Overdressed. Didn’t need the tights under the shorts or the long-sleeved shirt under the sweat shirt. Made the run a little more difficult. Still, a good run on a beautiful fall morning. Lots of yellow today. Very fall-y.
10 Things
St. Thomas bells chiming
I could see my breath at the beginning of the run
the light making the yellow leaves glow
at least 4, maybe 5, stones stacked on the ancient boulder
a biker calling out to me as I ran on the St. Paul side, good job! —Thanks!
looking down at the river from up on the lake street bridge: a sandbar! I’ve read about the sandbars, and thought I saw one just below the surface, but today, there it was, fully exposed
an inviting bench, perched above the gorge with an open view
almost perfect moment: looking down at the water falling over the limestone ledge, sparkling in the sun, murmuring softly, framed by yellow leaves
a west bound lane on the ford bridge closed off for construction, orange cones everywhere
running up to the “edge of the world,” and stopping to admire the open view
I stopped on the bridge to take a picture of the sandbar:
a sandbar in the Mississippi River below the lake street bridge
3.6 miles locks and dam no. 1 hill 51 degrees wind: 13 mph
My knees were sore last night and this morning and I wondered if I should go out for a run, but it’s supposed to rain later today and all of tomorrow, and I read an article that said sometimes running on sore legs is better than not running, so I ran. And I’m glad I did. My legs/knees feel better after than they did before.
Felt windier than 13 mph. It almost knocked my cap off.
I listened to beeping trucks and chainsaws and rushing wind as I ran south. When I got to the top of the hill at the locks and dam no 1 I stopped and put in a Bruno Mars playlist.
10 Things
the dirt on the boulevard was sometimes dark brown, sometimes light brown
more trees without leaves — have we passed peak leaf season?
a parks’ truck blocking the entrance to the overlook and the winchell trail — no winchell trail for me today
running up the hill, the sun came out briefly from behind the clouds, just enough for me to see the faint outline of my shadow. Hello friend!
more crunching leaves in the grass — brittle, brown, formed into little mounds by the wind
a rough trunk with lichen growing on it — on the north side — a faint, yellowish green
several different versions of green on the tree trunk and the grass
walking past a giant rectangular hole in the street — the spot where they busted open the street to work on the water pipes. Minutes before, workers had filled it with warm, bitter smelling tar (or asphalt?) Heat was coming off the filled hole, warming my legs
a falling red leaf hit me on the shoulder
color of the day: bright yellowish green. Not only was I wearing a shirt in that color, but I saw at least 3 other yellowish green shirts on a runner, a walker, and a biker
After staring at the yellowish greenish lichen, I took a picture of it:
a close-up of a tree with lichen on its north side
Ah, this fall weather! What a morning to be outside by the gorge. A little windier than I’d like, but wonderful. My legs felt a little stiff and sore, but I kept going and they got better. In the third mile, I started chanting triple berries. Just the same three again and again: strawberry blueberry raspberry strawberry blueberry raspberry. They helped me stay in a good rhythm.
10 Things
rowers on the river! 6 or 8 in one shell
the river was blue heading east, brown on the return trip west
either wind or water through the trees, making a shimmering sound
still so much green everywhere
2 different bikes blasting music that I couldn’t quite identify
click clack click clack — a roller skier passing me as we neared the lake street bridge
a minute later, a rollerblader approaching from the north, heading south
flowers in the pipe sticking out of the trestle railing that’s been turned into a vase — a memorial for someone
a man using a DIY walker/runner — bike wheels, yellow frame (I think I’m remembering that right?)
the glitter effect: wind + sun + water = wow
My view facing south on the Lake Street bridge
No geese or fat tires or Daddy Long Legs. Also, no headphones. Listened to the wind, radios, conversations, my feet thudding on the ground.
I stopped at my favorite part of the tunnel of trees. Walking up the small hill, I noticed leaves gently falling from the trees, birds chirping, the light coming through the canopy. I decided to stop and take a short video:
at the end of my run, above the floodplain forest
Here’s how I see/hear this video: The view of a canopy of trees. Occasionally, a leaf stirs in the wind. All around this view, leaves were drifting down one at a time. If I put my face right up to the screen — nose touching — I can see that these trees are GREEN!, but with my face a foot away, the scene looks grayish brownish, with only the whisper of green. When recording this video, I mostly heard the birds and not the cars above me on the road. But watching the video I hear mostly the loud rushing of cars and some wind. The birds are very quiet.
The birds, both remembered from when I stood at the spot recording this video and heard in this clip, made me think of a wonderful bird poem I discovered yesterday:
Sudden dash of light in the corner of my eye, a soundless flash in hazy swathe of trees leaps stealthily from the small maple to the crabapple that has taken this year’s drought hard. My eyes bore into foliage. Is it a mynah? Dad, you taught me well how to look and listen. This is Michigan, and it’s probably a grackle, but I think of the crow pheasant (the coucal) I often watched in India, a wily master of camouflage. I remember the first
time I ever saw one close up. I was seven or maybe eight, sickly and bookish. While sitting in the shade of a sprawling gulmohar that dropped scarlet whorls of flowers on me, it darted from under the hibiscus. So graceful its arched tail, so fiery its beady eyes. I was reading some Enid Blyton novel about young girls in a boarding school in rainy England who ate scones and crumpets, and had
fabulous adventures. It was a hot afternoon as this avian beauty that normally threaded light woodland and field slipped into my grandaunt Lily’s garden. She was a famous doctor at Tata Hospital when few women stayed single and had careers. She drove a grey Standard Herald, and her frantic beeping of the horn sent her gardener’s sons rushing to throw open the low iron gates when she came home. Once, she gave me a nest a weaver bird had abandoned. It adorned my bedroom for years. She would tell me
about the trips she had taken when she was young. All over Europe, and yes, to the Isle of Capri—her favorite. All eyes, I would listen. Then she would sing “‘Twas on the Isle of Capri …” or play a Vera Lynn record. Did she have many lovers? I wanted to wear expensive Dhaka saris, high heels, smoke cigarettes (as I had seen her do at dinner parties sometimes), travel— be like her. Would I ever go anywhere? I who failed in math and science, hated bullies, hated school. My head sailed in the clouds. My brain, they told me, was for the birds. My handwriting a bird’s nest. My weak fingers would never grasp a pen properly, my legs never walk normally again. When would my flesh grow light, my bones breathe only air so I could fly? When the bird
appeared from nothing, shapes shifted, my book levitated. The bird floated, not walked. Did it even have feet? I felt my weight lift. Floating was as good as flying. It seemed not to see me, as if it were a peaceful spirit passing through. Strange girl, they said. A dreamer. Did I imagine it then? Hearing a creak of leaf and branch near my deck, the blur I saw earlier turns to flesh and blood—a gawky crow who arrows to the roof from the forsythia and caws shrilly. Curious juvenile, her glance is full of questions. Friend or foe? Food or death? I throw my head back, look up at her. She peers at me over the edge. I slip indoors for bread, then leave ripped bits on the railings. Where is she? She’s hiding somewhere, watching me
watch her. They emerge and melt, these wily beings— show a wingtip, glitter of eye, flick of tail. Leave me a feather to dream on, a map to follow. My mother and I fed them scraps everyday.They jostled each other on the ledge, fought for crumbs, always hung around our windows. Then disappeared into neem, peepul, or the banyan tree as big as a city. Did they wonder where we’d gone? Had they heard us weep? Had they pecked at the shuttered windows and silence? Wild fig seedlings now grow from cracked brick. A sudden woosh
of wing beats. Listen! The air throbs. Three trumpeters pass over me to land on the pond. I wave. This is where I live. And there and here and there. Crow, sparrow, finch, blue jay, nuthatch, chickadee, cardinal, mallard, cormorant, heron, geese, swan. They visit, feed and fade. Return. They know their own. I’m for the birds. I’m never alone.
I love how place — both India and Michigan — are so present in this poem. And I love the story she tells, about seeing a bird in India, being a misfit only for the birds, looking up to her grandaunt, and how she tells it. Also, I want to think some more about this line: All eyes, I would listen.
44 degrees is a wonderful temperature for running. Today I wore my black shorts, a dark blue short-sleeved shirt, an orange sweatshirt, and it was great. Not too cold, not too hot.
I heard the clicks and clacks of a roller skier poles. I smelled chemicals from a treated lawn. I felt the hard, bumpy dirt and the sharp shallow asphalt cracks under my feet. Did I taste anything? I saw the shimmering surface of the river.
I greeted Dave, the Daily Walker and several other walkers. A few mornings but mostly with a smile or a wave of my hand. So many kind, friendly people out there today!
I thought about the the ancient Greeks and how they use glitter as another way to understand, describe, organize color.
Glitter effect and material — scattering and textural effects resulting from the type of surface being observed.
Today (and yesterday in my backyard), I saw a lot of the glitter effect. Glittery leaves, fluttering in the wind — both on the trees and falling to the ground. Glittering water from sun and wind. Glittering shadows on the pavement: light through leaves moved by wind.
My favorite glitter moment was when I stopped to take my sweatshirt off at the bottom of the 38th street steps. Fairly high above the water, looking down through the leaves, I could see glittering, sparkling movement. Flash Flash Flash Flash — almost silver, but not quite. Bright. Maybe to someone with normal vision the river was blue, but to me it was glitter or shimmer or sparkle. I took a short video, and I think I can see the sparkling water, but it is much less bling-y than when I experienced it in person.
Ran the ford loop with Scott. Finally, it’s cooler. Much easier to run. We talked about a problematic NYTimes article that Scott had read earlier that was so sloppily edited that they spelled Gov Walz’s name wrong (as Waltz, I think). We also talked about the rowers on the river and the Brooks’ mile on the marathon course.
Mostly the run was easy. My IT band was acting up by the end and I rolled my ankle on something in the grass in the last mile.
Running over the lake street bridge I noticed a single shell on the water. Then more shells, some with only one rower, one with eight. Then buoys. A race! A few minutes later a woman overheard us wondering about it and told us it was a tournament. It was so quiet on the bridge that we were able to hear the oars slapping the water. They made such a delightfully awkward sound. Without sound, the rowers float effortlessly over the water. But when you can hear the oars you can feel the effort of their rowing. I like being able to hear them; they feel more real that way, more body, less machine.
10 Things
dark blue water. near the edges it looked almost black
the lamps lining the path on the st. paul side were on, the ones on the minneapolis side were not — the minneapolis have been stripped of wires and never repaired/replaced
rowers’ voices drifting up from the river near Shadow Falls
it started overcast, almost gray. by the time we were done, the sky was bright blue
a chipmunk darted in front of me, narrowly missing my foot
plenty of color on both sides of the river — yellow, red, orange
the ford bridge stretched in front of us, looking longer than it usually does
on both the lake street and ford bridges, a tiring wind blowing into us
a motor boat near the shore. I wondered if its wake would cause problems for the rowers
turkeys! 3 of them in someone’s yard on the st. paul side
Typed “oars” in the search box on Poetry Foundation and found this poem. I like the form and want to read the larger work — Emptied of all Ships — that it comes from:
Hooray for (slightly) cooler weather! And hooray for legs that let me go out to the gorge this morning! I love fall running, almost as much as winter running, but not quite. Today I was able to greet Dave, the Daily Walker and run a 5k without wanting to stop. It was windy. Not a helpful wind that pushes me along, but a frustrating wind that is always in my face.
No playlist today. Instead, I listened to the wind and a buzzing sound coming from somewhere below the lake street bridge.
10 Things
the slap of a runner’s feet as she ran past me
a bright circle of white light through the trees — the river
overheard: some of those hills are ____? Didn’t get to hear the ending
running north, it is still mostly green
encountered: a few runners, some bikers, walkers with and without dogs, a big stroller
one runner’s gait: smooth, strong, steady feet up and down up and down
another runner’s gait: jerky with flailing arms
and one more runner’s gait: fast with quick thuds as their feet pounded the pavement
a buzz below — was it a weed whacker? leaf blower? a much bigger machine?
the ravine between the 34th and 35th street parking lots is thick with green. Still no view of the black iron fence or the limestone ledge below it
the view above the ravine, between the 34th and 35th street parking lots
I don’t remember hearing any birds or dripping water or roller skier’s poles. No fat tires or radios or rowers. Only a quick view of the river. A few yellow leaves, some red. No orange.
4.4 miles longfellow gardens and back 64 degrees / 78% humidity
A little cooler, but still humid. More shorts and tank top. Decided to run past the falls to Longfellow Garden to check out the flowers. Oranges, reds, pinks, purples, yellows. Did the gray sky make the colors seem even more vibrant to me?
The falls were gushing, so was the creek. The sound of dripping water from the sewer mixed with the wind. Chainsaws echoed below me in the gorge as Minneapolis Parks workers removed dead branches and leaning trees.
Running on the part of the trail that dips below the road, between locks and dam no. 1 and the 44th street parking lot, I could smell the rotting leaves — the too sweet, stale smell of last night’s beer. Yuck! Did I smell anything else? Yes! The strong scent of burnt toast or burnt coffee beans or burnt something somewhere in the neighborhood. The soft, pleasing scent of the tall, fuzzy grass that Scott says smells like cilantro.
I listened to kids being dropped off for school as I ran south. At my favorite spot at the falls, I put in an old playlist. I took my headphones out again when I reached the Winchell Trail. Then I put them back in after I was done and walking home. I listened to a chapter about the benefits of being small in Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Gathering Moss.
Since I’m prepping for a week about fall color for my class, I tried to notice color on my run.
10 Things I Noticed: Color
there is still so much green. Everywhere, green. Not dark winter green, but light summer green
a few slashes of red on the edge of the trail, the bright red hair of a walker
orange cones, orange vests, orange signs, a past-its-prime orange tree, orange school bus, orange flowers sticking out above the other flowers
hot pink petals, still intact
flowers glowing such a light, almost white, purple that I imagined them to be ghost flowers
yellow safety vests on a long line of bikers crossing at the roundabout, backing up traffic
dry and dead brown leaves on the edge of the trail, covering the path
the dark blueish gray of crumbling asphalt
dark brown mud
white foam from the raging falls
While walking around the garden, I took a few pictures:
Longfellow Gardens, fall flowers in bright colors that I mostly cannot seeghost flowers at Longfellow Gardens
I love this description of what poetry is/could or should be:
Migration is derived from the word “migrate,” which is a verb defined by Merriam-Webster as “to move from one country, place, or locality to another.” Plot twist: migration never ends. My parents moved from Jalisco, México to Chicago in 1987. They were dislocated from México by capitalism, and they arrived in Chicago just in time to be dislocated by capitalism. Question: is migration possible if there is no “other” land to arrive in. My work: to imagine. My family started migrating in 1987 and they never stopped. I was born mid-migration. I’ve made my home in that motion. Let me try again: I tried to become American, but America is toxic. I tried to become Mexican, but México is toxic. My work: to do more than reproduce the toxic stories I inherited and learned. In other words: just because it is art doesn’t mean it is inherently nonviolent. My work: to write poems that make my people feel safe, seen, or otherwise loved. My work: to make my enemies feel afraid, angry, or otherwise ignored. My people: my people. My enemies: capitalism. Susan Sontag: “victims are interested in the representation of their own sufferings.” Remix: survivors are interested in the representation of their own survival. My work: survival. Question: Why poems? Answer:
the work of a poet: to imagine; to do more than reproduce toxic stories; to make your people feel safe, seen, loved; survival
Warm, again. More summer attire: shorts, orange tank top. Tomorrow it is supposed to be cooler.
Scott and I ran around Lake Nokomis together. Strange to be sweating so much while running over so many fallen leaves. Summer air, fall ground.
As we ran, we talked about the wet bulb temperature and the flag system for determining when a race should be cancelled.
10 Things
the little beach covered in honking geese
the low rumble of a plane flying overhead
cracked, uneven pavement
a fishy, lake-y smell near the dock
a wonderful view of the water from the small hill between the bridge and 50th
an empty, buoy-less swimming area
a memorial hanging from a fence with bouquets of flowers — was this for the girl who drowned in August?
watch out for the pumpkin guts on the path, they might be slippery!
a woman sitting on a bench, listening to the news on her phone, then a song with a driving beat that I suggested (to Scott) would be good to run to
blue water with small ripples, sparkling in spots from the sun
In September, I did my own variation on wordle, which I called birdle. The first word had to be a bird. This month it’s boo-dle or spooky wordle or something like that. The first word must be a spooky word. So far I’ve done: ghost, witch, ghoul
This poem was the poem-of-the-day on poems.com on Sunday:
Chance threads woven together in coordinated movement
I close my eyes and try to feel my blood pumping
Instead I feel you, walking miles, melting into hills and flowers
The simple power of circling a lake
You knew how to lose yourself, how to leave space
Walking to find a way to be whole
Bird song, leaves rustling
I fall into this moment, my atoms spun just so
This heartbeat is not mine alone
Two bodies walking
Two layers of sound in motion together, hundreds of years apart
Words stored deep in muscle-memory
Carried in hunger, in bruises
Reflected back by grass, branches, rocks
How do I get this voice out of me?
Love this poem. It makes me think of Thomas Gardner and his discussions in Poverty Creek Journal about running with the ghost of his dead brother. It also make me think of my early poem about running with my mom. And, the first lines — trees, light, weather, people — makes me think of Georges Perec and his attempt at exhausting a place by focusing on what happens when nothing happens — weather, people, cars, and clouds.
Reading Graeper’s bio, I found this very interesting bit:
Explorations of place—real, remembered, escaped, imagined—are at the core of his poems. Graeper created a site-specific, handmade Park Book series based on places like New York’s Central Park and Battery Park, which he distributed surreptitiously.
I did this too; I just didn’t distribute it to anyone. Maybe I should? First I need to record myself reading the poems and set up the audio tour.
