Please pardon any egregious typographical errors in the postings for the next couple days. My cat/animal life partner is sitting directly in front of the monitor giving me a blank, inscrutable look, so I might make more typing errors than usual. It’s clear he wants to communicate something, though, as he refuses to budge from his position, and I’m instead met with the unreadable, existential silence of Waffles the Cat. I feel a bit like I’m in a Beckett play. Or at least the kind of play I’d imagine Beckett might’ve written if he’d spent more time with Hugh Lofting. I think he’s justifiably upset with me for ditching him at chez Turner for the past couple months. I don’t even write regularly. So I’m not surprised that he didn’t greet me at the door with a tuna casserole.
Anyway, I’m home. The plane ride was a nerve-rattling affair towards the end, but beyond that the trip was superb. I got some grading done. I watched the episode of The Office where Holly is tricked into thinking Kevin is a “special needs” employee, which I had not previously seen since I’ve been unplugged from anything resembling popular American culture for the last two months, thanks to school. I got to watch the sunset over the Great Basin from 39,000 feet. The guy next to me asked me if he could have a piece of my gum. It was great. And that reminds me.
Have I told you guys how much I love airports?
I love airports. For more than the usual pleasures of peoplewatching, free cans of ginger ale, and the spare, vaguely Nordic beauty of airport washrooms. I like airports because I can put on Brian Eno and watch the light. The quality of daylight in airports–and I imagine it has something to do with those gigantic, tinted bay windows they put in–carries an almost unearthly graininess and sharp, cosmopolitan lines. As a result, everyone in an airport (especially Reno-Tahoe “International”) looks like Edward Hopper painted them.
And I went for a spectacular run this evening along the Boulder Creek path under a waning moon. I watched mighty brains of cumulus clouds silver the green-black fabric of a sky that seemed to grow directly up from the mountain crests, and fold over the valley like a parachute, close to the ground.
Every time I come home to Colorado, and especially when I go for runs, I feel something akin to the sensation when you dig through piles of junk in your room to discover a novel you’d forgotten you were reading months ago, with a bookmark jammed a third of the way in or so, and you pick it up, page squinty-eyed through its leaves, and suddenly you’re in it again.
The official (or at least as official as this thing ever gets) race preview Sunday’s Denver Marathon is coming tomorrow on the Belfry. Stay tuned.
Oh, and lest I forget: big ups to my grrrl Glam-Grizzly for the best. gift. ever. received. by me. And I probably would include my mother giving me the gift of life at the moment of my birth in that statement. At some point I’ll have to stage an elaborate press photo for this blog using it. And everyone wish Simon, and also Buffy’s Mom and Dad the best of runnerly luck in Sunday’s race, too. (No blog link to the latter that I’m aware of. Hey Liz, does your mom blog? I’ll bet she blogs. All night long. Ohhh yeeaaah.) I’d like to stage a bomb high-five right as we all cross the line simultaneously at 2:31, and Iron Maiden arena-show quality fireworks go off, if that’s at all possible.
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Most recent run and atmospheric conditions: see above.
Workout/whether or not my innards gave way : three miles easy, plus some strides. Nowhere near intestinal meltdown this time.
Total Mileage to Date: 608 (hooray taper week!)
Days remaining to Denver: 3
(pictured: me, sunday. post-race expo beer truck is off-camera to the left)
