6/23/09-
My life has been reduced to a single point. It is a point of balance, where, reared on the balls of my feet, shoes just tied and ready to take that first step, I exist for a single second between two worlds. One world before running; that from the point of waking everything is merely preparation for running. The other after that first step and quelled storm of worries, less a series of events and more a flow of released life and a stream of inhaled and exhaled breath. My quiet celebration.
I run and that has made all the difference. I leave at night, just as the sun fades from this world, but before the stars shine in glory. My first few steps go past an opening in the the endless pattern of houses. Through that gap I see the city and through the city I see the dark alleys and streets; the veins of some huge, slumbering beast. My legs have grown solid and I run all night, coming in as the sun peaks out over the horizon. And its glorious, to see downtown grow in my mind. Its like an organic animal, evolved from choices of survival and inhabited by creatures seeking also the music of the night.
I feel more at peace now. More defined by drops of sweat I leave on the pavement than any opinion, material object or relationship I ever had in the light of day. The echoes of my feet or some long-off shout are the only sounds. Sometimes I run out to the very edge of the piers that line the water-front. I go and crouch on the edge of the wood. Water laps at the barnacle-eaten posts underneath, invisible in the night. I often take a few minutes of rest and look out at the few lights shining on the black hills across the water. I was there and now I`m here, a seemingly profound statement, but only so now, at this moment.
7/14/09-
This running is taking over the light of my day. The world of bright color is now pleasant and endurable but holds little interest in comparison with my nightly tests of running. And it is truly a test. Every night a definite challenge to return home to my wife, work and the unneeded routine. Someday, and I fear I am very serious, I will reach the crossroads to my house and stop, stare down that stretch of cement and turn outward, headed for the far horizon and an unexplored road. I met another runner, a woman who has joined my excursions in the same manner, desperately seeking an avenue for some consuming energy. We have become united in the passion of blowing wind, ragged gasps of air and the silence of an empty street. I now know there are others out there of a similar nature, that our group will grow in time. And the question keeps coming, "What if we kept running? Where would it lead?"
8/4/09-
Tonight I packed a few changes of clothes, money and this notebook into a running backpack. My shoes sit next to me, beckoning of the open road. I can`t think beyond leaving this house, I don`t know where the road will lead tonight. But its just such a brimming sensation I feel, that tonight I`ll reach those crossroads and not be able to run back to this house, that the pale light of dawn will shine down on an untrodden path. So I packed and so I kissed my sleeping wife lightly, the last time and sit here at my desk. Its growing darker and a cool wind blows through an open window, bringing scents of the ocean and the final remnants of summer. Its the forerunner of the unknown and it calls stronger than I`ve ever known.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Forever Running pt. 1
5/16/09-
I am so tired. A long day made hellish by a commute entrapped between endless lines of steel. The beautiful morning sun rendered ugly by its glint on hundreds of cars that never change. The glow of a fading, golden sky ruined by stop and go traffic, the red lights turning into a flowing blood-red river in front of my bleary eyes. I curse the noise and pollution of the city after leaving the quiet morning peace of my suburban home. I curse the desolate emptiness and flickering screens of televisions on the row after row of sunken, slumped residential houses. And god! tonight I sat in my car, the interior silent except for the eternal ticking of the cooling engine, ticking louder and louder, punctuating a wasted life, time hissing away into the dark. I was afraid. Afraid to go in to my wife and her world of repetitive madness. Afraid to start the car and drive off into the night, somewhere far away, but where? I was lost and afraid, mad at myself for being mad at the world. All I could do was think of lies to tell my waiting wife, pleasantries and lies about work. Lies to cover up the drowning sensation I feel in the office, lies to hide the shadows slithering over my heart at the thoughts of another day of meaningless forms and lines of code. What can I do? Sleep just holds dreams of further disappointment.......
The wind from the open window feels so good. It speaks to me of land beyond horizons and sights to breathe in. Maybe Ill go for a run.
6/3/09-
Damn! I have discovered a new world since last I wrote. I can feel the trapped despair underneath those words and see the frantic energy that was looking for an escape. Well I found it! That night I put on my Nikes and set out through the ghostly-silent side streets of West Seattle. The only goal in my head was loosing the black emotion for a few miles. In the time others were burying themselves in warm pillows and lover`s dreams I hit the open beach of Alki and the cold winds of coastal Washington. There was such a loneliness in those moments, a loneliness born of failure. Failure to find any real connection in the waking world. I saw then that the moon had risen out over the water, its light jumping over the waves in time with the bobbing lope of my stride. The streets of the great city shown powerfully through the inky darkness and suddenly I felt centered, connected. A connection to the simple exertion of running and the bright pinpoints of lights off through the night that spoke of life elsewhere in the world. It blew away the isolation of the past few years and provided a new state of mind awash with a picture of the night environment and the excitement it held for me. I ran deep and I ran strong, finding a well of energy that had lain dormant for many years. I returned to my house well after midnight and slept free of any pursuing dreams.
I am so tired. A long day made hellish by a commute entrapped between endless lines of steel. The beautiful morning sun rendered ugly by its glint on hundreds of cars that never change. The glow of a fading, golden sky ruined by stop and go traffic, the red lights turning into a flowing blood-red river in front of my bleary eyes. I curse the noise and pollution of the city after leaving the quiet morning peace of my suburban home. I curse the desolate emptiness and flickering screens of televisions on the row after row of sunken, slumped residential houses. And god! tonight I sat in my car, the interior silent except for the eternal ticking of the cooling engine, ticking louder and louder, punctuating a wasted life, time hissing away into the dark. I was afraid. Afraid to go in to my wife and her world of repetitive madness. Afraid to start the car and drive off into the night, somewhere far away, but where? I was lost and afraid, mad at myself for being mad at the world. All I could do was think of lies to tell my waiting wife, pleasantries and lies about work. Lies to cover up the drowning sensation I feel in the office, lies to hide the shadows slithering over my heart at the thoughts of another day of meaningless forms and lines of code. What can I do? Sleep just holds dreams of further disappointment.......
The wind from the open window feels so good. It speaks to me of land beyond horizons and sights to breathe in. Maybe Ill go for a run.
6/3/09-
Damn! I have discovered a new world since last I wrote. I can feel the trapped despair underneath those words and see the frantic energy that was looking for an escape. Well I found it! That night I put on my Nikes and set out through the ghostly-silent side streets of West Seattle. The only goal in my head was loosing the black emotion for a few miles. In the time others were burying themselves in warm pillows and lover`s dreams I hit the open beach of Alki and the cold winds of coastal Washington. There was such a loneliness in those moments, a loneliness born of failure. Failure to find any real connection in the waking world. I saw then that the moon had risen out over the water, its light jumping over the waves in time with the bobbing lope of my stride. The streets of the great city shown powerfully through the inky darkness and suddenly I felt centered, connected. A connection to the simple exertion of running and the bright pinpoints of lights off through the night that spoke of life elsewhere in the world. It blew away the isolation of the past few years and provided a new state of mind awash with a picture of the night environment and the excitement it held for me. I ran deep and I ran strong, finding a well of energy that had lain dormant for many years. I returned to my house well after midnight and slept free of any pursuing dreams.
Bouncing thoughts inside Seattle Art Museum
The bare halls echoed with the footfalls of the many volunteers of the morning, all spreading outward through the museum. Benches were set up, pamphlets laid out and videos started. We all wore blue dress shirts and black pants, the uniform of allegiance to art, caretakers of knowledge and information. It was 10 min to eight, a small space of time before being inundated by throngs of people. They would come to poke and prod, confident in their classification of art. Men and women dragging small children in front of presences of grand ideas, hoping the wisdom of the ages would prick through layers of mucus plastered on by all their differing loyalties. What chance does art have with young minds already fiercely fought over by school, television, homework, social activities and a thousand branching day-dreams of a healthy youth?
Sometimes I see a child, separated from their parents, standing, silently staring up at some master-piece. Their fingers clasped in rapt attention and body rigid with concentration. I can see the questions the child has, motes of light dancing within the white orbs of their eyes. Yet, their faces are wrinkled with the frustration at the attempts to form these questions on her lips. I want to go to that child and stop time, unravel the curious and uncertain questions that halt all the thinking in her mind. Its so precious and fragile, these moments in a child`s life. She can learn that some feelings and emotions can never be properly found. Or, with the wisdom of someone older, see the possibilities in those strong urgings and learn the value of patience in explaining them.
There is a statue in the left wing that I often wander by, recessed in a corner and easily dismissed by roving eyes. I come often when the crowds thin to stare into the marble eyes or embrace with my sight the subtly crafted contours of its cheeks and temples. This statue is what drives me to lead children`s school trips or volunteer to assist those small people that stand bewildered with questioning eyes. You see the statue in question is a small girl, about 5-8 yrs old, the daughter of some noble parentage.
The longer I stare at it during my borrowed time the more I see into the depths of the artist`s passion of creation that resulted in this vision of youth. It was not the idealized or romanticized version of childhood painted with the all too-confident brush of adulthood. It was also not a simplistic, cute depiction of the beauty of youth untouched by the troubles of burgeoning womanhood or even being on the cusp of awareness of a larger, more formalized world. A pure gaze held forth from the eyes that seemed to see the world free of guilt and unburdened by any religious filters or the patch work mesh of re-written history. It was very characteristic of that infuriating answer of children to any adult`s question; "Why? Because." The pose of her mouth and jutting taunt temples brought to mind the unapologetic attitude of children before we attach the word stubborn upon them. Forgiveness seems a foreign concept, selfishness not yet learned. When I close my eyes in the time after work, sitting on the bus bound for home or in a coffee house, face pressed to the glass watching the fain fall, I see a symbol of that statue. It is a confident face reaching out with a muscular hand to grasp the world in a firm hold. Not a sign of domination but complete control over each of our own worlds.
This is the influence of art and the reason I volunteer to help shine the light of wisdom upon it. Each day I hope to reach just one person. To help them realize the complex machinations hidden within these simple objects. And so I will walk over towards any child that is drawn to something undefinable in the painting. That`s my art, my vocation, defining the intricate for the future creators of greatness. Just one step in the process.
Sometimes I see a child, separated from their parents, standing, silently staring up at some master-piece. Their fingers clasped in rapt attention and body rigid with concentration. I can see the questions the child has, motes of light dancing within the white orbs of their eyes. Yet, their faces are wrinkled with the frustration at the attempts to form these questions on her lips. I want to go to that child and stop time, unravel the curious and uncertain questions that halt all the thinking in her mind. Its so precious and fragile, these moments in a child`s life. She can learn that some feelings and emotions can never be properly found. Or, with the wisdom of someone older, see the possibilities in those strong urgings and learn the value of patience in explaining them.
There is a statue in the left wing that I often wander by, recessed in a corner and easily dismissed by roving eyes. I come often when the crowds thin to stare into the marble eyes or embrace with my sight the subtly crafted contours of its cheeks and temples. This statue is what drives me to lead children`s school trips or volunteer to assist those small people that stand bewildered with questioning eyes. You see the statue in question is a small girl, about 5-8 yrs old, the daughter of some noble parentage.
The longer I stare at it during my borrowed time the more I see into the depths of the artist`s passion of creation that resulted in this vision of youth. It was not the idealized or romanticized version of childhood painted with the all too-confident brush of adulthood. It was also not a simplistic, cute depiction of the beauty of youth untouched by the troubles of burgeoning womanhood or even being on the cusp of awareness of a larger, more formalized world. A pure gaze held forth from the eyes that seemed to see the world free of guilt and unburdened by any religious filters or the patch work mesh of re-written history. It was very characteristic of that infuriating answer of children to any adult`s question; "Why? Because." The pose of her mouth and jutting taunt temples brought to mind the unapologetic attitude of children before we attach the word stubborn upon them. Forgiveness seems a foreign concept, selfishness not yet learned. When I close my eyes in the time after work, sitting on the bus bound for home or in a coffee house, face pressed to the glass watching the fain fall, I see a symbol of that statue. It is a confident face reaching out with a muscular hand to grasp the world in a firm hold. Not a sign of domination but complete control over each of our own worlds.
This is the influence of art and the reason I volunteer to help shine the light of wisdom upon it. Each day I hope to reach just one person. To help them realize the complex machinations hidden within these simple objects. And so I will walk over towards any child that is drawn to something undefinable in the painting. That`s my art, my vocation, defining the intricate for the future creators of greatness. Just one step in the process.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
