Not to worry, he has his hazards on

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Painting an acting studio

Say aaahhhh

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Fwd...nap

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Green commute tip 17: leave your car at home in favor of coasting in on your filing cabinet. That is all.

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10km bf 50:22.

Ignorance is only found in the 'I' of the beholder. - Charles Hillig

Personal best: 10 km bf 47:33.

God's Origami

Hard to know what the trigger will be.

Smells have a good track record; touch too. Sometime it will be a visual prodding, others, music.

This morning, those abstract tetris pieces slotted with a thousand more un-named but just-as-important sisters and brothers and voila...

A person.

Somewhere between a friend and a colleague. Top of the escalator, we launched into war-stories and biographies fished from fifteen years ago. *He* was the trigger, and the effect, as always, was magical.

Eye contact, uncomplicated handshake and shoulder squeeze; when I retracted my hand, he came with it - or part of him. Paper now, his shoulder; used to being covered in identity management garb - skytrain attendant; double breasted Mossimo suit purchased for pleasure (and baptisms); road trainer hugging the pecs and landscape of a middle aged body. This though, was the shoulder. Clothing agnostic. Wasn't that it was garbed or ungarbed; that layer was simply irrelevant.

Stepped back with the paper shoulder between my thumb and forefinger and pulled, like unwrapping a Christmas present, where the gift is space.

Made a crease and brought the shoulder down to his left foot, then pinched the foot and brought it back up to the head. He kept talking, and I; replying.

Next, the other shoulder, then two final folds up till just the head was there. Finally, tucked the head into the envelope I had created, popped it into my Goretex jacket, and was off.

He grew roots on the walkcommute in, papering the interior with translucent onion paper that allowed all of our shared history to leach through and be relived;

smells of a pantry; choppy waters and heaving hulls; safety instructions and seasick fares; tap dancing gone wrong, and above all: laughter

now, computer-side, the interior paperwork has been enveloped as well and tucked inside his.

Later, tonite, I will stand in front of the mirror and fold myself in and over, over and in, till I'm pellet sized; perfect for ingestion inside *that* sheath, where I will be the fodder for dreamscapes and almost forgotten grass sidewalks and wolves and music and other dispensations.

There will be some reticence, of course, to take this in, take this *all* in, until I review the day through the lens of my monogrammed serotonic conundrum, and realize that he was folding me, as I folded him.

And that all That, came from THIS:

borders without boundaries; meanings without context; ghosts of ghosts of space.

Wild and wide-eyed; grinning like a fool. Wind so strong it kissed the Crowes in my ears. Fresh seawall asphalt and naked feet: I ran. #10km

Hoto's dirty heart

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Hoto in Pumpkinland

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Visiting with hoto shell steph charlie and christina. Next stop Laity pumpkin patch.

Daughter's TKD belt test

Take your busy heart to the art museum and the chamber of commerce but take it also to the forest. - Mary Oliver

10 km bf on a windy seawall

Muscle Memory

Blood sugar dropped like a bomb yesterday; blazed out the first 5 kms in 24 minutes, and then it hit:

Hint from the back of the mind that something was amiss, a twinge in the right leg fed back into the loop and then some more urgency.

Tried dropping the bottom out of my breath, but this just opened the gates to the white-gray sheet of weakness, radiating from the center up towards the chest, then dissipating and blanketing the shoulders arms and fingers at the same time.

Ghost had arrived and checked in; now in the driver seat, he slowed the system to a walk, and propogated.

Walk-run now, watching the banked time rubber band out of my control: Breathed so much fire in and out to tired muscles to gain those ten seconds in the bank; and now watch helplessly as they are wrested away from me.

Walk-run-run now, trying to de-contract from the little me that is holding onto this experience and being strangled by it.

Walk-run-run-run now, and my muscles are splayed out in arcs from my body and rooting themselves in the seawall to both sides

Run Run Run and I am running through the arcs with more being created behind and ahead of me

And dropping like a fine mist from each of these muscles arcs are the memories that sparked the arcs

And I'm in the space between the footsteps now, and back; and in the space, and back, and the continuity is the memories that I'm running through

Cigarette smoke and Barardi and guitars and helplessness and love and purpose, telos and pathos, and now

It's one big sheet

non-local running on the seawall

condundrum eating its own tail

and depositing me at the crosswalk from where i started, and where I will be pieced together...at least until the next run.

hsah!

Newly formed township of Excellence-in-Mediocrity, you've got yourself a mayor.

In Bieber We Trust

They all looked the same last nite . Ironically, suiting up in their battle gear - In Bieber we trust tshirts, make-up and attitude - actually dressed them down. They became the tribe, thinking, but at a purple-meme level, collectively, primitively.

And yet,

yet

There was something beautiful in the narcissism. It was, after all, unaffected by all the trappings and nuances of full-borne adult narcissism. It was simply doing for feeling; being like the other. A coarse but completely recognizable call-to-come home. Sometimes it's at an ashram, sometimes a tent-revival, sometimes in a concert hawking $50 tshirts and concert chattel whose brief lifespan arcs from a third world shop to middle-class hands to a union bulldozer at the dump.

Beautiful and pure.

Synchronized movement as 40,000 feet jump up and down to the bass; vibration - clothing and penetrating my heart and mind and bringing me to the place where I can watch sidewalks of laser-light crisscrossing the air

Hearts riding them out and back again; sometimes being met with sickness, sometimes solitude, and always, eventually silence.

The silence that the purple tribe came from, and will return to.

The place from which "I" came from, and will return to.

the place from which the I is watched

and fevers are dissolved

at the root.

Namaste

Carmaggedon

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Dear god, it's me, Jerry. Jonesing for earplugs. Please let guest services hear my voice. Amen.

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I am about to brave 20k fever-addled Bieber-ites for the love of my daughter. #newlevelsofpopmediocrity

8 days post marathon, just ran a 49:14 10km bf.

Little Gods Everywhere

Little gods everywhere.

That's what they called themselves, and yes, I was a little suspicious to start.

Rockjar's audacity was the tipping point though, making me wonder how close to the truth their pronouncements were.

Tuesday, and the rain. Always easier to see the doors in the rain.

I approached the crosswalk, half asleep as always through the commute, and slammed on the breaks as a grandmotherly figure stepped into the street. She looked up and over me, then turned her face and rain bonnet downwind and pushed across.

First door opened and closed beneath her foot; sliver of light prismed by the rain extended and retracted like a switchblade in the time it took her to complete the footstep.

Next one swung around her head as she turned into the rain now *this* is a revolving door, same amount of light but will to cut into the rain cut short by the centrifugal force of her turn.

Lightening next, and a rippling grid of doors from ground to sky. They opened simultaneously, light diffusing instead of cutting, boundaries los;t just one big sheet of light and then to the left one singular door frame and from that

from that

Rockjar made his appearance.

Made eye contact with me and laughed as my stupor dissolved into amazement.

Took a seat beside me, adjusted the heat (little gods are quite particular about the room temperature) and pulled off his greek fisherman's hat.

He waited in silence until the next stoplight, then touched my chin and turned me to look into the hat

17 steps led down, Shamanic spirals of grass and glass and cinammon earth and wolves and finally another door

With a pendulum on the other side

And with it's long arc towards me, visions marrying blood and spirit, and with its timeless pause (revelling in its impossibility) no-thing; rest; simplicity; and with its arc away from me

Traffic, an empty passenger seat, and a fickle weather system.

Thai ala Cal, then an excursion into politics, cosmology, cultural revolution, and god. #inlovewithcalsmind

There is a great disturbance in the force which will be rectified shortly by 400 calories delivered on the gossamer wings of saturated fat.

Limited Perspective

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Stanley Park Ghost train VIP tix. Yes, the air does smell better up here.

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Dance 'remixes' of all Pink Floyd songs should be illegal.

Holy lack-of-upper-body-strength batman #shaking_like_a_scared_kitten_aftergymweights

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Most Unusual

Decided to do some braiding this morning on the walk in.

Mist had lifted everywhere apart from the inlet, carpet shadows on the mountains, ascii raining down from heavan on the Blackberry, it just seemed so appropriate.

There will always be the naysayers, of course. They seem to be everywhere as I dream of braiding or any other ascent into the world unfolded from this one. *Seem* to be because often their resistance to the joy that I see through slicing through this reality's fabric is, of course, nothing more than projection on my part.

So Jerry minus (apparent naysayers minus actual naysayers) would be pretty low.

On days like today, however, even a groundswell of naysayers would not have much of an effect.

I'm off the train and already blocks ahead from where I am 'actually' walking and synesthesia is running amok. It's words that are taking shape for me. The naysayers are a humpback swell breaking through the cement in the center of the road, Baristas and Baristers are butterflies watching the event and then there's *me*

Walking, leaning, running, sprinting onto the humpback and then flying off

Remembering all the recurring dreams of flight that disappear in morning's gossamer light

Taking those memories and pulling them taught over two rectgangles and attaching them to my arms and flying, literally flying, off the humpback and through the butterflies and arching up like a giant skijumper in reverse

Back supple, ears washed in whitenoise of the wind and then

Nothing

Butterflies have stopped mid flight

I have stopped midflight and I toggle the sight

And I see their trajectories - where them came from, where they're going (or are likely to go); it's a million pickup sticks neon fleshlights burning into the sky - which is a starlight October afternoon sunlight miasma and I reach out to one and pull it to my chest and let go and am thrust towards the canyon wall of building and the braiding

begins.

Fingers plunged chest deep and cotton candy Peter Parker web like strand is connected to the window on the twenty first flower and is flown over to its sister building on the 19th and back and forth until we have heartstrings going from top to bottom

And the music starts
The great dance

As the workers leave the husks at their desks and slide down the light

And I braid upwards

Around and around them till be we have hearts wrapped in heartstring

and when all the lines are full I start to wind and roll all into a big ball

which, Atlas-like, I raise to the heavens and implore deification

Which is, of course, denied

How can something become what it already is

So I push it and it begins it's long roll down to the sea

Perched in a moment with a million sparks of light holding it in the air over the end of the pier

Then exploding in flesh and heart and notes and words and humming into the great

Aum

that is

Everything.

First 10 km bf since the marathon. A few sore spots but nothing to complain about!

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"You hear that? That is the smell of value being added." - Jerry Mesner, just now.

Running the wall, there is only This: Space between the footfall; moment before the breath. Rhythmic padding below, lids dropped down from above. What is looking is hemmed to the looked by a blood red sash.

Conduct *This*

The first 30 km went according to plan; some pains and discomfort, but no real gnashing of teeth. It was shortly after exit from the second and final honey-pot stop that all hell broke loose.

Went through the gamut of mental tricks as the nausea took hold, grey white hand flurrying my gi tract when I started running, then letting go as I walked. But there were new terrors and furies waiting in store when I stopped as well. The grey white hand - the left of the tormentor - would release and his yellow garbed right hand would reach up inside me like a sock puppet and start the thoughts

pp

...feet are sore, there's a lot of bumpy asphalt below, man that hurts and looksee! you've got some blood between two of your toes..

crescendo

...check out the Garmin laddie. You had 15 seconds in the bank and all that hard work all that training everything is going to shit and you're going to lose it all, no way to break your 4 hours now

p

I'm running again now but the conductor has pulled back and fully released himself from me. Can's see his whole shape - not sure that I want to, but I can peripherally watch his conducting - left hand right hand 1 2 3 4 and

Fore

I'm running besides the golf-course and the maestro had constructed a podium on wheels behind me, letting me do the pulling of course, he's just queuing the note-less music around me

queue traffic

being held at the intersection to my left,

queue police

making funny comments to my right

queue nausea

Fuck, just when I thought I was getting into the rhythm and would be able to leave the conductor behind for a bit, this starts up again

queue introspection

and he's allowing me to go inside again, to try and step inside the zen counting of the feet, 1 to 10, 1 to 10, up to one hundred then losing my place and

queue nausea and sore hips

And it's starting to get rough now. I swing my hips to the right and the podium is pulled out in front of me so I can see the conductor in all his glory

a patchwork quilt of travel stickers each one handwritten with memories, the most recent towards the top the oldest fading into clown shoes towards the ground

his eyes, dark fire; his pupils - clock faces with hands that extend into chains and as soon as I make eye contact

I'm truly fucked

Because the chains extend from their oracular home and grab me by the wrist, wrapping around like a living vine and pulling me in so close to the clock hands that I can see them moving - but in micro pauses

And then the nausea, my friend now, breaks the grip and I'm back running. Can't excommunicate the conductor, so I give him a piggyback instead and just settle in

settle in and try to witness

but I can't

try to just be

and I can't, even though I AM

And somehow, somehow I am birthed through times dilating canal into the last 400 meters and my tears spawned by the final funnel are enough to wash and refresh the conductor and let him take off for the hills for now.

I know he'll be back, wonder how he'll feel when I have fresh legs in the office.

hsah

Took the words right out of my mouth

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Language can only deal meaningfully with a special, restricted segment of reality.
The rest, and it is presumably the much larger part, is silence.
(George Steiner)

Victoria Marathon proof of life

--
Jerry Mesner
shadechaser@gmail.com
aka mezzy@shaw.ca

Pass the Ship

Just finished work on this little bastard, and I think he's going to be a real wonder-worker.

Started off with a javascript app I found on the internets, dragged the bookmarklet to my web browser and on *click* a space ship a la 1980's-cira asteroids shows up on your screen and you can blast way little web site elements.

Google "I feel lucky" - boom!
Video button by a news story - boom!

and so on.

Quite entertaining, but I thought that the level of abstraction needed to go one step further.

//start digression//

Start with your web-browser - it's an abstraction. What you're doing is saying let's take a physical object - think a photo album - and represent through the computer.

What was a 'physical' picture in your photo album is now a digital picture.
What was the 'physical' page you turned in your photo album is now an electronic transition from one photo to another.

So you're taking the three dimensional and collapsing it to no-dimensions. (The computer has width, height, depth, but what is showing is no-dimensional.) So it's really a non-local idea of something from the real world.

You then take another non-local idea - the space ship - and attack the first.

An idea attacking an idea.
//end digression

So I held down the right cursor key, speeding the little triangulr wreaker-of-havoc around and around my screen; off the borders into nowhere from the lower right, returning from its hyperspace on the upper left. Then carefully

*carefully*

I smushed the little bugger on the laptop screen. Simple index finger pushdown, and the spaceship looked like a squashed bug. This, of course, was not to the spaceship's liking

Buzzing under my finger like a spurned queen bee; I raise my finger just a little bit and he makes a dash for it so

I put my whole hand down on the screen and he's scrambling manically and I let my hand up a bit and imagine his surprise when he makes a break for the edge of the screen and hyperspace and I'm there, pinching him with the other hand between thumb and forefinger.

I pull him out from the screen towards me and the screen a gelatinous sheet pulls out

and I pull

and step back

and we have a whole curtain sheet action happening now, characters and images are crawling up the sides of the tented screen fabric but I'm still pinching and now

I'm turning and twisting the screen fabric and the little triangle is drawing blood

As liberated as he thinks he is, *actually* being liberated is a whole nother level

but a good one, I tell him as I give one finally pull and like a bug out of flesh he's out of the screen and blinking between my thumb and finger

I surmise that like a fish out of water he does not have long without the screen, so carefully push him back on the upper right hand corner of my screen and pull him again - slowly like cheese to my colleague's computer then a quick push down then another taffy pull to another colleauges computer and so on until we have 5 - has to be 5 - computers linked up and from there

The worlds criss cross into each other, plane perpendicular to plane sliding through one another with grace and gloss

And the ship's captain grows from an idea to an idea of an idea

And as the abstractions grow, the atmosphere between computers becomes cobbed and cloudy and now there is electricity between them and they're glowing in a perverse goldden ratio and then, only then

the prime(er) mover turns off his screen

and I blink off

taking the space ship and my invention

back,

back,

into the soup

from whence we came.

7 km bf recovery run with Kyle. #runningonempty

And the mid-level management said 'let there be light'. And it was so.

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Mmmm... recovery run at lunch.

Teaching budgeting through corn-syrup acquisition. #1.50candyrun

While I was disappointed I didn't break 4 hours in the marathon, 4:17 was my second best time in my first 9 marathons.I'm grateful for that!

May the god of Advil richly bless you this holiday weekend. She just dropped a motherload of kickass relief on these lactic-acid-rich legs.

Post marathon ferry-transit-fare: two cups of water, b-bread and the cuppa I've been waiting for since 530 am

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Family of finishers - marci and jerry 26.2 victoria 10.10.10. So proud of my sis!

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9th marathon put to bed. Marci finished 4:07, Jerry 4:17.

Game on. Next check in post marathon

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T minus 60 mins

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Giddyup. Getting ready to head downtown for vic marathon with marci

Dainty amounts of eiw - electrolytes in waiting

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Good luck everyone running Kelowna, Chicago, Victoria and others this weekend!

Pumped to see my daughters in their theater production in 2 mins.

From the windy city to the rainy. Allman brothers neutralizing traffic angst. Marathon thoughts gestating. T - 48.

Rescue Ink guys waiting for a plane. Big bikers with noble hearts

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O'Hare - YVR

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What chewing gum built. Wrigley bldg

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Workshopping

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Gibsons steak house, Chicago blues at Kingston Mines

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Chicago sky tetris

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Yvr-chicago mag-mile Nike Garmin architecture river Hersheys Borders museum Ghirardellis hotel. Fun's over, work's coming.

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H20 works

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Cubs yamulke

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Dear god

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Church and State

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Magnificent mile walkabout before meetings. Mmm...books and running stores

Yvr off to OHare

Busy week. Chicago tomorrow, victoria marathon sunday.

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Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted. - Aldous Huxley

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(Wall) blinded by the light

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Light gane of checkers

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Make-up remover...not a problem, let me go for you. Jesus.

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