mundial, some running, journal paintings, a random Her.

how foreign language conjures names long lost and neglected. . . . . remembrances odd and anachronistic, false insertions of the associative unconscious. . . . abstractions dominate our awareness. blurs outta the corner of Mind’s eye.

june 24. 10h25am.

following a 6 mile jog (meaning i started running and ended walking, so the average of the two = jog). did a wrightsville beach circuit. . . . beach was nice and uncrowded and now paraguay versus new zealand with the vuvezelas blaring like rabid monks and a pb & banana & honey sandwich with coffee as black beans start simmering and laundry rolls and maya sleepily licks her snout.

june 25th 589m/yr; 50m/mon; 19m/wk.

ky is 16 months.

ran by this chic y’day, and strangely I now recall (distort) her as wearing a hoodie. she stared at me as she ran by, an enigmatic study. . . . she may have been mid-thirties, stark eyes lupine and hard as a hunters. . . . she accused my thoughts as she ran, was inside my head as a drifting aquatic voice, oil and water, she was melancholy and tragic and searching. she was running and running well. . . . a haunting visage, a smokey portrait burned into mind’s strange gallery, cosmic graffiti.

three-point-five miles in neighborhood, blazing at 10am. . . . quiet across the scorched asphalt. . . . . echoes of footsteps. garden is wild and dreadlocked and finally one fine tomato produced. . . . heirlooms struggle in the heat as jalapenos mature nicely. . . . brazil versus Portugal en vivo. . . . escribo el futuro.

a bountiful summer solstice.

the pure massive reckless speed of the brainstorm. . . . visual verbal, mingus-madtype jangle of language. . . . paint-stirred prose, jutting into image.
the runners body was haunted, was strangely false, like an unfinished rodin sculpture, displaced and sagged. . . . everywhere the runners walk, wearing their short shorts and their sports tops and sometimes rank with sweat and effort and other times cool & dry as a wine cellar. . . .

6.17.10

5 miles at the coast. hot. eleven miles for the week as knee heals, and kyote and I watch the world cup. . . . love the world news pouring from the pouty mouth of a senorita, lubricious hips swaying to a marching mariachi band behind, as the over-caffeinated dude in the suit spurts laughter bursts and apparent witticisms into the monologue. I understand about 20 percent of the newscast, but enjoy 100 percent of it.

a steep & slippery downslope my fitness suffered during the three weeks of nonrunning, and the two weeks of drastically reduced running prior to that. in total I lost over one month of running, acclimating to the southern coastal heat, and maintaining the level of endurance I was achieving. . . . . I struggle with three miles, my knee still funky but mostly just getting the rhythm of body back into the act of running. to choreograph the whole physical action into a smooth run demands breath, strength, mental fortitude, determination, all elements currently slumping. . . . while building that wholeness of form, I look to painting and others runners for inspiration.

6.19 three miles and the end of the run-week. 18 miles for the week.

6.20.10

kyote and I continue to watch the world cup on the Univision/ Mexican channel. . . . a fantastic, charged group host the events, and while I understand 30% of what they discuss, I thoroughly enjoy their fervor. kyote has learned to sing-say with me that rare but manic note: “gooooooooool!”

4 miles today in hot noon sun. bearing down on the chest and head, the sun just starts breaking me so much quicker. the thermometer was at 88 when I returned, and the heat index was likely higher. spring ends at midnight tonight and summer is already melting my soles. . . .

sun and music and paint. . . .

some pictures from the previous three days of storms and garden-labors and ramble. meanwhile i have discovered an incredible coffee-- Caribou Mahogony. . . . . an excellent home-brewed cup of java.

garden bites green into the afternoon as paynes gray storms churn from the southwest.

Adrian Ghenie is a terrific, contemporary german painter.  also a cuban painter, alejandro campins, is a visual marvel.

above is a mottled light-puzzle of a decayed homestead in northern virginia, and i thought it was beautiful.
june 4th. two miles y’day, a lively jaunt, a pleasant stroll before the rain began. but a recovery still slow and cautious. three miles today—mostly brisk walking. felt my shoes melting on the asphault road.

tiger balm, RICE, restlessness and anxiety. . . .

may 26th. a second anniversary in a private hut-table at indochine restaurant. superb. a dusked drizzle tapped a tranquil rhythm throughout our meal. the appetizer was a steaming crock of mussels, served with a delicious coconut milk curry, a wonderfully deep flavor alternating with sweet & spicy notes. from there we had a dragon tail of shrimp and orange wasabi. the entrees—i had aubergines and tofu curry, kas had the “happy asian melody.” concluding the meal was an apt plate of fried bananas and vanilla ice cream with whipped cream on top.

y’day was my trip to the orthopedic.  the lobby was a busy bustle of wheelchairs, neck braces, shoulder apparatuses, hip cuffs, casts and crutches. . . . the percussive shake of pill bottles and nurse shuffles. once seen, I was my usual flustered self as the doctor asked me to explain what was going on. after rambling while facing my three x-rays showing a perfectly good knee (the patella “may have a slight tilt” he says), then getting a few motion tests and pokes and prods on my left knee, the benevolent doctor announces the verdict. I have patellafemoral pain, aka runner’s knee. neither surgery nor shot will relieve it. there is no serious damage, no torn meniscus, just enflamed tendon and ligament and possible muscle scooped up by ridged bone with every step. burning my knee out with overuse he said. hhmmph. alternating ice and heat, tiger balm rub and alleve or Tylenol should do the trick.

so a mixed bag of news—but since surgery was not an option on any level, an overall positive prognosis. . . . moving on.

may 28  blank canvases.

running long distances is a meditation. the psyche's narrative throughout a run parallels the various emotive stages of life. the endurance necessary to heal various life-struggles and damages is represented on a macrocosmic level in a run-- a sort of physicaly poem or metaphor. . . . . to remind myself of my strength and courage, to reawaken my elan vital, i continue to run. i run to reclaim my Self. the moment i worry about what another person thinks of my running, i desecrate the beauty of the act. i lose the act as a meditation, as an expansion, as a pure thing.  i clone consumer concerns of name-tag emblems and icons, i clone my body to magazine covers, i abstract the act of the run into a flailing eruption, an unnatural grotesque.

the canvases sit untouched but for charcoal spills, lazy lines, and the marks of their journey through false starts and abandoned/ recycled imagery. . . . they evolve like ruins in a garden.

june 1. coffee on the porch as rain drenches the freshly mowed lawn. tomato leaves blink against the falling rain.

memorial day weekend passed with full home of in-laws and then friends from Fairfax, VA. a social weekend full with straight shifts running late, getting home at 1 am two nights in a row. Carolina beach one morning and Wrightsville beach the next. swimming and playing in sun and sand. my knee is now ten days out of running and into healing.

canvases on back deck as images emerge, lotuses from the mire of mind. . . .

Updates and low days.

may 23rd 2010.

appointment tomorrow at atlantic orthopedics for my knee. not even a swift sprint seems possible now. . . . . stressful on too many levels to consider.

meanwhile my tomato plants are doing well—with mr. stripey actually showing his first fruits!

may 24th-- kas and my two year annivesary.   her gift is pictured below.

my new workspace!!  (ky's pool in background)

mahler, oil sticks, oil of night, strange divulgements. . . .

may 10.

a coupl’a mahler symphonies and a history of war & fucking. . . . a running (internal) dialogue.

a nighttime run, the first night run in at least one year, and a truly surreal experience.  the first kicks were normal and stretching and then the weirdness fell around me.  the grass became an asphalt mosaic, with no topography visible, just feet responding to what was there on the kick. then a blazing-eyed albino cat, the white cat that would stalk my run for perhaps a quarter mile as bats overhead dangle from a hyper puppeteer's wires in the azure fade-out of evening. . . . the porch visits of neighbors, dark and vague but for crystal voices and occasional distorted laughter. . . . then the long quiet of the night’s arrival, hardly a bird, trees stalk stars still as a cat. . . . pastels fold in on themselves and the stars emerge (in my periphery a tree quickly lunges). . . . night collapses and form dissolves into cloud-mind. . . . symphony.  the same effect as long daytime runs, but in much shorter work. hallucinatory and introspectful, an accompanying sensory deprivation yogis & ascetics endure as happenings approaching enlightment, Awareness. but I just kept running and breathing, the nights delirium containing me like a wolf-womb. stretching in front of the house, the night folds up its immense strange theater set and all is restored to normalcy. 
now pbs—“an American life: into the deep.” a show of American whaling and specifically the Essex’s disastrous and horror-stricken voyage.

night pours across the land like oil in the gulf.

time for pastel drawings, oil sticks. franz kline and joan mitchell, motherwell in mind. the french painter—soulages? the Italian poor artists, arte povera. . . hemingway is in mind much lately. . . . should revisit his short stories.
may 11. 11h01am. seven miles at the beach, summer rest loop and around the loop and the causeway park area and back. . . . gray broke into sun and warmth. mozart’s requiem on the way home.

have tapped into a great local band, and (as usual) I am the last to know. no dollar shoes is a group of mad-talented local boys who tear up the traditional bluegrass instruments with a certain punk sneer in their drawl. check it out here or here.

may 12. mahler and miles. . . .

mahler’s seventh today, a ravenous recording from the berliner philharmonic and was up latelate with kyote and croup. . . . . a long day followed. . . . brahms and flogging molly and memford and sons.
may 13. eight miles and change from folk’s café (downtown) into fifth and fourth and catholic school laughter and restoration construction across many porches of the southern homes leaning over the sidewalks with oaks and magnolias and taxis and sherrifs and small convenience stores populating the road towards the railroad passing where greenfield lake becomes visible. . . . a good day for a run, as temps rise into mid 80’s quickly with the sun. an old box turtle creeped along the edge of the park, his shell partially algaed over, a Mandelbrot puzzle of age in each pentagram formation and the interlocking shapes. . . . . recursive imagery. gatorade and old crow medicine show on the drive home.

a slight envy of the artists who meet for coffee and kibbutz at folk’s café each thursday, inclusive and interested. they would recognize my paintings but they would not recognize me.  I was just a runner (in a sketchy neighborhood) looking for a banana at the café where they sat. anonymity as exclusion.

may 17th.

one cannot structure the emotional into form, rather one allows the emotionalism to possess the body and surge into work and Act. this is true in running as it is in painting.  the interesting parallel between running, painting. . . . . the crux of the thing.  act serving as nexus to higher self.
saw porpoises, two of them, swimming across the tide-break sunday morning with ky and kas. 

don't let the work take the joy out of the thing--

may 5 2010.

don’t let the work take the joy of a thing. that was the mantra running through pa in ribbons wrapping farms and silos, grazing cows, the quietude but for my footfalls (& footclimbs) on the hills of the area. . . . . the bucolic, external beauty became an internal beauty, became a mind-journey as the body churned Aware but unconsciously. huckleberry mountain loomed across the horizon, my feet pushing and pulling against the hills towards that massive gray jut darkening against the northern sky. and through that landscape passed my alternately searching and still mind-body, finding miles and future paintings on some subconscious continuum rarely revealed.

the runs were through a picturesque loop from Benton to Unityville with a one-room school house still standing on one corner by a cow pasture, a few hound dogs lazily watching me pass with heavy eyes, and few cars. the cars that did pass had smiles and waves, unlike anything that greets me at home. the end point was the Swisher Farm, a member of my extended (by marriage) family, and there was the massive dog Kobe, a black lab that looked like a dinosaur mixed with Rottweiler, but whose owner kept him near to the red oxide barn.

the limestone and granite of northern Virginia, the plush life of the blue ridge. we stopped by Fredericksburg and found a charming historic city, bustling with tobacco and pint-clinking bars, galleries and even a river-front park. we then passed the preparations of the Apple Blossom Festival and turned left towards Berryville, where we visited friends on their wild green mountain, farm patches rolling behind rusted iron gates and thickets thrusting luscious and berried and fecund. a wonderful stop.

the premier run was across steep loose-rubble roads where horses nodded and hoof-stomped at my curious arrival. I listened, a bit paranoid, to the woods swallowing me as their rich life ruffled and shook and vibrated cacophonic. an easy breath came at the 1500’ elevation, even climbing the 500’ that rolls nearly unnoticed across the pastorale.

may 6 2010. schubert’s cypresses for string quartet, rachmoninoff’s elegiac trios for piano and strings. marvelous. today brought a six mile run, summer rest looping through the coast and back around wb park and up summer rest, the closest thing to a rolling run one can find at this coast. knee felt okay until I got home and sat outside with my dog and watched the tomato plants grow in the sun; tensed up something awful during that fifteen minute rest. but the run was fast and Hot, good cleansing with a full pint of Gatorade and plenty of h20 afterwards to wash out muscles and toxins. lovely bodies running, already bronzed and beautiful. much of the run was internal, quiet, just breathing and body-awareness (mostly knee and breath) and an effort to rid the negatives of the system. six miles was a good distance, though I look forward to the meditation of the long runs again.

Rauschenberg’s transfer drawings reclaim my interest and provoke the will to work. feels so long ago that I was playing with transfers and really painting. . . . . working fluidly and with excitement in my work. work begets work. also enjoying the previous two issues of Modern Painters, especially the hockney interview. I contemplate the next step of restoring myself to creativity.