Why I Run pt. 1

This morning, I jogged down to the waterfront. As I pulled up at the end of the quay, the sun was a perfect circle flashing orange/purple/pink/yellow at random over and over as it climbed above the ships and warehouses and driving range nets. 

I reached out and plucked it from the middle horizon, popped it back like a pill, and washed it down with some water.

Then I crushed Crushed CRUSHED everything in my path for what seemed like forever but was really only about 20 minutes. I had to get to work. 

The Endorphins Talking?

In summer, you either get into the water or you don't. You can start anything and there's enough room to remake yourself amidst the tall grasses, wild flowers, the industrious and manifold birds. 

Sure, any day, all year, possibility is present, and I like to believe in that as much as the next person, or the person beside them, but if it's July 1 and you're not hustling in the service of some new regimen, embracing some novel perspective, or challenging yourself to break out of assumptions and into the far broader meadow of meaning, well, then. That's your business.

But it's well and truly summertime, and I am jogging. Or, I've gone jogging three times.

I've also decided I'll try not to think the worst of people, alive and dead, beloved and less-admired. 

I know I'll stumble, ache, grouse, and piss and moan. But the alternative --carrying on along the concrete walk, making all the right turns, never getting wet, never brushing against the seaweed, never spotting water-snakes, or getting a wave in the mouth, never panting, sweating, pounding the ground, not challenging routine or conditional thought, and never picking up and holding a mirror to complacency - is depressing, disheartening,  terrifying.

I must keep this handy.

Pillows

Luggage. Baggage.

I see it all, from the overnight bag to the space age 4-wheelers you can wheel up right beside you. Some people look like they've got a LOT. Two old suitcases, one on wheels, and a box taped shut. And a cloth shopping bag. And purse. Going to Windsor in an hour or so. For a long time? Forever?

More than anything, I love the sight of a person traveling with a pillow. Tucked under the arm. In inclement weather it might be jammed in a garbage or department store bag. But it's nicest exposed, tucked under. Or better, embraced, in front, by the two free arms of a backpack-wearer.

It's an ordinary object with an extraordinary task. Cushioning and caressing the head, the container of awareness, ostensible commander of our bodies, keeper of dreams, repository of tears, of smiles, of twinkling eyes, hopes, ideas, good deeds. Mistakes, lies, key plays, brave phrases, vulnerabilities encased in bone. Memory, ancestry. Our existence & our remains.

Carrying a pillow through the streets and into the station and onto the train is not just about getting this object from A to B. It's an act of intimacy, an admission of humanity, an expression of solidarity. A reminder of all the things I've been carrying and how I lay me down.

May 13 'round 6

Like a giant followspot fired up
& trained on the prostrate actor

A bedside lamp suddenly lit
by the one charged with awakening

The sun itself pulls me from sleep in the cradle of the train.

After a split-second of indignant 'whaaa-?'

The most beautiful truth is realized: I have been roused by nothing less than the rising sun itself.

I can drift back into slumber, let it illuminate the eyelids

Imagine a bed of foraged things
& light falling across the mouth of the cave.

Coolness

I'm not cool

never have been.

Often tried.

Never really pulled it off

& if I ever did, would I know?

What would be left?

I must think it's important

or else why feel so bereft?

Pigeons & Sausage

The pigeons have destroyed the bun.

But they can't make any headway on the sausage, with its tough casing and its trademark curve. It rocks and leaps and spins around from sidewalk to gutter as they peck and peck and peck.

Sometimes as many as ten of the grubby grey birds are going at it, with agitated, muffled cooing in their throats. The sounds escalate to an untoward hooting. Necks are strained. Most of them give up and walk away. A couple of believers carry on a while. Then a mob forms again. Still, the dessicated, dirty sausage writhes, uncompromised.

They can all smell victory; a breakfast to rival the best corn anyone's ever cast before them. If pigeons had saliva (do they?) it would be dragging in globs from their bills. But they just can't tear the casing, taste the spices, can't catch a break.

If one of them gets a foot on it, holds it down, then everybody eats.

It becomes the stuff of pigeon lore, passed down through generations:

The wondrous spark in one bird's brain, a proud, firm stance, chest puffed out, knee bent, gaze fixed on the horizon, talon gripping the ragged meat, the whole family, cousins and cousins once removed, all feasting. The missing link.

When The Train Pulls Up

To the deserted station

In the dark

There are so few of us I recognize everyone

Like the guy standing RIGHT on the EDGE of the platform

Right on the yellow line!

He turns his back when the train comes

Pushing air ahead of it

And he takes the brunt of the gust

In all weather. I don't know why!

Most of the time I'm just worried he'll cough wrong and fall so I don't really look.

But today I just didn't think of it - what am I, his Dad? No.

I just stared at him

Had room to re-realize: we are immersed in fluid.

Standing in a sea of air

That goes in and out, sustains, inflates.

Our stories, conflicts, concerns, calculations, insults, embraces, all float around in it.

We are in a great container full of it.

We forget all the time.