The Bloom Between

Three quarters done, thoughts drifting from the weather up there to the weather in here (tapping the gut). The good doctor and a lot of bright people claim it all starts here, the little brain, the serotonin producer, and I wonder, day 2 into a cleansing regime how much the cleanse will help and hinder my quest at marathon number (counting) Seattle, Vancouver, Vancouver, Victoria, Denver, # 6.

Everything below the waist is fine - dead ass heavy and tight, but ok. And the weight and tightness is not unexpected, given that Saturday was a 32 km run, followed by one day off and 7km, then the next day (today) a 7 km.

So much for outside exteriors and interior-exteriors. What about the interior of the interior? THAT, kids, was focused on feeling a bit beat up and week, ruminating about body functions that might or might not have to be taken care of on the run, and some mantra work. As always, good for so long, but it's time to slip into the IPOD now and

sweet Jesus musical anesthetic. It's hard to feel down or heavy or steeped in self-ruminating obsession with the run when Let There Be Rock Comes on. Or a ballad that reaches up through the troublesome gut and tendrils out through the emotion centers. This...

THIS

is what it is so easy to forget about the long runs. Like pain - so real then ephemeral in the time it takes to change breaths - emotion can hit like a ghost. This, friends, is the deepest of deep tissue work. Alexander? Bowen? Hah! I give you the long distance runner

Into hour 2 or 2 and a half, the first level mind tricks are gone, the easy points of motivation used up, the clock is floating in front of you like a demon 40 days in. The clock is the worst, it is the most pain at the most naked. How in fucks name am I supposed to keep running when the legs are tired and the gut is not happy and there's still 2 hours to go and I look at the watch again and

good mother of god, it's only been two minutes

and so on.

It's the gentillion candle power of will that keeps it going at this point - and maybe through the whole thing. And it's 2 hours and a half in and the salt is drying white streaks on my face and the clock is bitch slapping me and then

then

Thunder Road comes on, sung this time by Melissa and Bruce.

Deep red rose blooming in my heart center and thorning up in terrible beauty, spearing the emotional centers and hidden chakras and brilliant, fecund energy boils down into my legs and up into my head and its all summarized by

The tears that well

THEIR genesis is that dark and secret garden below the heart center that stores the parcels, some half opened, many dark and yellowed with age and as the thorns break open they throw surprises like a noire jack in the box

And I cry

And the tears dry

And I'm amazed at the privateness and openness of the moment. Interesting too, the clock was forgotten - more like it just ceased to be in those few minutes.

Music, god's anaesthetic, powerful stuff. Took the pain away, and washed me with the blood of my own crucifixions - some imagined, some real - all real, as the imagined has its truth as well.

And I'm lost in the altar of music - the temple that I took up housing in for 15 years is such a holy place

And it's connected.

I'm most of the way through the run now, know I'm going to make it but still playing games with myself to keep the clip clop stodgy pace going and I need to take the earpiece out for a second and holy shit

Satellite by DMB is playing into my left ear, AS WELL as my right ear - which would be fine if the earplug wasn't hanging down the front of my acrid shirt.

It's the car I'm waiting for at the intersection. And it's not just playing a close approximation to where I am in the tune - it is note for note the same. The light changes before I can act on this strange synchronicity (what would I do anyways - hey buddy nice playlist I've got the same one?) but there is a moment of eye contact before the convertible drives away

And it's me looking at me.

Like that dream I had, except in that one I was rolling over a dead me, weighty, fleshy, shirt off, tattoo showing.

This time it's just a subtle-body realization that I'm looking at myself but it's crossing worlds into the gross and I don't really get it

And maybe I don't have to.

Maybe it's just god looking at me through the same eye that I look at him with

A moment of bloom between here and there, the place where all the mantras collide and settle and end (or just continue fueling the hum under the universe)

And in a moment, this too is gone

Here-ephemeral-here-gone

Time for a shower and lunch.

Chop wood, carry water.