Distance athletes thrive on monotony, struck by the subtle details that differentiate one run, one mile, one season from the next: how tired or fresh the body is, how a regular tree has turned in a so slightly new light, what color the river has churned that day, or how many cars ignore the crosswalk and fail to see the runner who is shorter than their SUV’s hood.
We watch the differences that are felt and seen. Until it snows, the thud of feet on pavement and hard ground drums, and bike tires hum or crunch, unnoticed.
With snow, the less-sound suddenly is evident, and becomes the next newness to explore.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Frozen sand
Before the summer drought, DC had summer floods. For the multi-use trail in Rock Creek Park, this meant the pavement was covered in several inches of thick mud. After a very messy week, the mud was plowed to the side and eventually dried into sand.
(Multi-use, by the way, means that all non-motorized people—plus, of course, the motorized police—can use the trail. In practice, this means that parents, convinced that their charming offspring are better when unrestrained, let toddlers dash suddenly in front of runners and that pet owners, equally convinced that their precious animals should not be put in anything more restrictive than a retractable leash, let the leash be pulled across the path—invisible to a cyclist, until just too late. And people wonder why I prefer to run when it is really cold or really hot: fewer pet owners, and very few parents.)
I run on the dirt by the asphalt trail as much as possible, both for the health of my knees and to avoid the parents and pet owners. During the summer drought, this meant slogging through tiring sections of deep, loose sand. As the rains came, the sand compacted somewhat, but was still soft and shifting.
Today, it was frozen, and the echoing thud of my feet startled me. This was pure cold.
I have always found something comforting in the elemental. Even if the element itself is unpleasant, as the depth of cold that results in frozen sand is. When you confront something that actually and unarguably is—something which cannot be disputed or ignored or overcome—the solid factness is reassuring. Existing outside ourselves, it cannot be reduced by our own equation.
(Multi-use, by the way, means that all non-motorized people—plus, of course, the motorized police—can use the trail. In practice, this means that parents, convinced that their charming offspring are better when unrestrained, let toddlers dash suddenly in front of runners and that pet owners, equally convinced that their precious animals should not be put in anything more restrictive than a retractable leash, let the leash be pulled across the path—invisible to a cyclist, until just too late. And people wonder why I prefer to run when it is really cold or really hot: fewer pet owners, and very few parents.)
I run on the dirt by the asphalt trail as much as possible, both for the health of my knees and to avoid the parents and pet owners. During the summer drought, this meant slogging through tiring sections of deep, loose sand. As the rains came, the sand compacted somewhat, but was still soft and shifting.
Today, it was frozen, and the echoing thud of my feet startled me. This was pure cold.
I have always found something comforting in the elemental. Even if the element itself is unpleasant, as the depth of cold that results in frozen sand is. When you confront something that actually and unarguably is—something which cannot be disputed or ignored or overcome—the solid factness is reassuring. Existing outside ourselves, it cannot be reduced by our own equation.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Rhinestones
It is no surprise that three of the five members of the Ralph Stanley band sport clothing fresh from the bedazzler: rhinestones are an essential component of the country music wardrobe.
Ralph wore his moderate glitter with security: a mere twenty or so stones—small and uncolored—tastefully arranged around the buttons and collar of his burgundy shirt. Paired with a stiff, pressed grey suit, his clothes exuded the perfect combination of classy and Partonesque.
His grandson—a fleshy 18-year old with a square face, lank hair, and a habit of forgetting to hitch up his jaw so he resembled a fish on ice—wore the same burgundy shirt, but covered it with a black velvet jacket, densely crusted with glass bits. Nathan Stanley glinted thickly in the dark as he moved towards the stage. When he leaned into a faster strum, his fingers shifting to the fourth chord he had mastered, the stage lights set off an ecstatic, multicolored sparkle. When he planted himself at the microphone for a sadder song, the rhinestones flickered earnestly.
He did not—accustomed to hearing applause from childhood, he hadn’t yet confronted his mediocrity as a singer or musician, or wondered if he could legitimately tag after his grandfather’s name.
The man on the upright, self-effacing as most bassists, had permitted himself only one piece of glass. The solitary rhinestone in his tie glowed from his belly, tellytubbyesque.
What store sells the subtle rhinestone tie?
Ralph wore his moderate glitter with security: a mere twenty or so stones—small and uncolored—tastefully arranged around the buttons and collar of his burgundy shirt. Paired with a stiff, pressed grey suit, his clothes exuded the perfect combination of classy and Partonesque.
His grandson—a fleshy 18-year old with a square face, lank hair, and a habit of forgetting to hitch up his jaw so he resembled a fish on ice—wore the same burgundy shirt, but covered it with a black velvet jacket, densely crusted with glass bits. Nathan Stanley glinted thickly in the dark as he moved towards the stage. When he leaned into a faster strum, his fingers shifting to the fourth chord he had mastered, the stage lights set off an ecstatic, multicolored sparkle. When he planted himself at the microphone for a sadder song, the rhinestones flickered earnestly.
He did not—accustomed to hearing applause from childhood, he hadn’t yet confronted his mediocrity as a singer or musician, or wondered if he could legitimately tag after his grandfather’s name.
The man on the upright, self-effacing as most bassists, had permitted himself only one piece of glass. The solitary rhinestone in his tie glowed from his belly, tellytubbyesque.
What store sells the subtle rhinestone tie?
Return
I have had a couple of requests to revive this effort, initially abandoned for several reasons. For one, moving from zero mechanical knowledge to professional bicycle mechanic absorbed most of my free brain this past year. Also, it’s been a pretty wild year, and I haven’t had much free brain at all.
So, no promises, but out of respect to the requests, I’ll give it a shot.
So, no promises, but out of respect to the requests, I’ll give it a shot.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
God Loves Turkeys
I have not generally made a habit of obsessing about church signs. Kitschy, thoughtless, trite—as a genre they do not deserve as much attention as I have been paying them on this blog.
However, the sign on the Colonial Heights Pentecostal church in southern Virginia proclaiming that “God Loves Turkeys” does.
What message is the church trying to convey? It seems precariously close to no message at all, but then why bother to put the letters up on a busy suburban road?
Did the church mean to express general approval of Thanksgiving feasts?
Or to suggest that God would put off his white robe and halo, don a sweater vest and tie, and float down to consume turkey, mashed potatoes, and yam pie with the congregants? Then push off his shoes, unbutton his trousers, and watch the football game with a frosty Bud in one hand?
Or is God a vegetarian, regarding turkeys with a perfect and non-sacrificial love: because God adores turkeys, the congregants should not kill and eat them?
Or was the pastor a horrible punner, pointing out that God loves even the failing, flawed, idiotic—the “turkey”—in all of us, and thinking this was a funny way to kill two birds with one stone (please pardon my pun): 1) obligatory reference to Thanksgiving and 2) sermon on God’s love.
Ha Ha.
Now that is the sort of clever insight that would make me want to go to the church
However, the sign on the Colonial Heights Pentecostal church in southern Virginia proclaiming that “God Loves Turkeys” does.
What message is the church trying to convey? It seems precariously close to no message at all, but then why bother to put the letters up on a busy suburban road?
Did the church mean to express general approval of Thanksgiving feasts?
Or to suggest that God would put off his white robe and halo, don a sweater vest and tie, and float down to consume turkey, mashed potatoes, and yam pie with the congregants? Then push off his shoes, unbutton his trousers, and watch the football game with a frosty Bud in one hand?
Or is God a vegetarian, regarding turkeys with a perfect and non-sacrificial love: because God adores turkeys, the congregants should not kill and eat them?
Or was the pastor a horrible punner, pointing out that God loves even the failing, flawed, idiotic—the “turkey”—in all of us, and thinking this was a funny way to kill two birds with one stone (please pardon my pun): 1) obligatory reference to Thanksgiving and 2) sermon on God’s love.
Ha Ha.
Now that is the sort of clever insight that would make me want to go to the church
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Advertising
My word-dork self occasionally is overcome by advertisement.
No word’s meaning is ever stationary, and I love to trace how meaning gathers and morphs around a particular word. Advertising inverts this—exploiting the meanings that surround words and phrases to invoke associations, related to the product or not, that could create a desire you might act on.
A couple days ago, someone had left an Herbal Essences conditioner in the yoga showers. It was one of those conditioners that’s supposed to keep your hair from splitting. It used the word “break” three times on the front (and verbage really was pretty sparse—it’s a conditioner bottle after all, not a PSA).
1. “Break’s Over”. This apparently is the name of the conditioner. What does this call up? End of lunch break, getting back to work, standing back up after resting, cigarette breaks, chop chop, Labor Day, union negotiations
2. “with an anti-breakage potion and a fusion of coco mango & pearls”. What? Other than not knowing that pearls could be mixed with fruit and “infused” into a bottle with water and oil, what can this possibly mean? But it does sound vaguely romantic, moonlit, and luxurious.
3. “a love potion for bad hair break-ups”. Note the repetition of “potion”. How do we get from “break’s over” to “break-ups” in just 4 inches of violet-blue bottle? What do girlfriend-boyfriend sagas, heartbreak, unaware teenagers, love hocus-pocus, fighting, and relationship drama, broadly defined, have to do with getting back to work, pearls, or hair products?
Does it matter that these three phrases are unequally insane? That the unrelated free associations these phrases are designed to elicit have nothing to do with hair? That the premise of the persuasion is not argument but successful manipulation of our average mental drivel?
Probably not, and certainly Herbal Essences conditioner isn’t the place to start a war on the perversion of advertising. Other propaganda is more harmful.
No word’s meaning is ever stationary, and I love to trace how meaning gathers and morphs around a particular word. Advertising inverts this—exploiting the meanings that surround words and phrases to invoke associations, related to the product or not, that could create a desire you might act on.
A couple days ago, someone had left an Herbal Essences conditioner in the yoga showers. It was one of those conditioners that’s supposed to keep your hair from splitting. It used the word “break” three times on the front (and verbage really was pretty sparse—it’s a conditioner bottle after all, not a PSA).
1. “Break’s Over”. This apparently is the name of the conditioner. What does this call up? End of lunch break, getting back to work, standing back up after resting, cigarette breaks, chop chop, Labor Day, union negotiations
2. “with an anti-breakage potion and a fusion of coco mango & pearls”. What? Other than not knowing that pearls could be mixed with fruit and “infused” into a bottle with water and oil, what can this possibly mean? But it does sound vaguely romantic, moonlit, and luxurious.
3. “a love potion for bad hair break-ups”. Note the repetition of “potion”. How do we get from “break’s over” to “break-ups” in just 4 inches of violet-blue bottle? What do girlfriend-boyfriend sagas, heartbreak, unaware teenagers, love hocus-pocus, fighting, and relationship drama, broadly defined, have to do with getting back to work, pearls, or hair products?
Does it matter that these three phrases are unequally insane? That the unrelated free associations these phrases are designed to elicit have nothing to do with hair? That the premise of the persuasion is not argument but successful manipulation of our average mental drivel?
Probably not, and certainly Herbal Essences conditioner isn’t the place to start a war on the perversion of advertising. Other propaganda is more harmful.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Fruitcakes
I have adored Jimmy Buffet’s ludicrous Fruitcakes ever since I first heard it a couple years ago.
Just for the sheer joy of it, I have to share two fruitcakes whom I met in the past couple days.
Fruitcake #1: One of those people that you pray you never have to sit next to on a Greyhound. As near as I can remember, this is a rendering of the 100 yards of sidewalk I shared with her:
God it is a glorious day. Isn’t it a glorious day? These are the kind of days you just live for, you just want to live for them the whole day. Oh your hair is just the color of that tree. It is so beautiful. How did you get hair that color? Oh, it’s yours? Oh my god, that is amazing. Your hair is soaking wet. Why is your hair soaking wet? Oh you do yoga. I have always wanted to do yoga. I used to be a runner and can’t run any more so I thought that maybe I try yoga. My gym that I belong to has yoga classes and I have thought that one day I would take a class there you know. It seems so calming and soulful. What type of yoga do you do? Oh hot yoga. I am not sure that I could do hot yoga. I’m at the stage in my life when I have having hot flashes, you know, and I am hot enough all by myself. I’m just my own little sunball half the time, and if I had an episode in hot yoga I just do not know what I would do. Oh this is your office? I used to work in an office. Well, I guess I’ll be going then. It was so nice talking to you. Just so nice.
Fruitcake #2: An older gentleman, in his mid sixties, riding a bike to work in the rain. He had a full rainsuit; rode an expensive Dutch commuter bike; and wore a helmet, waterproof gloves, and a large messenger bag. His large, blanched feet—completely bare—were pedaling viciously.
The problem with fruitcakes is you don’t have their stories, but they beg you to write them. I’m sure Fruitcake #2 had a good reason for cycling barefoot in chilly rain—perhaps he had an important meeting to go to and didn’t want his new shoes ruined with damp. Perhaps he had given his shoes to a homeless man. Perhaps he was one of those barefoot distance runners and was translating it to biking.
My own appearance at that same intersection also had its irrationality. In a rainsuit, on a bike, with a helmet and messenger bag, I was wearing only one waterproof glove; my right hand was covered in a Richmond Times Dispatch newspaper bag.
The explanation: I had lost my right waterproof glove last week. My grandmother’s good friend, knowing that we have a dog to pick up after and will soon be charged for plastic bags in DC, collects and sends us, via my parents, all her plastic bags. She gets the Richmond Times Dispatch delivered daily, so we have a ton of thin yellow newspaper bags. A newspaper bag fits snuggly over a biker’s hand, impeding brake access only minimally. It was a perfect.
Just for the sheer joy of it, I have to share two fruitcakes whom I met in the past couple days.
Fruitcake #1: One of those people that you pray you never have to sit next to on a Greyhound. As near as I can remember, this is a rendering of the 100 yards of sidewalk I shared with her:
God it is a glorious day. Isn’t it a glorious day? These are the kind of days you just live for, you just want to live for them the whole day. Oh your hair is just the color of that tree. It is so beautiful. How did you get hair that color? Oh, it’s yours? Oh my god, that is amazing. Your hair is soaking wet. Why is your hair soaking wet? Oh you do yoga. I have always wanted to do yoga. I used to be a runner and can’t run any more so I thought that maybe I try yoga. My gym that I belong to has yoga classes and I have thought that one day I would take a class there you know. It seems so calming and soulful. What type of yoga do you do? Oh hot yoga. I am not sure that I could do hot yoga. I’m at the stage in my life when I have having hot flashes, you know, and I am hot enough all by myself. I’m just my own little sunball half the time, and if I had an episode in hot yoga I just do not know what I would do. Oh this is your office? I used to work in an office. Well, I guess I’ll be going then. It was so nice talking to you. Just so nice.
Fruitcake #2: An older gentleman, in his mid sixties, riding a bike to work in the rain. He had a full rainsuit; rode an expensive Dutch commuter bike; and wore a helmet, waterproof gloves, and a large messenger bag. His large, blanched feet—completely bare—were pedaling viciously.
The problem with fruitcakes is you don’t have their stories, but they beg you to write them. I’m sure Fruitcake #2 had a good reason for cycling barefoot in chilly rain—perhaps he had an important meeting to go to and didn’t want his new shoes ruined with damp. Perhaps he had given his shoes to a homeless man. Perhaps he was one of those barefoot distance runners and was translating it to biking.
My own appearance at that same intersection also had its irrationality. In a rainsuit, on a bike, with a helmet and messenger bag, I was wearing only one waterproof glove; my right hand was covered in a Richmond Times Dispatch newspaper bag.
The explanation: I had lost my right waterproof glove last week. My grandmother’s good friend, knowing that we have a dog to pick up after and will soon be charged for plastic bags in DC, collects and sends us, via my parents, all her plastic bags. She gets the Richmond Times Dispatch delivered daily, so we have a ton of thin yellow newspaper bags. A newspaper bag fits snuggly over a biker’s hand, impeding brake access only minimally. It was a perfect.
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