if, bet- ween this one and the one
we hoped for, there’s a third life, taking
its own slow, dreamlike hold, even now —
blooming in spite of us? (from “Sky Coming Forward”)
Moving with Li-Young Lee:
for those three primary colors: staying, leaving, and returning. (Big Clock/Li-Young Lee)
Found this delightful poem this morning. I thought about the contrary crows when I heard the crows by the gorge.
On one side of the pond, a woman heads west in stone, while on the other, it’s a man heading east, but with the same extravagant gestures of headlong flight—one leg thrown back and both hands launched forward. And sometimes it’s on the tip of one of the lifted heels that a pigeon sits, and sometimes it’s on a thumb, but usually it’s on a head, often one on each, making a mockery of the phrase “in headlong flight.”
Though now they’re rebuilding the pond, so they’ve drained it, with the odd result that the pigeons have gone and have been replaced by crows. They too particularly like to perch on the statues’ heads, but, determined to assert their alterity, they make sure that they’re always facing backward.
4.5 miles minnehaha falls 20 degrees 100% snow-covered
Not a single bare spot on the trail or the road. Hard on the ankles, calves, and the eyes — so bright and white and endlessly nothing. Difficult to see where the snow was loose and where it wasn’t. It didn’t bother me; I’m just happy to be outside moving, connected to this place. Tried to greet everyone I saw — runners, walkers, at least one biker — with a wave or a hello.
10 Things
the smell of chimney smoke lingering near a neighbor’s house
soft ridges of sand-colored* snow covering the street — tricky to run over and through
empty benches
(almost) empty parking lots
a hybrid/electric car singing as it slowly rounded a curve near locks and dam no. 1
the sound of the falls falling over the ledge: almost gushing
scattered voices echoing around the park — at least one of them was from an excited kid
stopping to tighten my laces, a woman in a long coat nearby, standing and admiring the falls
splashes of yellow on the snow
bird song then a burst of birds briefly filling the sky
*sand-colored: using these words, I immediately thought of a favorite poem that I’ve memorized, I Remember/ Anne Sexton: the grass was as tough as hemp and was no color — no more than sand was a color
I listened to the quiet — barely any wind — for the first half of the run, then put in my “Sight Songs” playlist on the way back. Memorable songs: Sheena Easton’s nasally high notes in “For Your Eyes Only,” and the lyrics in the refrain —
The passions that collide in me The wild abandoned side of me Only for you, for your eyes only
Yikes. Also, these lines from The Who’s “Behind Blue Eyes”:
And if I swallow anything evil Put your finger down my throat
And if I shiver please give me a blanket Keep me warm, let me wear your coat
And these, from Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” which I don’t recall ever hearing:
Every now and then I know you’ll never be the boy you always wanted to be. . .
. . .Every now and then I know there’s no one in the universe as magical and wondrous as you
(Almost) 9 Years!
Typically each year, I mark the anniversary of this log as the first of January, with a new year beginning on that day. But, that’s not the real anniversary of this log. It’s January 12th, 2017. Why the 12th and not the 1st? I’m not quite sure; I’ll have to look through my journal from that year. It seems fitting, with my affinity (see D. Seuss below) for the approximate, the almost, to not start on the first day of the year!
On This Day: January 3, 2022
Reading this past entry today, I re-discovered this beautiful poem by a favorite poet, Diane Seuss, Love Letter. Rereading it, so many words, phrases, ideas tapped me on the shoulder, invited me it! Here’s the second half of the poem:
I’m much too sturdy now to invest in the ephemeral. No, I do not own lace curtains. It’s clear we die a hundred times before we die. The selves that were gauzy, soft, sweet, capable of throwing themselves away on love, died young. They sacrificed themselves to the long haul. Picture girls in white nighties jumping off a cliff into the sea. I want to say don’t mistake this for cynicism but of course, it is cynicism. Cynicism is a go-to I no longer have the energy to resist. It’s like living with a vampire. Finally, just get it over with, bite me. I find it almost offensive to use the word love in relation to people I actually love. The word has jumped off so many cliffs into so many seas. What can it now signify? Shall I use the word affinity like J.D. Salinger, not a good man, put into the mouths of his child genius characters? I have an affinity for my parents. An affinity for you. I will make sure you are fed and clothed. I will listen to you endlessly. I will protect your privacy even if it means removing myself from the equation. Do those sound like wedding vows? Are they indiscriminate? Well then, I am indiscriminate. I am married to the world. I have worked it all out in front of you. Isn’t that a kind of nakedness? You have called for a love letter. This is a love letter.
sturdy! I love this word — the sound and the feeling of it: I like being sturdy. My Girl (in my Girl Ghost Gorge poem, the preferred version of me — Sara, age 8).
the “gauzy, soft, sweet selves” — these gothic girls, jumping off cliffs into the sea — a very different version/vision of a girl than mine
Linking these lines to others from Seuss, I imagine one version of her girl to be the one that died when her father did — she writes about him in Still Life with Two Dead Peacocks and a Girl. That girl’s father became sick when she was 2 and died when she was 7.
Of course, this is only one version of her girl. How many different versions of girls do I have? Do I write about?
Affinity?! Yes, I need to put that beside my list of “love?” words, accustomed, familiar, acquainted, known. Affinity = kinship, attraction, liking/affection, causal relationship, attractive force, “a relation between biological groups involving resemblance in structural plan and indicating a common origin”
Right now, I’m reading “You” as the poem and poetry.
Indiscriminate = not marked by careful distinction — ambiguous, sloppy? a (too) rough approximation?
love letter world . . . suddenly, I’m thinking of Emily Dickinson: This is my letter to the world that never wrote to me
That was fun, giving some time to these words! I am drawn — do I have an affinity? — to Diane Seuss’s words. Is it because my introduction to her was her fabulous poem about vision that begins with the line, the world, italicized? Or her ekphrastic poems, in Still Life with Two Dead Peacocks and a Girl?
a return to the ekphrastic!I am reminded of my past reading and writing about still life, especially with Diane Seuss. I’m imagining my “how to see” series of ekphrastic poems with a section on still life paintings and one on pastoral poems! Also, a section on artists with vision conditions or that particularly resonate for my vision: Magritte, Monet, Vincent Van Gogh. Ideally, a series of poems. But first, taking the time to gather all of the resources together, then to stay open to what could happen! I’m also imagining a section on cut-outs/silhouettes, which I studied during my shadow month.
Colette Love Hilliard and the erasure poem
Last night I bought CLH’s a wonderful catastrophe. Wow! I love it. This one reminded me of my blind spot/mood ring visual poetry:
from A Wonderful Catastrophe / Colette Love Hilliard
4.6 miles minnehaha falls and back 11 degrees 100% snow-covered
A wonderful way to start the new year: a run outside, in the snow, above the gorge! There were moments when it felt easy, but mostly it was hard because of the uneven, loose slow. I think my calves are going to be sore all day from the effort! Not injured, just tired from being used to push through and keep balance in the snow. Ever since we got the 5.8 inches of snow last weekend, it has been snowing a inch of two every night. It’s beautiful, but not fun to drive in — I’ve heard; I haven’t driven in at least 5 years because of my vision. It’s not always fun to run in (and on), either. But I’m not complaining, I loved being out there today.
I encountered runners, walkers, at least one fat tire. No cross country skiers or regulars. I heard some people sledding at the park, and the light rail leaving the station — oh, and a woman saying to someone she was walking with, I just need to get the shoes and I’ll be fine. What shoes? Fine for what?
10 Things
a bright while, almost blinding — I’m glad I had some dark tree trunks to look at
snow on the side of a tree making a pleasing pattern on the textured trunk
the falls were falling and making noise — more trickle than gush
the dark gray water of the creek was moving through shelves of ice and snow
the sounds of my yak trax in the snow: crunching and clopping and clicking
the smell of a chimney smoke hovering in the air
a small dome of snow on top of a wooden fence post
empty benches
a crunching noise behind me: crusty ice in my braid hitting the collar of my jacket
overheard: an adult to a kid playing in the backyard, are you having fun?
Running up and out of the park, I had a moment of freedom and happiness — ah, to be outside moving in this fresh air and all of this snow! I thought about my wonderful, low-key New Year’s Eve with Scott and our kids, both of whom are doing so much better at the end of the year than they were at the beginning, both excited and hopeful about the next year.
Today I’m submitting my book manuscript to another press, Yes Yes Books. Before I went out for my run, I drafted a pithy description of my collection, Echolocate | | Echolocated:
“Echolocate, echolocated: to locate using echoes instead of sight, to be located by the echoes you offer. In this collection, a girl and her ghosts visit a gorge daily to locate and be located by the rocks, a river, and the open air and all who are held by it.”
Here’s a beautiful poem I discovered the other day about (not) naming.
shovel: 30 minutes 12 degrees / feels like 0 bright sun
The official word is that MSP (airport), which is only a couple of miles away, got 5.8 inches of snow. It wasn’t too hard to shovel; thankfully it got a lot colder yesterday and overnight. No longer heart attack snow. Under the powdery stuff, there was some crust, but it didn’t seem too slippery either. I would love to go out for a run by the gorge, but I don’t think that’s a good idea for my glute/hip/back. It’s tough to resist.
10 Things
bright blue sky
warm sun on my face
fogged up sunglasses
an unsettling creaking noise above me: some frozen branches on our big maple in the front which seems to be dying (evidence: big branches have already fallen this fall + several woodpeckers have been drumming on the wood)
the whiny rumble of a snow blower in the distance
a cold spray on my face when the wind blew some of the snow I’d just shoveled
the recycling and trash can lids frozen shut
rabbit prints along the side of the house, near the garage
a sharp rumble nearby: another slow blower, closer and in the alley
sprawled branches of the crab apple tree, weighed down with snow and ice
bike: 35 minutes basement
Resisted the urge to go outside and run; biked in the basement instead. Almost finished the first episode of season 2 of Wednesday. Like in the first season, she attends a boarding school, Nevermore. Did I know that Edgar Allan Poe was the founder? Probably. Some outcasts are psychics or wolves, can control bugs or shoot electricity out of their fingertips. I can’t remember if there’s only one siren or more. This season has Steven Buscemi as the principal and a scar-faced crow. It was helpful to watch the episode with audio description on — such relief to actually see and understand and to not not know what is going on. Yes, that is a double negative, and yes, I meant to write it — the feeling of uncertainty is not knowing, so the relief is in not being in that state of not knowing: to not not know
walk: 20 minutes neighborhood 13 degrees
Managed to convince Scott to go outside for a quick walk around the block. It was cold, especially walking into the wind, but I had hand warmers in my gloves, which helped a lot. Scott did not, so he was very cold, and didn’t want to walk for long.
What did I notice? One neighbor had put salt down on their sidewalk (boo). Most of the sidewalks were shoveled. The street 2 blocks over had lights strung up from one end of the street to the other. I never see these lit up, because I don’t walk this way at night. A friendly woman greeted us halfway down another block — hello! / hi!. She was giving treats to a cute dog. Anything else? I can’t remember.
Translated from the Swedish by Kira Josefsson with Judith Kiros
is it only words. On and on. If you shook up the words. On a particular shade of purple being extracted from spiraling shells. If the repetition had less to do with the broken-apart sea, see my skin and my arms rippling like a wave, on and on again, I’ve dyed them navy. On receiving a gift in your childhood, a purple doll with foaming skirts, beneath them nothing, between her legs nothing, what a perfect wave of black nymph. On violet. Or on lavender. On being lowered into an ocean of colors. On your head being pushed beneath the surface, on and on again, to the tune of seashells knotting their purple insides. Don’t give yourself up for free; there is a point in talking back to the sea. On a particular shade of vague purple. On the way a shadow struts, violet, across the page.
a particular shade of purple: tyrian purple, made from snail shells violet, lavender, being lowered into an ocean, pushed beneath the surface: this makes be think of Alice Oswald and Nobody and Odysseus and his purplish-blueish cloak
I like the idea of being lowered into an ocean of colors shade of vague purple
My favorite: the way a shadow struts,/violet, across the page
Also discovered this morning: Fragment Thirty-six / HD and the reading guide by Dan Beachy-Quick — I’d like to return to this some other day, when I have time.
one final note: I have posted a log entry, either running or biking, on this day every year that I’ve written in this log: 2017-2025. Tomorrow, I’d like to experiment with mashing up or combining or erasing or scrambling or cutting up the words in these entries to make a new piece of writing — most likely, a poem.
Winter storm warning today. Heavy, wet snow, up to 8 inches possible. It’s supposed to snow all day, but there was enough of a break for me to get outside and clear some of it away. In the middle of shoveling, it started snowing again, but now, less than hour later, it has stopped again — or, at least slowed.
This snow is the bad kind — not powdery or soft, but heavy and wet. Heart attack snow. Branch breaking snow. Power lines going down snow.
While I shoveled, I wore one of Scott’s mom’s winter coats and RJP’s Christmas present: a crocheted neck warmer, in light green with purple trim. So well made — very warm and comfortable!
No running today. My glute/hip pain is back. It aches sometimes when I sit for too long. I need to run 1.7 miles to reach my goal of 950 miles, but I have until Wednesday, so I won’t push it!
a few hours earlier
Looking out the window above my desk and watching the snow fall, I discovered this poem:
Nowhere but in the occasional dream can I know again with certainty those hills, the dead-end road,
the solace of so often walking— with such little thought as to where time was leading me—
to the place
where the asphalt gave way to stone, dust, and an amber imbroglio of manzanita.
No longer fluent in my primal dialect, the tones rising with the sap of the blue eucalyptus, I can only recall
that I thought like a child. And reasoning like a child, I thought it best to keep secret
the certainty of my love
for the aromatic leaves,
the strips of bark day by day
peeling back to expose
the radiant layers: a gesture
toward the desperation to be known.
more time with the safari reading list
1 — an interview with Fanny Howe (FH) in the Kenyon Review (KR) / bewilderment, openness, fear, and secularizing belief
KR: But a tinker, a traveler, is often a searcher, and as you’ve said, lyric is searching for something that can’t be found. In one of your essays you describe a “poetics of bewilderment” which is very intriguing to me: “An enchantment that follows a complete collapse of reference and reconcilability.” To me that sounds like a frightening state of being. Not a little mess, but a big one! Is that frightening to you?
FH: I think it is frightening. Staying completely open to what might happen and trying not to prefigure what is coming at you is frightening. The imagination is in jeopardy. Belief is bold. There’s a philosopher I like called Gianni Vattimo and he’s written a book called Belief (he is a nihilist) and in it he talks about the secularization of belief and turns it into a positive event, being the collapse of hierarchical structure; and he says that Christ was attempting to secularize belief, to return it to the ground. And one of the terms he uses is infinite plurality, that the relations and contingencies that mark your movement through time are always taking place in ways that are outside judgment and imagination. That is sort of where I would like to stand, without being terrified. It involves an openness.
FH: To . . . everything . . . it’s like seeing the future coming at you instead of yourself walking into the future. It’s a reversal of the time relationship, so that you have to welcome it because it’s approaching and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. That’s the best way I can describe it. It is definitely anticontrol.
currently watching
Scott and I are currently making our way through “Little House on the Prairie.” Last night’s episode was about Laura and Mary, and their sexist/idiot friend Carl, getting stuck on a runaway caboose. It was awesome, especially when Pa ripped some dude off of his horse so he could “borrow” a fresh horse to catch up to the train. As great as that episode was, it couldn’t compare to the one the night before in which Ma is trapped in the house, alone, with tetanus. She’s losing it — passing out in the rain, passing out on the floor — but still has enough wherewithal to heat up a big knife and cut out the infection before passing out again. Damn. This show is dark, and I love it.
Also watched: Die Hard as our Christmas movie, which was also excellent, and The Thursday Murder Club, with a fabulous cast.
several hours later: Still snowing. Decided to do a quick bike ride before Scott took over the basement to record. Not much of a workout, but it felt good to move my legs and get my heart rate up a little. Finally started watching the new season of Wednesday — season 2. I can’t remember when it came out — last fall?
4.45 miles minnehaha falls and back 36 degrees humidity: 90%
Moist, thick, big puddles everywhere. I tried to avoid them, but I couldn’t avoid all of them and by my last mile I could hear my one shoe squish squish squishing. Since it was warm, it didn’t bother me. Oh — just remembered — my shoe/sock got wet at the falls — the cobblestones near the falls were full of puddles. There were a few slick spots, but mostly it was just wet.
For 3 miles, I listened to the wet wheels, whooshing, crows cawing, and people calling out to each other as I ran. For the last mile: TSwift’s Life of a Showgirl
10 Things
the small patches of snow on the trail or the road, seeping murky gray-green-dirty white liquid
the rusty orange leaves, dead, still clinging to the trees
calmly letting a walker know I was approaching from behind — right behind you/thank you! I meant to say, you’re welcome, but didn’t, then lamented my failure to exchange the you until I realized I had with my right behind YOU –if I had said, the you would have been traveled 3 times: from the-walker-as-you when I said, right behind you, to me-as-you when she said, thank you, to the walker-as-you again with, you’re welcome
overheard: a man leaving a group of people at the falls, calling out, I’m going back to pay the meter!
clusters of people — 6-8 at the overlook just above the falls, and at the overlook close to “The Song of Hiawatha”
a clump of something not moving ahead of me on the trail — dead leaves? A darting squirrel. I studied it closely to make sure it didn’t run in front of me
a distant thumping, heard when stopped to put it my headphones — nearing, another running plodding along
seen with peripheral vision: some frozen crystals on my cheek
the trail on the bike side of the double bridge was mostly wet ice with 2 narrow strips of bare pavement that narrowed even more until not even my toe could fit in their groove
crows! just before starting my run, they were gather in the trees above me. when I stopped to start my workout on my watch, they cawed furiously, as if to say, keep moving!
Just before the run, I got an email about one of the chapbook contests I entered — back in July. I didn’t win, but I got, along with 4 other poets, an honorable mention. I’ll happily take that! The chapbook I submitted included earlier versions of several of the poems that I revised for my manuscript. I think the poems are even better now.
In the last mile of my run, a sudden thought: I should submit something for tiny wren lit’s tiny zine series. It says they’ll open again in early 2026: submit a tiny zine
safari reading list, review:
1 — contentment
Found a poem about contentment while reviewing my Safari Reading List. I’m partial to the words satisfied or enough or still, but contentment works too.
Yes, I can be content anywhere, but alas sadly: No. It’s not true. I can’t be content here in my uncomfortable present, in my uncomfortable chair, on the uncomfortable subway, at this uncomfortable desk, in this uncomfortable classroom. But oddly, I am content to visit the past, to say Hello everything I’ve lost, to say I wish you could come here to the present, my lost companion trees. I wish you could meet everything I’ve found.
about this poem: “Making peace with the past has been a common theme in my work, so I decided to try to write about making peace with the present.”
Blessèd art thou, No One. In thy sight would we bloom. In thy spite.
A Nothing we were, are now, and ever shall be, blooming: the Nothing-, the No-One’s-Rose.
I love this bit of Celan’s poem and the No-one’s-Rose! No One — a someone who is No One: what type of sight do they have? We were, are, shall be nothing, blooming. I want to use this — maybe as a breathing with poem — in a collection* about the gorge/gap/bling spot.
*maybe not a collection, but a series of attempts, orbiting around the idea or feeling or experience of the Nothing in the gorge and in my vision.
Speaking of orbiting: Last night, I was trying to name/remember something, but I couldn’t, quite. I kept almost getting the right name, but I was off, approximate. As I talked, I moved my hands around in a circle, as if to indicate I was circling around the name. I called out, I’m orbiting it! I do this a lot. I wish I could remember the exact example, to make this story more understandable, but I can’t.
3 — CAConrad’s Queer Bubbles
There are some great bits in this article about Conrad and their rituals in The Paris Review:
“I love being inside the ritual,” he says. “It’s like speaking in tongues. It’s not just automatic writing … Every nuance, every adjustment to the ritual, alters the language that comes out of me.”
Exercises like these are nothing new in poetry—Conrad cites Bernadette Mayer and Charles Olson as two practitioners of similar methods—but he insists that his rituals are chiefly inspired by his childhood, specifically the Pennsylvania Dutch Country where his grandmother taught him to meditate and where he took an interest in the occult, from local water diviners to the hex signs painted on barns. But as much as his work owes a debt to Boyertown, it is a deliberate rebuke to the bigotry, violence, and oppression he found there.
I’m familiar with B Mayer’s work — a class on her list is what led me to poetry! — but I don’t know that much about Charles Olson. I should look into him more, like his archeology of morning (on a site that offers footprints not blueprints, which reminds me of my old academic slogan for my ethical/pedagogical approach: an invitation to engage, not a how-to manual) and the polis / Polis is This:
Polis is This
In his two books of (Soma)tic rituals and poems, A Beautiful Marsupial Afternoon and ECODEVIANCE—a third collection, While Standing in Line for Death, will be published this September—the rituals and resulting poems appear opposite one another. Because the rituals are written in the second person, at times the books read like the world’s most bizarre and inventive self-help guides, manuals for what you might call acute mindfulness. One ritual starts like this: “Eat a little dark chocolate before getting on the subway. Sit in the middle of the car … Then close your eyes, and as the car rolls on its tracks make a low hum from deep inside you … As soon as the car stops write 9 words as fast as you can before the train moves again … Repeat this humming and writing for 9 stops.” He credits his rituals with lifting him out of depression and grief.
The use of You — a bizarre self-help manual or how-to on mindfulness!
the blind ring project returns to haunt this log
Doing some reading about lit journals that accept visual poetry, I was introduced to the amazing erasures of Colette LH. So beautiful and wonderful. Here’s the first one I experienced:
Then I saw this one, Brain, and I started thinking about what I could do with my blind spot black-out ideas, and now I’m wondering about doing something with my peripheral. These white trails above, in (un)certainty are making me think about movement and direction and motion as it relates to my peripheral vision. Hmmm….
An afternoon walk with Scott and Delia. Gray, mild, misting. Some ice on the sidewalk, few cars on the road. Walking on Lena Smith Boulevard, looking over the hill and down into the gorge, I said, that looks so pretty, then realized it probably didn’t to anyone else. The view was gray sky, brown trees, rusted leaves, and the feeling of a river beyond it — a flash of a car or a runner traveling through the tunnel of trees. Scott said, it’s peaceful, but I wouldn’t call it pretty. At first I agreed, but then I decided it did look pretty to me.
A low-expectations Christmas. RJP made gifts for all of us: for Scott, a dark gray hat with yellow trim; for me, a neck warmer in green with a purple stripe; for FWA, light gray mittens. Beautifully crafted. We had a nice dinner, then watched Die Hard for the first time since it came out in 1988. Loved it — even though I could only see about half of it. Scott and I agree: a new tradition.
in the morning
Another Christmas is here. I’m sitting at the dining room table while everyone else is still asleep or hiding out in their rooms. Looking for something, I decided to search through my Safari Reading list — it’s the main way I save links. Found Dorianne Laux’s “Ode to Gray” at the bottom. Very cool! I love this poem and the idea of creating a list of all of the things of a certain color that are meaningful to me.
Once there was a shock that left behind a long, pale, shimmering comet’s tail. It shelters us. It makes the TV images fuzzy. It settles in cold droplets on the power lines.
You can still shuffle along on skis in the winter sun through groves where last year’s leaves hang on. Like pages torn from old telephone books— all of the names swallowed up by the cold.
It’s still pleasant to feel the heart beating. But the shadow often seems more real than the body. The samurai looks insignificant beside his armor of black dragon scales.
it makes the TV images fuzzy / you can still shuffle along on skis / last year’s leaves / the shadow often seems more real than the body — so many lines that speak to me!
4.25 miles minnehaha falls 33 degrees 10% slick ice
Great weather for a run. Only needed one pair of gloves and no jacket. For the first mile, I didn’t encounter anyone, but as I neared the falls, more walkers and runners. I tried to greet everyone I encountered with a wave or a good morning. There was some ice, but I only slipped once or twice. The creek was flowing and I could hear the falls falling behind the thick ice columns. Running up the hill and on my way out of the park I heard voices below in the part of the park that is both the bottom of a massive sledding hill in the winter and a wading pool in the summer.
On my way home, I stopped at the bench above the edge of the world and admired the open view to the river below and the other side. Beautiful. Heard more people down below, on the winchell trail.
late night blind spot revelations
Last night, another thought: I’d like to take a break from structured writing that is shaped by a larger project. Time to experiment more instead. Also: time to add to my “How to Be” project, do my year-end summary, and edit my writing experiments list. Oh — and read some more of the poetry books I bought this year.
Discovered this poem the other day and wanted to remember it, especially for how it incorporates research about lichens into the poem:
Crinkly-thin, the perfect marriage of algae and fungi, furbelowed and curled.
venerable ancestors: strange as vellum, an onion poultice, leather jerkin
Johann Dillen’s portraits of 1741: the ‘Strange Charactered Lichen, Black Dotted Wrinkled Lichen, Leprous Black Nobb’d Lichen, Crawfish Eye-like Lichen.’
the youngest occupy a wicker couch, eavesdrop on the aunties’ tales, wonder why so aged-looking, their skin?
‘Wanderflechten’—those who traveled on deer’s hooves, birds’ feet, hot air balloon baskets over arid land.
travel’s allure, the turquoise ring, scarab bracelet
Those who embraced the seductions of moths’ wings, gave their bodies to the hungers of the ‘Brussels Lace Moths, Beautiful Hook-Tips, the Dingy Footman.’
when can we stay out past dawn?
Lichens who gave sustenance, grew thin, flailed against famine, lichen packed in the bodies of mummies.
these have an aura, a blue-mauve cloud we can’t imagine the ribs’ furrows
Erik Acharius, 1808, the “father of lichenology,” fastens samples onto herbarium sheets, lichens’ filaments and flakes suspended.
nice—but not our father, who is spores and fragments
A thin cord anchors lichens to rock, small bits chip off, wear of paw pad and fur, take hold elsewhere.
we hear the wind caressing bark
Lichens swept up by grazing reindeer, hot breath devouring, rub of meaty tongues, meat toxic to herders— radioactive fallout the lichens never meant to harbor.
ghostly stalks of trees, an ashy forest we can barely look
A single spruce hosts a rare green and red-lobed lichen.
the odd one out, the one no one ever set eyes on
Lichens in the armpits of marble statues differentiated from lichens on the thighs, eaten by snails on moonless nights.
moonglow, something we don’t know here, no one’s talking
A hummingbird’s nest, its outer layer shingled gray-green with lichen flakes, a point of pride, see—
Another swim! Today the pool was not that crowded, and by the time I was done, it was almost empty. Then, after Scott and I got out of the hot tub, it was completely empty. I almost wanted to get in and swim some more. I probably would have if we didn’t need to go shopping. Scott commented on how calm and still it was.
The swim felt good — mostly. At the beginning, a little harder to breathe, but as I warmed up, it got easier. The woman next to me also had an open swim club cap on; I would have said something to her, but I was afraid I was seeing it wrong. She was a strong, slow swimmer. She swam freestyle with some snorkeling and breaststroke mixed in. Many new friends in the other lane: first, someone in black swim trunks, kicking furiously as they swam freestyle for a 50, then stopping, then breaststroke, then a break. They lasted 5 or 10 minutes. Next was someone in an orange suit, doing a slanted breaststroke. After them another fast-ish freestyler. My favorite friend: the shadows dancing on the pool floor. Everything looked almost animated — like a cartoon, not quite real, and also hyper-real.
Continuous 200s again. A ladder of 50s: breathing 2/3/4/5/6/7/6/5/4/3. A set of continuous 100s, with the second fifty faster and more kicking — a 6 beat kick?
In the hot tub, I asked Scott if he wanted to increase his mileage to make his workout longer, so that I could swim longer. I’d like to increase my average per workout from 1.5 to 2 loops/miles. He said yes! I need to figure out some fun writing/attention/imagining/thinking experiments as I swim for January.
This past Tuesday, during the community jazz band rehearsal in which I don’t play, I read more of Jana Prikyl’s Midwood. Some of it I like, much of it I don’t understand, which could mean I need to read it several more times, or that I just don’t like it. Here’s a poem I copied into my plague notebook that spoke to me immediately.
Another Visit/ Jana Prikyl
A flock of Boy Scouts dispersing early morning from the summits down into the valley while I looked from the window of another visit to that city, considering the bus routes I’d sew together along the rim of the hills and the park tucked under the shoulder of a slope I mean to see but never do, made of transparencies that dropped their leaves on top of leaves description falls, it’s there without me
I swam 3 times this week! Scott and I decided to go early, before the water aerobics class. For almost the entire swim, I had the lane to myself. In the last 5 minutes, a woman (I think) I shared a lane with earlier in the week joined me. I did my usual swim of continuous 200s, broken up by breathing, but I added a twist in the middle: for a 600, or maybe an 800?, I swam faster and kicked harder on the even 50s (when I was breathing every 4 and 6 strokes). It felt fun to go faster.
Today’s pool friends: shimmying shadows on the pool floor, making everything look strange and off-kilter; the older woman in the pale blue suit who is not particularly fast, but is a strong swimmer; a guy in black trunks who was also a strong swimmer; a guy in olive green shorts walking and stretching the length of the shallow end; my squeaky nose plug; a guy in black shorts with a belt on, aqua jogging in the deep end. No fuzz or unsettling floating things.
I tried to think about my echolocation hybrid piece, but I struggled to keep a thought in my head. Instead I counted strokes, and noticed other people, and turned off most of my conscious thought.
Earlier this morning, I quarried another Emily Dickinson poem: We Grow Accustomed to the Dark:
one syllable: We grow Dark when light put holds lamp Her step night then fit meet road those brain not moon sign star come out grope hit tree in but They learn see sight life straight
two syllable: away neighbor witness goodbye moment newness vision erect larger evenings disclose within bravest little sometimes forehead either darkenss alters something adjusts itself midnight almost
three syllable: accustomed uncertain directly
my poem:
Brain alters — gropes the Dark, hits lamp light, and meets night directly. Away moon! Away stars! Goodbye sight. The moment adjusts — they learn larger uncertainties, witness newness within, fit vision into the almost, then meet the evening erect, but not straight.
The other day, I came across a powerful poem by Pat Parker on poems.com. Wow!
One Thanksgiving Day Priscilla Ford got into her Lincoln Continental drove to Virginia Street in downtown Reno and ran over thirty people. Six of them died.
One Thanksgiving Day Priscilla Fordgot into her Lincoln Continental drove to Virginia Street in downtown Reno and ran over thirty people. Six of them died.
. . .
Priscilla Ford got into her Lincoln Continental drove to Virginia Street in downtown Reno and ran over thirty people. Six of them died and now Priscilla Fordwill die. The state of Nevada has judged that it is not crazy for Black folks to kill white folks with their cars. Priscilla Ford will be the second woman executed in Nevada’s history. it’s her highest finish in life.
