Another hot and hard run with heavy legs. Not enough water or iron or rest? My body adjusting to warmer, heavier air?
Ran with Scott to the falls. Windy, green. We talked about the runner’s high and I mentioned my log post from may 24, 2017 that included an early poem about the runner’s high. I’d like to edit it, or at least revisit the ideas in it. This revisiting will include trying to experience more runner’s highs. I also mentioned Jaime Quatro’s article, Running as Prayer, and the deepest level of the runner’s high. Scott said he preferred the word meditation to prayer: less Christian baggage. That conversation lasted about 15 minutes, I think. I can’t remember what else we talked about — oh, the wind, the value of having designated spots for returning your ride share bikes, side stitches.
10 Things
slick path or slippery shoes or both — mud, worn-down tread
wind in our face, running south. Scott suggested that the wind was like a trainer holding a belt around your waist as you ran, which is something we noticed happening before the twins game last week with a player and his trainer and a belt
flashes of pale blue, almost white, river through the thick trees
plenty of puddles
kids yelling on the playground
spray coming off the rushing falls — water falling down and from the sides of the limestone
a long queue for paying for parking in the minnehaha lot
the surreys are back — bunched together near the falls overlook
a cooling breeze heading north again
minneapolis parks mowed a wide strip of grass near the trail by the ford bridge but left the meadow — good news for the bull frogs! Today I couldn’t hear them because of the wind and the traffic but I bet they’re there
Yesterday I posted part of a poem from Lucie Brock-Broido. Here’s part of another beautiful one:
Ran with Scott on a beautiful spring morning. Sun, shadows, a welcome breeze. We ran over to St. Catherine’s University, across the river. RJP has almost decided to go there (hopefully she makes up her mind tonight) and we wanted to check it out. I’m impressed and excited to visit her next year. We talked a lot more in the first half of our run; we were both tired the last 2 miles. Scott talked about some Threads exchange involving Drake, Kanye West, and a diss track. We heard a creaking tree and I said it sounded like the squeaking gate we heard yesterday afternoon while we were walking. The mention of the gate reminded me of Marie Howe’s poem, “The Gate,” which I recited for Scott (of course I did). We talked about many other things but I just remember discussing what a wonderful campus St. Cates is and how great it will be for RJP.
On the sidewalk just outside of campus, we encountered several sidewalk poems that are part of the Public Art Sidewalk Poetry project. Scott took a picture of one:
November/ Marianne McNamara and Scott’s feet
November/ Marianne McNamara (2009)
Autumn winds drag leaves from the trees, clog the streets in dreary finale. Bare branches crisscross the heavy sky. Icy rain spatters, ink-blots the pavement. I settle at the window, stare into the black flannel, search the woolly lining of the night for winter.
I was unable to read this on the sidewalk, so I’m glad I could find it online. How hard is it for someone with good vision to read? I like the idea of this project, but in practice, it doesn’t quite work. Scott suggested they should use black paint on the letters, to make them stand out.
10 Things
smell: lilac, intense
tree shadows, more filled in than last week
a loud leaf blower
a safety patrol on the corner near Dowling saying I hate you, I hate you — who was he talking to?
the soft trickle of water falling from the sewer pipe near the 44th street parking lot
mud and ruts filled with water at a construction site on the edge of campus
feeling a fine film of dust on my face near the end of the run
more than a dozen signs in the grass outside a liquor store, each one said the same thing: wine sale. Scott: I guess they’re having a wine sale
running down Randolph encountering 3 or 4 sidewalk poems, none of them marked on the map
noticing a faint white thing flying through the air, high above us: a bird? a plane? a trick of the light or corrupted data from my eye to my brain?
the allegory of the cave, part 1
I want to read the cave parable and think about its shadows, but I want to read it in the context of The Republic so I’ve been searching my shelves for my copy. Which class in college did we read this for? Probably The Individual and Morality. Maybe a philosophy class? Anyway, it is very hard for me to find one book among almost a thousand. When we moved in I organized them, but over time, books have moved. Also, it’s dim in our living room and I have a lot of trouble reading book titles with my bad eyes. Yesterday I asked RJP to help, and she found it! Maybe I’ll try reading some of it out on the deck this afternoon. Reading physical books, as opposed to e-books, can be hard; there’s never enough light unless I’m reading it under my special lamp (designed for sewers and cross-stitchers and 80 year-olds with bad eyes and me). Reading outside in natural light helps.
an hour spent outside reading and dozing off and reading again . . .
First, two links that connect Plato and his cave with poetry:
From the Republic/ Plato — tldr; In these sections, Plato discusses why he doesn’t like poets. I’ll have to return to these sections.
Reading through the allegory, I came accross these lines:
. . . the eyes may be confused in two ways and from two causes, namely when they’ve come from the light into the darkness and when they’ve come from the darkness into the light. . . whether it has come from a brighter life and is dimmed through not having yet become accustomed to the dark or whether it has come from greater ignorance into greater light and is dazzled by the increased brilliance.
518a, The Republic / Plato, trans. G.M.A. Grube
Of course, I immediately thought of two of my favorite vision poems (what I’m calling them) by Emily Dickinson. And of course I have both of them memorized — but not her punctuation.
We grow accustomed to the Dark When light is put away As when a neighbor holds the lamp To witness her goodbye.
A Moment — We uncertain step — For newness of the Night (We Grow Accustomed to the Dark/ ED)
Too bright for our infirm Delight The truth’s superb surprise
. . .
The truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind. (Tell all the truth but tell it Slant/ ED)
I remember Plato’s cave and the shadows and the inability to access Truth, but I didn’t remember him discussing how both too little light and too much light blind us. The emphasis, as I recall, was always on darkness = bad, ignorance, the problem. Was I just not paying attention in philosophy class?
Searching for “plato cave,” I came across a video about it and decided to watch it:
The School of Life
I’d like to write more about what I find to be missing (also what’s helpful) in this account, but I’ve run out of time. Here’s one more video for comparison that I just started watching. When I have time, I’ll reflect on both:
4 miles veterans home and back 57 degrees wind: 14 mph / 28 mph gusts
Ran with Scott. What did we talk about? I remember Scott talking a lot at the beginning — it was something he was excited about — but I can’t remember what it was. I do remember him complaining about Spotify and how some of their new policies hurt independent musicians like him. I talked about shadows and wind and marveled at a tree branch creaking in the wind. Oh — and I complained (again) about my new yellow shoes. I tried them one more time and they still hurt my feet and make my calves ache. I need to remember: no more yellow shoes!
The water was gushing at the falls. We could smell something being fried at Sea Salt — it’s open for the season! I heard and saw a cardinal. I was dazzled by the bright white paint on the locks and dam no 1 sign — we both wondered if it was a reflective paint that made it so bright. A mile later, I could barely make out the bright yellow sign at 38th — the one I referred to as a bee last month. It was dull and blended in with the greenish-yellow trees behind it.
My favorite thing today: the wonderful shadows the new leaves made on the sidewalk. Tiny little jagged dots or points, making the tree shadow look like something other than a tree. What? Not sure. A strange, magical sculpture? Glitter shadow? The leaves made the shadows strange, the shadows made the path strange. First encountering them on the double bridge, I didn’t think they were shadows but some sort of blob on the asphalt.
During the run I had mentioned that I didn’t know what my May challenge would be but that it would be fun to have a theme that I could make a playlist for. By the end of the run, after witnessing the wonderful shadows, I had my topic: Shadows! As we walked back, I was already creating my playlist.
I’m Shadowing You
I’m Shadowing You / Blossom Dearie
Me and My Shadow / Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr.
Shadowboxer / Fiona Apple
My Shadow / Keane
Shadow Dancing / Andy Gibb
Shadow Song / Screaming Trees
Shadows and Light / Joni Mitchell
Silve Shadow / Atlantic Starr
Total Eclipse of the Heart / Bonnie Tyler
Help Me Make It Through the Night / Kris Kristofferson
Sunshine in the Shade / The Fixx
the Shadow of Your Smile / Astrud Gilberto
Evening / The Moody Blues
White Room / Cream
Shadow Stabbing / CAKE
I’m Beginning to See the Light / Ella Fitzgerald
Twilight Time / The Platters
The Shadow Knows / Link Wray
yesterday / The Beatles
Moonshadow / Cat Stevens
Golden Years / David Bowie
Candle Mambo / Captain Beefheart
If You go Away / Neil Diamond
We Will Become Silhouettes / The Postal Service
Crepuscule With Nellie / Thelonious Monk
Discovered this poem on the Slowdown before my run. Oh, Dorianne Laux, what a gift your poem is today!
The odds are we should never have been born.
Not one of us. Not one in 400 trillion to be
exact. Only one among the 250 million
released in a flood of semen that glides
like a glassine limousine filled with tadpoles
of possible people, one of whom may
or may not be you, a being made of water
and blood, a creature with eyeballs and limbs
that end in fists, a you with all your particular
perfumes, the chords of your sinewy legs
singing as they form, your organs humming
and buzzing with new life, moonbeams
lighting up your brain’s gray coils,
the exquisite hills of your face, the human
toy your mother longs for, your father
yearns to hold, the unmistakable you
who will take your first breath, your first
step, bang a copper pot with a wooden spoon,
trace the lichen growing on a boulder you climb
to see the wild expanse of a field, the one
whose heart will yield to the yellow forsythia
named after William Forsyth—not the American
actor with piercing blue eyes, but the Scottish
botanist who discovered the buttery bells
on a highland hillside blooming
to beat the band, zigzagging down
an unknown Scottish slope. And those
are only a few of the things
you will one day know, slowly chipping away
at your ignorance and doubt, you
who were born from ashes and will return
to ash. When you think you might be
through with this body and soul, look down
at an anthill or up at the stars, remember
your gambler chances, the bounty
of good luck you were born for.
This morning, Scott and I ran the Get in Gear 10k. We haven’t run this race since before the pandemic. It’s right by our house and follows the ford loop route. We didn’t run fast, but it felt good and I felt strong. Strong enough to pick it up at the end. For years I’ve wanted to be able to enjoy the race as I ran it, instead of pushing hard and feeling miserable. This year, I’m doing it! Much more rewarding than a PR.
10 People
Bethany had a loud voice with a strong Minnesota accent that cut through the wind. I know her name is Bethany because she introduced herself to someone about 25 yards ahead of us. I bet she was nice, but that voice! As we tried to figure out where to line up Scott said, not near Bethany! After finishing the race, Scott noticed her and her bright yellow shirt — oh look, there’s Bethany. As we ran, I mentioned how frustrating it might be to have a loud voice like that. Scott said: Bethany’s don’t care how loud they are
a tall man in a bright yellow shirt who kept sprinting then stopping, sprinting then stopping. For almost 4 miles, he would run past us, then stop and walk until we caught up, then start running fast again. We dropped him on some hill — finally
a shorter man taking deep, noisy breaths every few steps — I think he made a noise with the exhale — whoooooooooowhoooooooooowhoooooooooo
a man before the race doing a lot of stretching and warming up — I don’t know the names of the stretches, but I’m sure they have names — he was almost skipping forwards, then sprinting, then skipping backwards. I wonder how fast he ran?
a woman standing at a distance from the porta potties. Another woman asked, are you in line? and even though we thought there was no way she would say yes because she was so far from the line, she said yes, I think so
the enthusiastic, slightly unhinged, volunteer handing out water — you’re so fast! great job!woo hoo!
an older couple standing beside the course, cheering us on. When I said, thank you, one of them said, no, thank you!
a woman just behind us, scuffing her foot on the road with every strike, scrape scrape scrape
a guy cheering, good job! you’re almost there, when we still had 2 miles left
2 little girls before the race, meeting up, the one squealing in delight at seeing her friend arrive, Irene!
remembered 2 days later: a woman, stopped, either coughing or dry heaving vigorously
Did a run with Scott to Dogwood Coffee on a beautiful spring morning. Wore my new running shorts. They’re blue and very comfortable, which is a big deal because it’s difficult to find good running shorts. We ran north to the bottom of the franklin hill, then back up it until we stopped to walk for the last stretch. I know we looked at the river, but I don’t remember what it looked like. Was it smooth? Blue? Any foam? I have no recollection. I do remember that there weren’t any rowers on it. No geese either.
I talked about a video I watched earlier today on how to write poetry for beginners by a poetry influencer. (I didn’t like it). Scott talked about some drama happening in the big band he’s in.
After the run, waiting in line at Dogwood, I overheard the woman ahead of us tell the barista her name was Sara. She asked his name: Scott. I just had to chime in that we were a Sara and Scott too! She mentioned that she just met someone the other day who had the same birthday as her. The only 2 people I know that have the same birthday as me are two of RJP’s former frenemies.
Anything else? Not that many people running . . . just remembered that we saw two people running up the franklin hill. One of them was accompanied by a roller skier.
Also: as we ran under the trestle something was crossing the tracks above us. A train? Nope a truck with special wheels for riding on the track. I turned around and ran backwards to watch it for a minute and discovered that running backwards is kind of nice. I liked how it worked by leg muscles differently.
random etymology: Happened upon the origins of gnarled:
We owe the adjective gnarled and other forms of the word to our friend Shakespeare, who created it in 1603. In Measure for Measure, he writes, “Thy sharpe and sulpherous bolt splits the un-wedgable and gnarled oak.” But gnarled didn’t come into use again until the 19th century. In any case, word experts believe it’s related to the Middle English word knar which means “knot in wood.”
Today is Ted Kooser’s birthday. I’m happy to report that although I thought he was dead — having posted about it on 22 april 2022, he is not! I’m not sure why I thought he was, but all the results on my google search indicate that he is still alive. He’s a wonderful poet, and person according to what I’ve read from poetry people on 2022 twitter. Here’s a poem I read this morning on poetry foundation:
The gravel road rides with a slow gallop over the fields, the telephone lines streaming behind, its billow of dust full of the sparks of redwing blackbirds.
On either side, those dear old ladies, the loosening barns, their little windows dulled by cataracts of hay and cobwebs hide broken tractors under their skirts.
So this is Nebraska. A Sunday afternoon; July. Driving along with your hand out squeezing the air, a meadowlark waiting on every post.
Behind a shelterbelt of cedars, top-deep in hollyhocks, pollen and bees, a pickup kicks its fenders off and settles back to read the clouds.
You feel like that; you feel like letting your tires go flat, like letting the mice build a nest in your muffler, like being no more than a truck in the weeds,
clucking with chickens or sticky with honey or holding a skinny old man in your lap while he watches the road, waiting for someone to wave to. You feel like
waving. You feel like stopping the car and dancing around on the road. You wave instead and leave your hand out gliding larklike over the wheat, over the houses.
Oh, I love so much about this poem — everything?! You can listen to him read it at poetry foundation (poem title is link). I want to spend more time with his writing.
Ran in the afternoon with Scott. Wore my warm summer attire: black shorts and tank top. Wow. Feels like summer. Tried my new bright yellow running shoes — Saucony Rides. Love the color, but not the fit. My feet and right calf hurt now. Guess these shoes will just be for walking. Oh well.
There was some wind, but mostly it felt refreshing. There was only one stretch where it made running more difficult.
We talked about how the first mile is the hardest, how my shoes weren’t working (poor Scott had to listen to that a lot), and what a badass Helen Obiri is — moderate pace for most of the marathon then unleashing a 4:40 mile near the end.. Then I mentioned an edited version of my birding poem that I’m planning to submit to some journals.
Right before descending below lake street, we encountered another, older runner. I said that I liked his orange shirt and then asked Scott if the shirt was actually orange. It was a gradient, Scott replied. It started orange then magenta then red — at least I think that was the order of colors. Well, I just heard ORANGE in my head, I said. Then: orange shirt old guy struggling
Scott pointed out that it was in my running rhythm — 3/2, with an extra 3. Nice.
Random Thoughts Recorded Earlier Today on a version of the wind: air
Of course, appearances refers to more than vision or looking; it’s about “the world of sensible phenomena” (Merriam-Webster). And, to be seen or unseen, can mean much more than what we perceive with our eyes. But how often is appearance/seen reduced to vision and sight? (rhetorical question — my answer: too often or all the time or most of the time).
To appear can mean to be present, to attend, to show up for something.
To believe in the unseen — believing in that which we can’t prove? Believing in something that I know is there but that I cannot see? An orange buoy? What does it mean to be unseen? To not be seen with our eyes? To not be consciously aware of what some part of us might be seeing or sensing?
Mostly, we can sense the wind, or at least see the evidence of it all around us — swaying trees, swirling leaves, flapping flags. But what about air? Air, which we often mis-identify as emptiness?
10k hidden falls and back 66 degrees wind: 13 mph / gusts: 25 mph
Another run with Scott. Today, too hot! We ran around 11, which was too late. So much sun and no shade. It’s time to adjust to running much earlier.
Of course, I’m writing this right after the run, when I’m feeling wiped out, so my perspective on it is skewed.
We talked about the Beaufort scale and songs that might fit with the different levels of wind. Scott recounted the history of the man behind Chef Boyardee. That’s all I remember.
10 Things
wind — strong enough that I took my hat off on the ford bridge and held it so it wouldn’t blow off my head
ripples on the river — I mentioned to Scott that they were referred to as scales on the Beaufort scale
wind chimes, all around the neighborhood chiming
soft shadows
after months of not being lit, the street lamps along the river road are finally lit again
on your left! a biker passing us on the bridge
the water fountains aren’t working yet — we kept stopping to check, but no water yet
a few LOUD blue jays
swarming gnats!
bright yellow and orange and green running shirts on other runners
before the run
Reviewing a link I posted earlier this month — Historical and Contemporary Versions of the Beaufort Scale — I started thinking about different versions of the Beaufort Scale that I could do. On the run, I’d like to talk with Scott about a wind song Beaufort scale that describe/ranks the wind using song lyrics. I’m thinking that Summer Breeze might be on one end and The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald on the other.
Other versions of the Beaufort Scale might include poetry lines — yes, a wind cento! — and things experienced while running.
Beaufort Scale
force / name / for use at sea / for use at land
0 / calm, still / sea like a mirror / smoke rises vertically
1 / light air / ripples on water / direction of wind shown by wind
2 / light breeze / small wavelets / wind felt on face, leaves rustle
3 / gentle breeze / crests begin to break, scattered white horses / leaves and small twigs whirl, wind extends small flags
4 / moderate breeze / small waves, fairly frequent white horses / wind raises dust and loose paper, small branches move
5 / fresh breeze / moderate waves, many white horses, some spray / small trees in leaf start to sway, crested waves on inland waters
6 / strong breeze / large waves, white foam, spray / large branches in motion, whistling wires, umbrellas used with difficulty
7 / near gale / breaking waves blow in streaks / whole trees in motion, inconveniant to walk against the wind
8 / gale / moderately high waves / twigs break from trees, difficult to walk
9 / strong gale / high waves / slight structural damage, roof slates removed
10 / storm / very high waves / trees uprooted, considerable structural damage
11 / violent storm / very high waves / widespread damage
12 / hurricane / air filled with foam, spray / widespread damage
I’m struck by how mild the wind is here in Minneapolis by the river gorge. The roughest wind I’ve run (or swum) in is 6, which is about 31 mph. That’s only a strong breeze and when umbrellas are used with difficulty. And that’s only halfway up the scale! I’m a wimp, I guess.
Looking at this a different way, I think there’s a lot more levels between light breeze and strong breeze. maybe I should try to notice and describe the differences between leaves rustling and leaves in a whirlwind? Or wind felt on my face as a soft kiss versus wind whipping my hair?
during the run
Scott was excited about the idea of creating a Beaufort scale with songs/song lyrics. So far:
0 / In the Still of the Night / Dion 1 / In the Air Tonight / Phil Collins 2 / Summer Breeze / Seals & Croft 3 / Sailing / Christopher Cross 4 / Dust in the Wind / Kansas 5 / Breezin’ / George Benson 6 / Blowing in the Wind / Peter, Paul & Mary 7 / Windy / The Association 8 / They Call the Wind Maria / Paint Your Wagon 9 / Ride Like the Wind / Christopher Cross 10 / Tear the Roof Off the Sucker / Parliment 11 / The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald / Gordon Lightfoot 12 / Rock You Like a Hurricane / Scorpion
Because of the ran yesterday, Scott and I did our long run today. It was wet and dark and so humid that we could see our breaths. First we talked about anxiety — Scott’s was about missing some notes at a rehearsal, mine was about waking up with it, feeling it in cramped feet. Then I described a New Yorker article I was reading before we left about forensic linguistics. My description included misplaced apostrophes, devil strips, and Sha Na Na. Wow. Scott spent the last mile of the run trying to remember the name of the guy who was always on 70s game shows, had curly yellow hair, and shot out confetti — Rip Taylor.
We greeted Dave the Daily Walker — Hi Dave! — and listened to some cool-sounding bird. Heard a seep that had turned into a little waterfall below the U. Smelled the sewer. Watched the river move so slowly that it didn’t look like it was moving. We walked part of the franklin hill then ran the rest.
According to my watch, the wind was 10 mph 18 mph gusts. I don’t remember feeling much wind, or hearing it in the trees, of seeing it move the leaves. In fact, the wind was so calm that the water looked still. Not smooth, but no waves, not even ripples. Am I forgetting?
Here’s a wonderful little poem about wind by A. R. Ammons that I found on a favorite site, Brief Poems:
A note about the total eclipse: it didn’t really happen here in Minnesota — it was overcast and we weren’t in the path of the eclipse. Oh well. Here’s a pdf of Annie Dillard’s “Total Eclipse” which I must have read for a writing class but that I can’t find a copy of in my files.
Back to the running-with-Scott-on-the-weekend tradition. Today a variation of the marshall loop that we probably won’t try again. Over the lake street bridge, up the marshall hill, right at cleveland past St. Thomas and Summit, right on St. Clair, then down to the east river road. St. Clair was mostly a long downhill which sounds nice but was a little too steep.
For the first mile, we talked about the differences between Big Bang (which we don’t like) and Community (which we do). My theory: many of the differences are about the shows relationship to what it means to be normal.
The river looked so cool today — brown, mostly calm but with slight ripples. A bright circle of light and wavy texture — the sun and clouds reflected on the water.
The river was calm enough to see the bridge’s upside down smile reflected on its surface.
Heard the St. Thomas bells, some birds, a squeaking squirrel. The trails weren’t crowded because today is Easter.
added a few hours later: before and after the run (also after dropping FWA back off at college), I worked on my latest birding poem. Will I try to get these published? Maybe, but I’m more interested in them as the opportunity to work on how to turn my daily observations, mostly using peripheral vision and/or senses other than sight, of birds into poems. Something was missing in my poem from yesterday, so I thought about it some more this morning. Yesterday, I kept thinking about how the birds’ singing didn’t hesitate at all as the plane flew above them. This morning I suddenly thought: what if their song was the response to plane — a warning song? I looked up birds and their reactions to planes and found this article, with a line that conjured an image for me.
the line:
Using modern electronic instruments, it is possible to measure the heart rate of brooding birds. Measurements show that these birds often react to the appearance of airplanes with a marked increase in heart rate, in other words they become nervous, even if no outward reaction is visible.
the image: tiny heart beats beating out a rhythm underneath the trill and buzz tune.
Not a fast run, but I felt relaxed and strong, and I powered up the big hill. No difficulty at all. I picked it up a little at the end and enjoyed crossing the finish line. A victory! Maybe the hardest thing about the race was holding back — I kept wanting to go faster than Scott, but I kept it slow and relaxed. My goal is not a fast time, but to be able to run the marathon with Scott.
For most of the race I recounted stories — probably the same stories — about past races: having to run ahead to get water for FWA in our 5k, RJP being very disturbed by a runner who was dry heaving as he neared the finish line, a wheezing runner dying on a hill, running way too fast in the first 5k of a 10k then dying and having to stop and walk several times for the second 5k.
10 Things
2 women behind us lamenting how they were both such bad singers — I played an instrument, but I just can’t hear the notes. I turn the radio way up to drown out my own voice. I wanted to turn aroudn and say, Me too!
the crappy pre-recorded version of the national anthem before the race
cold, cold fingers and toes for the first mile
Scott yelling, Banana!, when a guy in a banana costume ran by
Overheard: Oh right — I get a beer when I’m done with this! note: our bibs had a ticket for one free beer at the end
Overheard: runner with a 1/2 mile before she would reach the turn around: where is the turn around anyway? I wanted to say, a long way, but didn’t
a few patches of snow and ice near the edges of the road
snow on the grass
the cobblestones at the end were in bad shape — lots of holes, rough, uneven
on the cobbles, I heard someone behind sprinting and yelling but they never passed. What happened? did they think the race finished sooner? did they sprint too soon and run out of gas? I’ll probably never know
