Thomas Gardner, Poverty Creek Journal
Wandering Two: staying upright (RUN! may 30, 2017)
“And since we will be
for so long,
let us now honor
the gods of the vertical” (Paston, Vertical)
Sunday morning—23 degrees, both ponds frozen and glassy. Six miles. About an inch of ice on the trail—frozen snow-melt, frozen slush—but I managed to stay upright….What Wittgenstein wanted from philosophy in the second half of his career was a way to stay upright. ‘We have got onto slippery ice where there is no friction,’ he warned, turning his gaze away from perfection and trying to make out how people actually move and think and make connections…It’s the dailiness of these runs I likeGardner, 54
One goal of my running? Staying upright. Active. Moving. Grounded. Connected. In conversation with the world, with my body, with my breathing, with dreaming and wondering and real possibilities, rooted in the realities of my limits. Resisting restlessness.
Time moves differently out here.
A bit like half sleep, when you’re awake, in a way, but aware of dreams passing in a kind of un-retraceable wandering. When I sleepwalked in Wisconsin, just before our daughter Ann was born, I’d often find myself at an upstairs window, staring across the street at the foundry, a few blocks away, floating above our neighbors’ roofs. I’d hear rail cars coupling and see steam rising, men above the roofs in a blue light, almost dancing as they worked. Laura would find me there, the turning colors passing through me, and although I tried to say what I was seeing, nothing I said make sense. Huge piles of know below, the house a fortress behind heaped-up walls, the two of us staring out into the dark, content to let our language go. no real way to put any of this into numbers, miles after mile just streaming though me.Poverty Creek Journal/ Thomas Gardner / Feb 2, 2012
I’ve been feeling my way all week toward some still-unstated problem, running without a watch, not tracking my thoughts, trying to let the run distill itself down to breath, or rhythm, or attention — as single maple leaf suspended in a web, five feet over the trail. It’s hard to do. Thoughts rise and rattle, spread their wings, legs trailing them over the pond.Poverty Creek Journal/ Thomas Gardner / Aug 16, 2012
…something deeper came alive. How to describe the feeling? It was as if one sort of fiber had been exhausted and another had come awake, something there all along. I felt the difference—moving more from the hips, hitting the ground with a slight jar. Simone Weil talks this way about attention. Think of it as a spiritual disciplne, she says. Find a subject just out of reach, for which you have no aptitude. Allow yourself to come up empty. Now wait, “not seeking anything, but ready to receive.”Poverty Creek Journal/ Thomas Gardner / Sept 21, 2012
This is just a run, not an entrace into some other world, and yet, down its length, before taking on the full weight of morning, the entire hollow is flowing with light.Poverty Creek Journal/ Thomas Gardner / Dec 13, 2012
Joyce Carol Oates
In running the mind flies with the body; the mysterious efflorescence of language seems to pulse in the brain, in rhythm with our feet and the swinging of our arms. Ideally, the runner who’s a writer is running through the land- and cityscapes of her fiction, like a ghost in a real setting.To Invigorate Literary Mind, Start Moving Literary Feet / Joyce Carol Oates
The structural problems I set for myself in writing, in a long, snarled, frustrating and sometimes despairing morning of work, for instance, I can usually unsnarl by running in the afternoon.To Invigorate Literary Mind, Start Moving Literary Feet / Joyce Carol Oates
…each day I take to the roads as a beginner, a child, a poet. Seeking the innocence of the beginner, the wonder of the child and the vision of the poet. Hoping for a new appreciation of the landscape, a new perspective of my inner world, some new insights on life, a new response to existence and myself.Running / George Sheehan, 1978
I must listen and discover forgotten knowledge. Must respond to everything around me and inside me as well.
Poets do this naturally. A really good poet, wrote James Dickey, is like an engine with the governor off….
The best most of us can do is to be a poet an hour a day. Take the hour when we run 0r tennis or golf or garden; take that hour away from being a serious adult and become serious beginners.Running / George Sheehan, 1978
One of the things the walk did for me was to decenter the self. At a certain point the mind opens and you start to watch, you get to witness, you get to listen, you get to receive the world instead of putting yourself into the world. I think I am someone who is inherently selfish, and I can turn anything into something about me. I think most people can. The more I walk, the more I can dissolve. The process of dissolving and being receptive to the world is where the poetry comes from. Sometimes it takes a lot of miles for that to happen.Ada Limón
Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking
…by walking you are not going to meet yourself. By walking, you escape from the very idea of identity, the temptation to be someone, to have a name and a history.
do not believe any idea that was not born in the open air and of free movements—in which the muscles do not also revel.
Can they dance?
We do not belong to those who have ideas only among books, when stimulated by books. It is our habit to think outdoors—when walking, leaping, climbing, dancing, preferably on lonely mountains or near the sea where even the trails become thoughtful. Our first questions about the value of a book, of a human being, or a musical composition are: Can they walk? Even more, can they dance?” (Gros, 18, org. from Nietzsche, Gay Science).
Can they breathe?
Many others have written their books solely from their reading of other books, so that many books exude the stuffy odour of libraries. By what does one judge a book? By its smell (and even more, as we shall see, by its cadence).
Other books breathe a livelier air; the bracing air of outdoors, the wind of high mountains, even the icy gust of the high crags buffeting the body; or in the morning, the cool scented air of southern paths through the pines. These books breathe. They are not overladed, saturated, with dead, vain erudition
But haste and speed accelerate time, which passes more quickly, and two hours of hurry shorten a day. Every minute is torn apart by being segmented, stuffed to bursting. You can pile a mountain of things into an hour. Days of slow walking are very long: they make you live longer, because you have allowed every hour, every minute, every second to breathe, to deepen, instead of filling them up by straining the joints (37).
one never truly walks alone: Everything talks to you, greets you, demands your attention: trees, flowers, the colour of the roads. The sigh of the wind, the buzzing of insects, the babble of streams, the impact of your feet on the ground: a whole rustling murmur that responds to your presence
you are nobody to the hills
You are nobody to the hills or the thick boughs heavy with greenery. You are no longer a role, or a status, not even an individual, but a body, a body that feels sharp stones on the paths, the caress of long grass and the freshness of the wind (84).
walking as absorption
But walking causes absorption. Walking interminably, taking in through your pores the height of the mountains when you are confronting them at length, breathing in the shape of the hills for hours at a time during a slow descent. The body becomes steeped in the earth it treads (85).
god/ Sara Lynne Puotinen
today I saw god
near the end of my long run
a verb not a noun
the act of being upright
performed by Daily Walker
since starting to run
and to write while running this
walker has been here
faithfully walking moving
being outside near the gorge
today I noticed
and said “good morning” instead
of just running by
an act of pure attention
performed beside the river
Poetry and Associations
The drifting, associating, linking experience that poetry creates is central to the way it makes meaning.
Poetry by its nature makes meaning by revealing hidden connections.
Associative movement can manifest in metaphor or other figurative language. It can be in the juxtaposition of facts that do not ordinarily belong tougher, but that the poem makes seem inevitably related. Or in a leap in the narrative of a poem. Or something musical, like rhyme or some other sound association….Something that literally or conceptually rhymes or chimes with what has come before (129-130, Why Poetry/ Zapruder).