dredging dunes and dreaming of farms. . . . .

a dozen miles across summer rest loop to shell island and back around. warm sun with cool wind. beach and trail and woods and puddles and I remember less specific thoughts than the impression of my thoughts—the swatch of the mental theater. . . . did think of impressionism as a modern paradigm, appropriate to the nature of my blog. maybe post-impressionist? never mind. . . . .

mindscapes while running today included visualizations of prime number topography on the number line. . . . . Mandelbrot sets of sand and dune and sea formations . . . . . the aleph and the sand and wasn’t infinity once defined as the number of sand granules in the world? and wasn’t it like 2^77 or something strange like that? I should revisit that. . . .


the aum or the ohm and the Buddhist community in Brunswick county just down the road.   a run on their land?


I have to take a moment and praise the Brunswick nature park where the run for ray was held. . . . this is a new park, and the trails saw more action that day than ever before. a nice natural habitat, though I do believe a paper company had been through here maybe ten or fifteen years ago and simply replanted much of the land with evergreen (quick regrowth period) and whatever seeds found their way into the soil. . . . . but town creek cut through the land with a beautiful vista onto black river and a fine kayak launch- the kind with rollers so you launch dry—was built barely a quarter mile off the main entrance road. oaks and dogwoods, pine and spruce all grew from the very fertile dark soil of the hilly terrain, with sand folded into some of the other areas of the park.  ultimately: the hours of hard work and toil earned the southeast coast a wonderful new park.


while I am in this mode of contrition and acknowledgement, my wife takes the cake for giving me hell. but I must also admit that she is the one who pushed me outta the bars into the running paths. the transition was brutal, ungraceful, and frustrating (for both of us), but in running, just for today, I found a tremendous spiritual satisfaction and thus a personal growth. an emergence. albatross became the phoenix.

I began running with kas in the early days of our relationship. after work, and in early morning, she would get me laced up & zipped up and put me on the hills and wooden slats of the boardwalk. crisp breath and coffee and shallow, clotted lungs and torment and agony and the path was not an easy one. soccer lungs had long collapsed, though my legs remained strong and capable. I followed her merciful pace into a longterm commitment.   methadone and miles. . . . .



during this time I smoked. kas was an ex-smoker who outran her nicotine addiction, and she was adamant about my aptitude to quit successfully. so eventually I did quit, two years ago. my lungs are still weaker than most, and in fact were weak as an infant. . . . . the abdominal muscles that work the lungs in long runs have strengthened significantly, and my lungs have adapted to longer runs. I am well and whole and running, and frequently with kyote in the running stroller.  i take aspirin perhaps once a week for lower back aches-- usually work related.



march 7th. 2010.



geoff roes. jeez.



sunday. work has been very busy, unusual for this time of year, and the life-investment of my job has been enervating and frustrating. . . . seems I have either plenty of time or plenty of income, but never both simultaneously. a good run was due, and I was forced by prior commitments to run solo at 8am to finish by 10, so I ran from the house to the beach and back, in vast morning sun and a total of around 13 miles. . . . ran kas to her hair appt. and kyote and I had irish oatmeal and seattle coffee at Atlanta bread company and read some magazines. . . . . eventually kas finished and we went to trysports and bought my new shoes, asics gel-nimbus 11, the same shoes as last, though 25 dollars more (even with 20 dollars off). . . .





Range of Rage. march 9, 2010





eight miler took me round the beaches and the dunes were trampled beneath dredging machinery. . . . . a little railroad earth for the drive home (a long way to go). once home, water and water and haydn’s opus 33 string quartets, third and fourth of the set of six.


asked off for march 27th, the day of the gator trail 50k. figured I’d give it a try, getting off that is. . . . run 31 miles, grill out on our new grill, watch a film. . . . . have a spring saturday with the family. if I can walk. still many preparations and obstacles to clear however. did use up the rest of my dick’s sporting goods gift card for some gu gels, some clif bars, and a hammer gel, just to experiment on some longer runs. hydration and nutrition remain absolutely foreign to me, so the research and efforts begin in earnest for long runs.




memories of banner elk, elk falls, lees mcrae, wooly worm festival. . . . . deep gap mountain homes. . . . all the majestic beauty of the Appalachians. summers in amish country in Pennsylvania. Gettysburg. back to the nc mountains & the parkway.



many thoughts hover around visions of my farm—my future working farm. . . . . . for creatives who have strayed. work, run, eat well, see the cycle of their food and thus provide them with fundamental meditations, and let them heal their inner pain. my farm. . . . . a healing commune and a dream far, far in the future I fear. first step farm. robert frost.  always been a dream of mine, to establish a self-sufficient community. . . . . a healing space.  something between a working farm and a monastary. . . . . never mind.

This year's brought 243 miles of runnin'.

carolina beach state park and greenfield park, two local treasures. 

happy trails y'all!

Storms, the Shore, Masochism and Boccherini.

A dark run today, march the second at 9h04am until ‘bout 10 am and burnt my nipple-flesh off again as the storm-toothed wind ripped at face and bare legs and the course pushed outta wrightsille beach park and followed lumina up to masonboro inlet and then down the the cookie dough coast where the ocean churned fiercely, perpetually, Godly, and I meditated on her white-broth laughter and the wind would then howl against the ears and nothing heard but my own thoughts and the southern blare of the gusts and a storm is prowling across the Carolinas and we are again en route for winter precipitation and this cloud-curtain forming interesting roscharch tests (gopher heads, an inverted sunset in arizona) as seven miles milled out by post-pikermi (four days later) legs, and the feet started burning the blisters again as salt-sweat was rubbed into nipple-wounds and sometimes running is simply a masochistic act to be endured, completed, documented and then showered the hell off. but meanwhile I exited the coast due to bulldozers by j. mercer’s pier and a few other runners to wave at and just no real sun, all cloud filtered and vague like winter normally is. . . . . guts and meat-tenderizer feet and bleeding nipples and seven miles ended in a Boccherini fifth symphony parachute as I returned home in the warm civic.

finishing run for ray 13 miler. . . . . gnarly.

Feb 28th, full moon and the Run For Ray half marathon scoop. . . .

Run For Ray and bleeding nipples. . . . . tony hawk (and sometimes no one really gives a shit if you ran 13 odd miles in the middle of some treacherous woods.  nor do they care if you cleared out yr studio of 1.5 years today 'cause you no longer get downtown to work there. . . . . )
today brought a brutal effort at a half-marathon distance of 13.1 miles, on some isolated trails of sadistic sand and roots and slopes and in 1h 48min (8.2 min pace) i completed the race. 17th in a field of 48. not a fast race, but the terrain was more technical than fast, which literally sent me flying down a hill once and then slingshotted me up a hill into a small tree the next time. . . . .


beyond the accomplishment of a solid race in some good woods, my son Kyote Vincent Edge was able to meet Tony Hawk, who was there to support the race (which is a benefit for Ray Underhill, one of the original bones-brigade skaters of my youth, who fought chordoma cancer until his eventual passing in 2008). a beautiful race in some beautiful woods with some good people.
now i go to work my saturday night shift. . . . i will be waddling everywhere i go for sure.

well the run started over flat, packed sand & gravel construction roads. a group of 48 runners ran the half marathon-- aka the pikermi. . . . the 5k and the 10k, starting ten staggered minutes after us, shoved another 150 runners into the guts of Brunswick county brack. . . . the pikermi group poured and heaved into a thicket thrusting outta some deep pine-snarl of the foot-gnarl that was to come. . . . a dragon’s mouth of 35 degrees. . . . . the bears’ paws and protruding claws were buried in the forest we now entered, with back-jamming pits from recently removed trees, various stumps nearly invisible, and the total isolation of running in the woods. and it did not start well. graceless.  the first loop suggested I fail within the first two miles, had me cursing the very idea of finishing the loop, nevermind running it twice more. I was already hitting a dandy wall and my legs were skiing the 35 degree slope as hard as they could and then a small creek and then the work continued. . . . . dante’s first circle. . . . . but of only three rather than nine and thus I continued. Gatorade, head-rinse of two oz. of water. a 5k completed. . . . . then the isolation began, the haunting depression that left me near tears twice in this run. like an lsd trip, my mind wandered into deep caverns of consciousness, following a full moon, following an 8.8 richter scale reading in a quack in chile, sending a tsunami warning across the southern hemisphere, across my wife’s strange fatigue and melancholia, my child’s inexhaustible nature, my shoes buried in pine straw with roots ripping hard at ankles, sharp as piano wire. . . . bach. . . . . . de kooning—a de kooning tattoo. de kooning’s alcoholism and dementia. dementia. thinking of tattoos-- my iguana. thinking of numbers—first aid station on trail was about two miles into the woods, we added .3 miles on a side trail with turnaround on the first loop then .8 miles the next two loops, thus I am around 4 miles and up a road, the other runners panting and bobbing and hands flapping on unconscious arms waving against leg kicks and the kayaking adventure two birthdays ago. . . . . . egon schiele. . . . . tattoo of egon schiele. . . . . . drenched in blues and paynes gray and bold lines around his brooding brow and perched, serious lips. scrutinized. the legs keep pumping up steep inclines, break-backs and switch-backs and not a damned straight-way on this ankle-breaking trail. gogol bordello.  the invisible (severed) tree trunks four inches above ground; one loses perceptions of the height of one’s foot in these types of runs. . . . . hours of this then the final kicks and bleeding nipples staining my running shirt and the epiphany of completion and the marvel of accomplishment.

kyote's first birthday and trail runs. . . .

rain pounds Wilmington.



this weekend is the Run For Ray. last year was its premier year, serving as a benefit for the family of the late Ray Underhill, a professional skateboarder I read about as a young skateboarder-kid. Mr. underhill succumbed to chordoma, a rare form of cancer, after an extended period of treatment. last year, the run was held at the blue clay mountain bike trails, and it was a helluva run, with many crossing the finish lines (was a 5k and a 10k) with bloody lips knees shins twisted ankles and bruises galore. . . . . was a regular macabre mess. I finished the 10k with a 9 minute pace, somewhere around 51 minutes. the race is in three days, I busted my back up y’day washing maya (my 65 lbs. lab/chow dog), and hope that it is healing quickly. otherwise we may get snow tonight as the temperatures drop behind the rain.



mahler’s third performed by the Berliner philharmonic as conducted by Claudio abbado.



Prayer first and foremost is an Act. a contrite surge of preserverence and Faith and the Passion to Endure cleanly. the passion to endure is a Prayer. prayer is verbal only in its most nascent moments. it is otherwise the act of realization and execution.



February 26th 2010 and the sun is out though not very warming. ky’s first year birthday was yesterday, and he was joyful and merry as relatives and friends with their little ones all clamored into our home (festive with balloons and decorated high chairs) for the occasion. he was well-behaved and endured well, refusing a decent nap prior to the party which fell into his normal nap time. regrettably I had to go to work, though it was moderately busy and money was made and the busyness of the day left me a bit distraught by end of the shift.



the run, though. the run was a 6 miler, mixed with road and trail and then mixed with sleet & snow. . . . . a run bringing me into a meditative mindscape allowing me a mindfulness, an attentiveness. . . . the snow and sun and cold and February, and ky’s first year birthday.

Luxury of memory & a moveable feast

feb 17th


the luxury of memory—the proustian theater of one’s history. subjective, subjugated, dismembered and often obscured or lost or discarded, the collected images of a life are the tools & resources of a writer’s labor. . . . . impressions, the Moments captured in suspended impact, discovered and pondered in quiet reflection or movement or against a mahler symphony or a haydn string quartet, whatever the vehicle of remembrance may be. . . . . memory is associative, is giant, is omnipresent, is banal and grandiloquent. and it stirs always against the mire of Now.



while running, the childhood imagery often flails around—likewise upon drifting into sleep at night. . . . . when painting, I rarely glimpse this cavernous womb of my being, the nascent years lost and undisturbed as the colours and contents unconsciously already contain these images. I vaguely remember high school and even less so the years before. I have flashes of recall—an image or a smell or a slight association, like peering through a mostly shuttered window, and then it evaporates as quickly as it appeared—never surfacing on consciousness. never really known or studied. stuck in a hot attic. mark. the many homes mom and I lived in.



Ash Wednesday. a day of reflection and a season of repentance. of promise and aspiration. a day to begin a new foundation. ash wednesday. let love and health prosper, especially while nothing else prospers. . . . .

I have given up daytime television for lent—a nasty habit which as seized upon my imagination and creative energies. a monopoly of mindlessness ended. run & paint y’all. paint & run.



thursday brought a fast eight mile run across wilmington’s downtown, on the cape fear and around Greenfield park and was quiet and isolated but for one couple I passed twice and one female runner who smiled when we passed the second time. otherwise it was my road and my footfalls for company and drive. that and the blighted neighborhoods surrounding the park and up third street where I once bought bags or attempted to. . . . .



February 19 2010. a good run followed by Sumatran coffee (a valentine’s day gift from kas) a hot shower and bach’s art of the fugue (the emerson string quartet doing a re-orchestration thereof). some rice-a-roni and cheese quesadilla for lunch. today’s run was around 6 miles, fast miles, in a moderately warm day, bringing my total this year up to 162 miles. between y’day and today, a marked improvement in my running times. my endurance, breath, my gait. . .. . all seems stronger and longer, focused. bach helps. it also helps that the wind has diminished, the sun is bright, and the air is warming. soon I will hear reggae and sand-crunches on the beach as I run.



moving the studio back home next week. after some twenty months of operating the studio, I must now admit a certain level of defeat. . . . . just too difficult to get downtown, get setup and into the creative space, and maintain a schedule of it. creativity & painting will be more accessible if here, at home, and more convenient to view and work on. I look forward to it.

continuing the distance. . . . .

when did the studio pour outta the door into downtown wilmington? into the shores and sand-swept sidewalks of Wrightsville. . ? when did the run become the art, the art become the run. . . . . always a physical painter, now I’ve found the physical surmounted the palette, surmounted the brush, found the feet and the beat of the street as arms swing and minds blank into eyes and sounds and a synergized experience of it all. . . . .

beethoven’s late piano sonata, no. 29, performed by r. goode, a most tender and neurotic piece. quietly belligerent.

ran a 15k this weekend, saturday January 23rd. 73 minutes, establishing a pace of 7m41secs. more on that later, or not. the race is run and 9.3 miles felt longer today than 10 miles just five days ago. . . .

when not doing dishes after cooking dinner or taking care of kyote, when not doing my laundry or working, when I have the energy, I run. neither time nor passion permits me the studio experience, the concentration of inspiration working into canvas and focus and that is my life. I have sold much of my soul, a mountain soul, for the beach. I have sold my soul for a server position. I have sold my soul to be a family man. I have sold my soul to America. I would like to have a farm in some hills, near the mountains and near a city, where I can run and chase birds and seasons and meditate and not be mind-broken by the noise of rat-race futility.

I wan the freedom to say “I am not in a good mood today. Don’t fuck with me.”

February 15th. snow valentine and a run with friends.

ran five miles with s and j this weekend. a lovely run, despite the cold wet wind carrying the sun offa snow. yeah it snowed friday night—five- six inches in fact. was pretty and refreshing and s. led the run around ogden park and through a “trail” which was really a partial frozen creek/ construction road and snow blinded each step and made me nervous, but ultimately was exhilarating and I regretted my reluctance. a hard run, with some chest congestion remaining (after two weeks of it now), and the coldest 7 miles ever the day before with the winter storm rolling in like Beethoven, and the good vibe and warm accomplishment sense of things really didn’t hit until I was at work serving valentine couples for eight hours that night. then I was glad to have the experience. but upon leaving s. and j. I felt a deep, odd depression and even declared myself a solitary runner for a while. they are so much faster than me and just throw it into the upper gears that I completely lack the talent of. but that’s that—I am just a slow runner, like a Johnny cash type beat in my run that just keeps going. . . . . never really quickening nor slowing. . . . really—I am just running, a physical impulse, like chewing or sleeping, muscle working and mind pacing along, but just a milling of the legs and heart and blood and footfalls and the music of the mind enmeshed with a passing world.

palimpsest. . . . .

palimpsest. . . A manuscript, typically of papyrus or parchment, that has been written on more than once, with the earlier writing incompletely erased and often legible. . .

the coast swallows itself at high tide. . . mind swallows itself as language, pulse-throb, image-vacuum; reeling masks of time passed and the nocturnal veil of memory is lifted to a Pandora-panorama. . . the loss of sacrosanct and wild rapturous angst bounds to boundless rampage; a lazy spiritual cleansing, but effective. . . purification by fire. vietnam zen monks burning in pleads, falling in flames as people watch, listen, smell. . . just fucking watching, listening, smelling. . .

psalms. . . flights of language like summer devouring spring. . . the plunge of abrupt understanding. Awakening. . . rhapsodic. rapturous. rabid. romantic. the cruel severance of dream and youth and promise and the loss of the Sacred. . . so pretentious and abstract a word. sacrosanct. perhaps a catechism of the soul? an ephemeral will to grasp, explain, define. . . a psalm is a moment of insight into a still life, a natur morte; loss of relevance yields lucid captured comprehension. . . this sounds so fucking bleak. . . perhaps a blue psalm. a blue fugue. palimpsest. . . vanilla extracted through creams, saffron through white wine and olive oil. . . the love wrestled from a desired paramour. . . dreams writhing through the dulled eyes of a solemn wanderer; the modern pilgrim. the explorer of the distant unquestioned, disquieted and alone; wanders into a brutal winter and orders a warmed cognac, swirls the liquor studying the cascade of color, feeling his palm warm under the golden tincture.

schopenhaur's cafe. . .

schoenberg's cafe. . .

stravinsky's cafe. . . syncopated yearnings leap as a flaming fawn. . . some guy reading on the chair beside me got a hard-on. an older man, say 50 or so. . . I couldn't figure that one out.

science is a "refinement of everyday thought" said einstein. a refinement of thought. . . an ascension, elucidation of God.

the fickle nature of desire; cast into doubt, the young shepherd abandons his tribe and flock and literature to bury the corpse which was forgotten in the core of his spirit. . . putrid and unforgiving, the corpse is a burden which forever grounds him. the sheep are ill with the rotten stench, the tribe dismisses his efforts and labors as lost. . . a lost shepherd, a lost flock, a lost field, a loss indescribable. . .


Papyrus made of exotic woods. . . . . . . dead ink-blood, made from a coyote-mother’s moon-tears. . . .