Runner's Log - Star(t) date NOW...ish

I work at a bakery.  A pretty amazing bakery.  Which means there's loads of tempting goodies persistently at my gustatory disposal.  And when people come in and ask me how I stay "so thin," I smile politely and try to change the subject.  Sometimes I attempt to alleviate myself from tripping down the path of exchanging discounted objections, vacuous niceties, and awkward remarks about lucky genetics or self-control (because, frankly, I don't know how either of those things work) and simply offer up the innocuously reasonable explanation that I run.  I am a runner.  Kind of.

I cringe a little bit any time I end up ascribing a designation to myself that implies both action and practice.  Reader, writer, bass player, songwriter, and artist.........-er, among other categories that mangle the suffix pattern, are things that I would say I have a passion for and engage actively in.  But even for my most favorite pursuits the drive comes in fits and spurts, and it should be noted that running is certainly not something I'm passionate about - at least not in any way that I have control over.  It is something I do because somehow my drive to avoid spending summer days piled on my couch in front of a never-ending wellspring of Dr. Who episodes (grievances with Netflix and Stephen Moffat to be filed at a later date) morphed into a determination that carried me far beyond my usual two week "just a phase" lifespan and past the guilt ridden point of no return.

I decided to start running a little less than a year ago after I spent a month bushwhacking my way up and down dusty desert mountains, lecturing myself on the benefits of being in shape, especially for the oh-so-common occasion when a humanities student finds herself on an archaeological survey.  I figured the best way to ensure that I of little willpower would stick to the plan (a term I use very loosely) would be to start small - an obstacle that has been the constant, bore-inducing stumbling block of any undertaking that becomes the hot focus of my obsessive little brain.  But starting small meant that all of that pent up tendency toward excess had to come out somewhere, this time in the form of preparation.  I did days of research, studying endless articles on training plans and proper stretching, mental conditioning, form, and diet, sifting through tired rants about ill-kept municipal trails and inconsiderate road-sharers, and learning about beneficial properties of man-made materials that wicked moisture from places I didn't want to think about.

I created a web of crutches, engaging a ritual of tracking and interval apps, playlists, stretch routines, and digestive coordination that would surely make it impossible for me to get out the door.  But somehow, in spite of myself, I managed to not only hit the pavement, but do it repeatedly, day after day marking my progress, getting faster and going farther, and feeling that my usual inclinations toward great meals, great booze, and great relaxation, for once, had been earned.  Part of me felt really great about myself... although the louder part of me hated every second of it.  I battled with increasing contempt the rules that were popping up all around me: You can't go for another two hours until you're properly fueled up and hydrated; You've waited too long and now it's too hot; You don't have time to run the fully scheduled distance for today; My app doesn't function properly, how am I going to time my splits?  the likes of which would send me into a time consuming tailspin of anguished analysis before finally concluding that it would be best to skip it and punish myself with double-duty or deprivation of some gloriously calorie-laden reward (Oh, I didn't go running today... I'd better not).  Periodically, that contemptuous side of me would win and I would quit running altogether just to ensure myself that my increasing self-confidence was not purely dependent on upon my daily workout, that I was not becoming that woman.

I hate running.  Nine months of this cyclical start and stop, physical and mental bludgeoning in pursuit of self-betterment has taught me that. But my better, non-guilt-driven side feels there's something inherently good about the potential of all of this, so I want to like it, or at least be at ease with it.  So I've decided to start over, start small for real.  No goals, no playlists, no apps, no schedule restrictions, no judgement, no punishment.  Just me and my two legs.  We'll see how it goes.

due diligence (typetrigger response)

I think you owe me something. 
It's a small thing, I mean, it's not a no 
                                                                  thing 
But not a big thing.  At least not 
compared to how long things can go 
                                                                on 
                                                                     and           on 
           and it's not like the time you borrowed fifty bucks from your cousin Serena and she wrote it down in her green book of things she liked to keep record of to stay sharp so that she could brandish it in an argument five years later after she insisted that the favor need not be returned. 
                     With compounded interest, 
                     you owe her a high season trip to the Ice Hotel 
                                                            and apparently a new cat. 
                                                                                   A tabby one. 
It is much smaller, 
this deficit between us. 
                                                      In fact, 
your coverage need not be repayed in currency 
                                                                                       or service, 
(though it should be known that I would not deny the former)
                            but a word is all, 
              just a word. 
One word


http://typetrigger.com/trigger/due%20diligence

nameless (typetrigger response)

Soulless? Voiceless? Loveless? Brainless?  Not so much business in loss is Nameless.  It's a burden as manageable as a bottle without a label or a product without a logo.  The contents is still present and can, without extreme effort, be deduced by a modestly motivated consumer - motivation, of course, hinging on the degree to which said consumer is observant and industrious enough to read..... 
                       ......on second thought, I'd like to trade for the baggage marked "Brainless," please.


http://typetrigger.com/trigger/nameless

Lost on Memory Lane

This piece is a response to an assignment to write a poem recognizing a famous person who influences me. I wrote it in two forms, the words are exactly the same, but the forms are different. I like the rhyming and lyrical resemblance of the traditional form, but it feels a little rigid and antiquated... so I added a free form version. (which do you like?)


v1.

It’s the first chord that every time wraps
around my ears and pierces my ribs,
pulsing my blood to the subtle thump
of metal strings succumbed to a plastic pick.

I watch your trembling voice, Mr. Smith,
bob lightly between concrete walls,
lapping at the patina of every life’s filth
to spatter the glut across the citied asphalt.

Mistaken, Mr. Misery, for the forsaken fool;
failure’s ghostly art, run through in shock
from this world. But in another twilight still
your vision, my Elliott, soars among storied rooftops.

Would that your hushed words could pull our hands,
awoken, in a waltz to the message of the sun. But no —
I’ll have to settle for now to stare at Lucy’s diamonds
alone from your basement on the hill. XO

v2.

It’s the first chord that,
every time, wraps around my ears and
pierces my ribs, pulsing my blood to the subtle thump of metal strings succumbed to a plastic pick.

I watch your trembling voice, Mr. Smith,
bob lightly between concrete walls,
lapping at the patina of every life’s filth to spatter the glut across the citied asphalt.

Mistaken, Mr. Misery, for the forsaken fool;
failure’s ghostly art, run through in shock from this world. But in another twilight still your vision, my Elliott, soars among storied rooftops.

Would that your hushed words could pull our hands, awoken,
in a waltz to the message of the sun. But no — I’ll have to settle for now to stare at Lucy’s diamonds
alone from your basement on the hill.
XO

Literary journal entry -- NEED FEEDBACK PLEASE!

My class is putting together a literary journal, and I was thinking of submitting this.  I won't be able to workshop this, so I need critical feedback please!

(grace.)

The signs were simple

the yellow envelope an easy miss

among the fallen autumn leaves, 

                       I wasn’t sure at first 

                      but you move every month like clockwork                            

                      when the sweeper comes.

a waiting companion

unnoticed in her silent patience,

ever faithful that the bowl would be filled. 

                     She depended on you, 

                     but never barked demands

                     of your tired old bones.

A missed encounter

caused little worry,

                          They waited there by the third bench, 

                          just like every other time.

except in concert with a broken routine.

                      That day something was wrong.

Somehow you knew, even still, you were afraid to ask,      

afraid to disturb the solitude.

                   Alert piqued my instincts,

                  but I was sure I was imagining things, .

You knew the wall I built.

                               so I waited.

Not brick for brick, 

                                I never knew the things you loved,

not post for post,

                            or even if you had a family, 

but somehow my history imprinted on you, 

split through the wire diamonds between us.

                                    yet the pleasantries exchanged over the fence

                                    revealed more than what you thought I could see.

Not just this time, 

but always,

and especially this time 

you knew.  Somehow you knew.

I heard you climb the crumbled concrete

not once, but three times,

each step echoing the rap against the hollow door.

                       At first, it was a formality,

                       just to appease my conscience.

                      It was the silence that triggered the alarm.

I heard you call my name

from the red encrusted carpet,

                         I announced our presence at first approach,

                        then again through the darkened window.

I heard you call.

                           I repeated your name,

I had no voice,

                         but you didn’t answer.

but I heard you call.

                         You didn’t answer.

And then grace brought you through to me

to kneel by my side,

to speak the words through stagnant air.

                               The back door, it was open,

                               and I saw you lying there.

                               The actions were born from instinct.

They floated easily,

like a script rehearsed,

soothing in predictability.

                        We’ll take care of this, 

                        please don’t worry.

                       There’s no need to be afraid.

To speak the words,

                                 Everything’s going to be okay.

the last I heard before the time expired.

                             I promise.   

Exercises in scaffolding (1)

The following poems (exercises 1 and 2) were written as part of practice in scaffolding.  The imagery, rhythm and mood of the original are dissected line by line and reflected in a rewrite with a twist on subject and/or theme.

The first poem is my piece, the second is the original inspiration.

Fragmentsville (after Billy Collins: Schoolsville)

Glancing over my shoulder at the past,

I realize the number of projects I’ve left undone

could fill a thousand planner’s days.

I can see them lurking in dusty corners,

half-sung melodies thickening the air

for gesturing figures suspended in step.

The would-be works inch meekly toward the half-light

in the hopes of being noticed,

each one for its initial glory, 

earning a line and coveted check on the page.

Once in a while, the spotlight illuminates

a listless plot line,

promising to straighten its hunched hero,

to reanimate its tender theme.

But time is impatient, the weary scribe

moreso, and the story is cast back

to amend the shadows once more.

Schoolsville 

Billy Collins

Glancing over my shoulder at the past,
I realize the number of students I have taught
is enough to populate a small town.

I can see it nestled in a paper landscape,
chalk dust flurrying down in winter,
nights dark as a blackboard.

The population ages but never graduates.
On hot afternoons they sweat the final in the park
and when it's cold they shiver around stoves
reading disorganized essays out loud.
A bell rings on the hour and everybody zigzags
into the streets with their books.

I forgot all their last names first and their
first names last in alphabetical order.
But the boy who always had his hand up
is an alderman and owns the haberdashery.
The girl who signed her papers in lipstick
leans against the drugstore, smoking,
brushing her hair like a machine.

Their grades are sewn into their clothes
like references to Hawthorne.
The A's stroll along with other A's.
The D's honk whenever they pass another D.

All the creative-writing students recline
on the courthouse lawn and play the lute.
Wherever they go, they form a big circle.

Needless to say, I am the mayor.
I live in the white colonial at Maple and Main.
I rarely leave the house. The car deflates
in the driveway. Vines twirl around the porch swing.

Once in a while a student knocks on the door
with a term paper fifteen years late
or a question about Yeats or double-spacing.
And sometimes one will appear in a windowpane
to watch me lecturing the wallpaper,
quizzing the chandelier, reprimanding the air.

Exercises in scaffolding (2)

see scaffolding explanation in post (1)

Omens of an Affair 

(after James Tate: Consolations After an Affair)

My keys are rattling to one another:

whispering a secret leaked

by the borrowed key from his ring.

I have records in their sleeves

that think the song is still ours.

They know nothing of the broken, bygone player.

For them to be heard in memory

is gratification and needle enough.

My step awakens a creak in the floor,

a vulnerability worth noticing,

but I’m distracted by the fox 

creeping just beyond the window.

I am chilled by the static of unformed words,

haunted by this house of secrets.

Consolations After an Affair

James Tate

My plants are whispering to ona another:

they are planning a little party

later on in the week about watering time.

I have quilts on beds and walls

that think it is still the 19^th century.

They know nothing of automobiles and jet planes.

For them a wheat field in January

is their mother and enough.

I’ve discovered that I don’t need

a retirement plan, a plan to succeed.

A snow leopard sleeps beside me

like a slow, warm breeze.

And I can hear the inner birds singing

alone in this house I love.