Last night's run would fit in among all the strange dreams -- the ducks and the killer whale, softly languishing in the Charles River. The fire in the trees that raced toward Shen. Myself as someone else, standing in the middle of the uneasy ocean, at the end of a pier two miles long but an unnerving eleven inches wide.
Last night there was open water with jagged icy edges, ground that gave way, clawed tree branches that sought one's eyes out of the dark... but it was all real. Maybe sometimes what we really need is for the environment to take us by the eyeballs and put us out onto the ice, where all the stars can see who we really are.
Hi, my name is Unstrung and I have 753 facebook friends. There is only one who wants to run with me at 9:37pm on a weeknight through the icy forest and field, to explore new trails, to face potential wildlife and uncertainties of terrain and environment. I cannot imagine stating a number of miles that I might wish to run that would not at least get a, "Well, let's see how far we make it," if not a downright, "I'm game if you are." This is the wonder of Scout.
On the way to Scoutland after a long-late class, in my trusty car that now goes clunk, I stumbled upon a radio station playing some really decent jazz. I listened for a while, guarded, expecting it would be bad. I was wrong - my jazz-ears came rushing back and I was happily immersed in form and phrasing, transcribing what little is allowed by my current atrophic level of perception.
The art of truly listening, globally, to a piece, while also truly understanding it -- being able to listen and know what it's doing artistically and technically, to hear the logic through which the current is being expressed, the context, the route chosen by the droplet that is the improviser -- is indeed a perishable skill. Mine is the most feeble flicker now, it seems, but it can still, for a moment, when fed, roar to life before it dies back down.
I thought about how that was for a time, what sustained me. It was a gift to be reminded as I trundled up the Way of Mockingbird and gathered my spikes, my gps, my fleece layers, and my motivation to exist a little longer yet. Apparently it still does, in part.
The skunk was already leaving by the time we saw her. Orion looked farther away. The sky always glows a bloodied amber to the west. This morning, this afternoon, it can't seem to get up out of the pastels. I'm glad we are unable to medicate the sun when it does not, in our assessment, rise and set correctly.
Do bats hibernate? Why does one person get squashed by a propane truck and not another?