bike: 27 minutes, stand, basement run: 1.75 miles, treadmill, basement raining and windy all day
No break in the rain today so I biked and ran in the basement. Decided to try reciting the 2 green poems I learned this week while biking, and then again while running. A fun challenge. I messed up a few lines but did surprisingly well speaking the lines while my heart rate was up–about 120 BPMs while biking, 165 BPMs while running. I need to work on getting the phone closer to my mouth and speaking louder while running. It would probably be easier to record while running on the road where I can vary my pace, instead of on the treadmill where I had to keep my pace steady.
The Trees/Phillip Larkin
biking, 120 BPMrunning, 165 BPM
Instructions on Not Giving Up/ Ada Limón
biking, 120 BPMrunning, 165 BPM
Next week, I’ll start on my third green poem. After all this rain, it will be extra green! Speaking of green, I continue to work on a poem inspired by Rita Dove’s alliteration in “Ode to My Right Knee.” It’s about the excess of green and how it hides my beautiful view of the river and its other side every year, from May to October.
Here’s my latest version:
Ode to Green/ Sara Lynne Puotinen
Greedy gorge gobbler grifting vistas. Vanishing views. Overruning overlooks. Orchestrating take-overs–trees tressed, scenes stolen, senses smothered. Stop. Yield your yearly domination. Dress demurely. Decide against always exuding excess. O, overabundant obstruction, we want windows, ways out, openings, other perspectives, possibilities. Please share some space. Surely room remains for faithful friends?
walk: 3.45 miles, morning around longfellow neighbhorhood run: 1.3 miles treadmill, basement walk: 3 miles, evening around longfellow neighborhood
Lots of walking today. Actually, lots of walking every day. I am averaging over 11 miles of walking and running a day during this pandemic. During the first walk, it was sunny, then lightly raining, then sunny, then overcast, then raining, then sleeting, then sunny. Strange. Walking on Edmund, near the river, it was quiet and calm. Somber. Almost like a funeral processional. Groups of people evenly spaced along the road, umbrellas aloft, marching toward downtown silently.
I decided to run on the treadmill so I could record myself reciting “Ode to My Right Knee” while I ran. Not too difficult, but hard enough that I couldn’t think about much else but breathing and repeating the lines. No interesting insights on the words or the rhythms. I’ll have to try reciting and recording while running again. After I finished running, I recorded the poem while walking. You can really tell the difference, I think.
reciting while running, treadmillreciting while walking, treadmill
In the late afternoon, we walked again. No rain, but some wind. Scott and I saw another pileated woodpecker! Was it the same one? Not sure. It tried to hide from us on the other side of a tree and when that didn’t work, it flew away.
bike/bike stand: 30 minutes run/treadmill: 1.5 miles rain Deaths from COVID-19: 301 (MN)/ 57,533 (US)
Rain all day. In a few days, everything green. Green green green. I like the green but it always comes too much too soon. Biked in the basement while watching more of the Agatha Christie movie. Enjoying it. Then, ran on the treadmill. Listened to a playlist, fell into a trance.
I didn’t recite my memorized poem today, but decided to recite and record it during my cool down, walking on the treadmill. Realized, before my workout, that I had not memorized the first stanza. Somehow I had left it off my log post. Oops. I’ll have to practice it a lot: “It has been so wet stones glaze in moss;/everything blooms coldly” “It has been so wet stones glaze in moss;/everything blooms coldly”
Dear One Absent This Long While, recorded 4/28
I stumbled over a few words, and it sounds like I said “pawny” instead of “pony” but I recited the whole thing. Nice. I don’t quite own these words yet, but I will soon.
use better words || use words better
Yesterday, while trying to figure out some succinct ways to describe the creative experiments I’m doing in my run project, I came up with this concept. I want to find and use better words–words that allow for new understandings, that more effectively communicate my experiences, that make me/others feel things, that foster curiosity. And, I want to use words better–to be more deliberate and precise and thoughtful in my choices so that my words generate movement and encourage others to think and be curious.
the Subway/Eat Fresh birds
A few days ago, inspired by 2 birds chatting, I imagined what they might be saying–including: bird 1: Subway/ bird 2: Eat Fresh. Scott was inspired by another similar bird conversation this morning. He recorded them, figured out what notes they were singing and then played around on his keyboard with them. Very cool.
birds singing in the rain, april 28Birdsong in the rain, Room 34
I’m hoping we can collaborate on a sound/poetry project about these birds–probably one that doesn’t involve referring to the birds as Subway and Eat Fresh, but who knows? Anyway, as a starting point, I wrote down a list of 2 syllable calls and responses:
Be here Not here Beside Be Safe Deep Down Lost Ones Release Slow down Rethink Listen Sink in Undo Nothing Delight Been there Terror Old ways New ways Broke down How to
Not there Not there Beyond Steer clear We knew Stay gone Forget Down size Reprise Loosen Retreat Rebuild To do Sorrow Done that Wonder Destroyed Unfurl Remade Be now?
bike: 20 minutes, bike stand run: 1.45 miles, treadmill Deaths from COVID-19: 94 (MN)/ 31,628 (US)
It’s not too cold or windy outside today but I decided to workout in the basement anyway. Watched more of the Agatha Christie movie on Netflix. I’m really enjoying it so far. Then ran for about 10 minutes on the treadmill while I listened to a playlist.
Right now I’m working on a poem tentatively titled, “How to Sink.” It’s inspired by all the sinking and keeping and dripping I’ve noticed running beside the gorge and by the current need to retreat/withdraw/go deep inside.
How to Sink/ Sara Lynne Puotinen (draft 1)
Think of that time when your young son was so mad all he could do was turn to goo
and slowly ooze down the couch in surrender to the floor. Not giving in but giving up control,
a puddle of body parts pooled at your feet. Go to the
gorge. Let your bones dissolve, your legs liquefy, submit to gravity sliding
down reaching ground seeping deeper through layers of loam, sandstone, limestone, shale.
Drop lower and lower burrow through cracks and fissures carve out a way in
and follow it further inside so far that outside is another idea.
note: “follow it further inside so far that outside is another idea” is taken from a Paul Tran poem, The Cave.
Read it to Scott and he mentioned that “goo” stood out too much. I’m having trouble thinking of another word that fits the idea and the syllable count of the line so I’m keeping it in for now.
bike: 25 minutes bike stand, basement run: 1.6 miles treadmill, basement shovel: 15 minutes deck, back yard Deaths from COVID-19: 70 (MN)/ 21,692 (US)
Woke up to snow. Took a walk with Scott and Delia the dog in it. At first, walking south, it was great. No wind. Snow gently coming down. I thought about running outside. But, then we turned the corner. Wind, snow blowing in our faces. No running outside for me. So I worked out in the basement instead. Started watching “Agatha and the Truth of Murder” on Netflix while I biked. Listened to a playlist while I ran. Coming out of the basement, glancing outside, I was overwhelmed by white. 5 or 6 inches, I think. Hopefully it will stop soon. Decided to quickly shovel the deck. Such heavy, wet snow.
April Snow
Snow in April is not surprising. Last year on the 11th and 12th of April it snowed. On April 16th, 2018, we got over 20 inches! No snow in 2017 but I found a video I did from April 11th, 2013 when it snowed. It snowed a lot in April 2013.
bike: 28 minutes bike stand, basement run: 1.8 miles treadmill, basement Deaths from COVID-19: 50 (MN), 15,774 (US)
11 deaths in MN reported for today. Up from 39 yesterday. A big jump. The peak here is supposed to hit at the end of April. We’re expected to have almost 600 deaths.
Very windy today. Decided to bike and run in the basement. Before heading down there, I sat at my desk upstairs, looked out at the small pellets of snow coming down–looking like little styrofoam balls–and memorized the beautiful poem, And Swept All Visible Signs Away/ Carl Phillips. I was drawn to it back in September because of Phillip’s discussion of seeing the face and connection and the line about wanting less for company than for compassion.
What’s a face, to a willow?
Thinking about my difficulty in seeing faces, I wondered (and still do): What’s a face, to me? Is a face–having it, recognizing it, expressing with it–necessary for connection?
If a willow had a face, it would be a song. I think.
I like the idea of the willow’s face (does face = Oliver Sack’s definition in his essay about face blindness: that which “bears the stamp of our experiences, our character”?) being a song, this song: “I am stirred, I’m stir-able, I am a wind-stirred thing.” What is my song? What might the songs of those I love–Scott, my kids–be? Fun to think about.
For the first 5 minutes of my bike ride, I recited the poem out loud. I can’t remember if I recited it when I started my run.
Speaking of not seeing faces, this morning my daughter was talking to me. I was sitting at my desk, she was on the couch, in the shadows. Looking at her for several minutes as she told me about her homework, I couldn’t see her facial features at all. Her head was a shadowy blob with hair. I could, however, see her hand gestures. Her small, graceful hands waved and pointed and flexed and reached out as she discussed her assignment. I did not need to see her face or her eyes to understand her.
walk 1: 2 miles Edmund Bvld 30 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 24 (MN)/ 8,407 (US)
Walked with Scott, Delia the Dog, and my daughter this morning. Nice, crisp air. Sunny. Hardly any wind. A perfect morning for a run, but I decided to only walk. Trying not to push it too much with the running. They’ve turned the river parkway into a one-way and created a lane for walkers. Will this help enable people to get more distance from each other? Not sure. I’ll check it out tomorrow when I run. Felt great to be outside and moving. Heard at least one cardinal, several crows, a woodpecker. Anything else? There were traces of the snow from yesterday still settled around the trees in the grass by Edmund. Walked by the Cyclops Baby on the garage door again. Enjoyed walking with my daughter–only her second time outside in almost a month.
bike: 27 minutes bike stand, basement run: 1.1 miles treadmill, basement
Gave myself another easy day in the basement today. Watched some of a Joan Didion documentary–The Center Will Not Hold–and listened to Harry Styles as I ran. Don’t remember thinking about much. Happy to be able to move and breathe and not always be worrying.
here. Forget. There are simply tones cloudy, breezy birds & so on. Sit down with it. It’s time now. There is no more natural sight. Anyway transform everything silence, trees commitment, hope this thing inside you flow, this movement of eyes set of words all turns, all grains. At night, shift comets, “twirling planets, suns, bits of illuminated pumice” pointing out, in harsh tones cancers & careers. “Newer Limoges please.” Pick some value mood, idea, type or smell of paper iridescent, lackluster &, “borne in peach vessels,” just think “flutter & cling” with even heavier sweep unassuaged which are the things of a form, etc that inhere. Fair adjustment becomes space between crusts of people strange, rending: as sound of some importance diffuses “as dark red circles” digress, reverberate connect, unhook. Your clothes, for example face, style radiate mediocrity coyly, slipping & in how many minutes body & consciousness deflect, “flame on flare” missed purpose. Your eyes glaze thought stumbles, blinded speck upon speck ruffling edges. “But do not be delighted yet.” The distance positively entrances. Take out pad & pen crystal cups, velvet ashtray with the gentility of easy movement evasive, unaccountable & puffing signs detach, unhinge beyond weeds, chill with enthusiastic smile & new shoes “by a crude rotation” hang a bulk of person “ascending,” “embodied.”
walk: 3.5 miles edmund bvld, south/north 45 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 17 (MN)/ 4.749 (US)
bike: 26 minutes bike stand, basement run: 1.2 miles treadmill, basement
Scott and I took Delia the dog on a long walk this morning. We discovered that there is a trail that connects Edmund at 42nd with Edmund farther south. Hooray! I’m excited to try it out tomorrow. I should be able to run over 4 miles that way. As we walked near Becketwood, across from the double bridge, I noticed 2 big birds soaring above us. Bald eagles, we both decided. One was close, the other much higher in the sky, both circling. Riding a thermal? So cool.
In the afternoon, I biked in the basement to get my exercise minutes (a 72 minutes, 3.5 mile walked didn’t earn me a single minute of exercise on my apple watch). Watched more of the S Soundheim/Hal Prince documentary about the failed 1981 musical, Merrily We Roll Along. Finished by running 1.2 miles on the treadmill.
Starting off national poetry month with one of my favorite poets, Maggie Smith.
Rain, New Year’s Eve/ Maggie Smith (from Good Bones)
The rain is a broken piano,
playing the same note over and over.
My five-year-old said that.
Already she knows loving the world
means loving the wobbles
you can’t shim, the creaks you can’t
oil silent–the jerry-rigged parts,
MacGyvered with twine and chewing gum.
Let me love the cold rain’s plinking.
Let me love the world the way I love
my your son, not only when
he cups my face in his sticky hands,
but when, roughhousing,
he accidentally splits my lip.
Let me love the world like a mother.
Let me be tender when it lets me down.
Let me listen to the rain’s one note and hear a beginner’s song.
walk: 1.5 miles longfellow neighborhood bike: 25 minutes bike stand, basement run: 1.3 miles treadmill, basement 441 confirmed cases of COVID-19
Started the day with a walk around the neighborhood with Scott and Delia the dog. Lots of birds, hardly any people. We meandered, often turning when we saw people approaching. Ended up walking by one of my favorite garages–so awesomely weird.
https://www.instagram.com/p/B-SEUQTnlIB/
We also walked by the creepy, completely shrouded in towering trees, house across from Sanford Middle School. Scott noticed a few windows on one side but they were concealed with thick awnings. Even the side entrance is fenced over, with the railing poking through fence boards. What happened here? I can’t believe my kids haven’t passed on any ghost stories from other Sanford kids about this place.
Later, after it began raining, I decided to workout in the basement. Started watching a documentary on Netflix about a failed Stephen Sondheim/Hal Prince musical, Merrily We Roll Along: The Best Worst Thing That Could Have Happened. So far, I’m enjoying it. I love musicals. Another version of me, in a different universe, would have loved to be in musicals. In this universe, I’ll just have to appreciate my niece Isabel and her amazing talent as an actor.
Finished off my workout with a short run. I’m growing to like these quick, fast-feeling treadmill runs. No 6 feet of distance needed! As much as I enjoy them occasionally, I hope we don’t get to a point where we can’t go outside and this is the only way I can run.
Right now, I’m working on creating an unabridged list of writing experiments (tried or to be tried), inspired by my runs beside the gorge. I’ve thought of turning some of them into an autobiographical poem. This poem is very different from what I imagine writing, but it’s helpful as an example–and so powerful.
Write about walking into the building as a new teacher. Write yourself hopeful. Write a row of empty desks. Write the face of a student you’ve almost forgotten; he’s worn a Derek Jeter jersey all year. Do not conjecture about the adults he goes home to, or the place he calls home. Write about how he came to you for help each October morning his sophomore year. Write about teaching Othello to him; write Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven. Write about reading his obituary five years after he graduated. Write a poem containing the words “common” “core,” “differentiate,” and “overdose.” Write the names of the ones you will never forget: “Jenna,” “Tiberious,” “Heaven,” “Megan,” “Tanya,” “Kingsley” “Ashley,” “David.” Write Mari with “Nobody’s Baby” tattooed in cursive on her neck, spitting sixteen bars in the backrow, as little white Mike beatboxed “Candy Shop” and the whole class exploded. Write about Zuly and Nely, sisters from Guatemala, upon whom a thousand strange new English words rained down on like hail each period, and who wrote the story of their long journey on la bestia through Mexico, for you, in handwriting made heavy by the aquís and ayers ached in their knuckles, hidden by their smiles. Write an ode to loose-leaf. Write elegies on the nub nose of a pink eraser. Carve your devotion from a no. 2 pencil. Write the uncounted hours you spent fretting about the ones who cursed you out for keeping order, who slammed classroom doors, who screamed “you are not my father,” whose pain unraveled and broke you, whose pain you knew. Write how all this added up to a life.
bike: 20 minutes bike stand, basement run: 1.4 miles treadmill, basement 169 confirmed cases of COVID-19, 1 death
It’s windy out there today. 20 mph wind. Plus, it’s Sunday so I imagine there are a lot more people on the trails. Decided to bike and run in the basement. Started the Joan Didion netflix documentary, “The center will not hold” while I biked. An interesting thing I learned: Didion’s family was part of the Donner Party but didn’t follow them when they made a wrong turn heading south. I read an excellent book about the Donner Party a few years ago (The Best Land Under Heaven) and remember reading about that moment when the party had to decide which way to go, and chose incorrectly. Listened to my playlist, Sara 2020, while I ran. Very glad we bought a treadmill last year.
I took Delia on a walk earlier today. It was quiet and windy and not too crowded. I don’t remember feeling the wind that much, but I could hear it rolling over my head. It wasn’t loud. No shrieks or howls or moans. But it was intense. A sudden rush of sibilance—-sssssssshhhhhhhhhsssssshhhhhhh. A crash without the boom. I encountered a few people, but we all managed to avoid getting too close. Reaching Edmund Bvld, just across from the river parkway, I heard and then saw 3 runners spread across the bike path. Talking so loudly! It’s amazing how one voice can spoil the silence. I can tell that I am going to have to try even harder to see the best in people. It’s too easy to be scared and irritated by noisy people who take up too much space and don’t seem to care about their impact on others. I want to focus on the people who pay attention and keep their distance–more of them exist, I believe.
Decided to cast a spell on the scary, awful word, pandemic. So I wrote it across the top of my notebook and listed as many words as I could think of using the letters p, a, n, d, e, m, i, c. Then I put some of the words together in little lines. My lines need more work before they become a poem, but here a few fun ones:
P A N D E M I C
A dime a dance
Nice denim!
Ma and Pa made camp pined-in
end pain ice mice
Am I amped?
I am in Pac-Man pain
Damn, I can dance
Mince mead
A mad maid made ade
Me, panic?
End a nap, mend a cap Cap a pen, ape amen
A pea, a pan A man named Dan
Not sure if anything will come out of this wordplay, but it’s fun and pandemic doesn’t seem quite as scary as it did before.