Tuesday, March 27, 2012


evocative |iˈväkətiv|
bringing strong images, memories, or feelings to mind 

Evocative.  It's a word that comes up frequently in therapy, rarely in a positive context.  I guess for this season the images, memories, and feelings being dredged up are bittersweet, like the clanging together of childhood happiness and the disappointment of adulthood.  It's in the way that the scent of Ultrathon bug spray reminds me of her, or the moist earthen smell that seems to only hang in the air this time of year, or the way the verdant forest canopy has already begun to blot out the sky, or the cool 40 degree air against my legs before the sun has broken the horizon.  Soon it will be the gauze-like haze of Summer hung from the stars, the humid air stealing my breath, the sting of the sun on my pale Irish skin, rainstorms my only reprieve, nights spent dreaming of what, I'm not sure.  No wish or will can stop the bastard days of Summer.

So what the fuck does any of this have to do with running?  I don't know.  Somewhere along the line my mental well being became inextricably tied to being alone in the woods.  It's a very real possibility that if one didn't exist then neither could the other.  So I guess there isn't a word that I've written in the last year or so that hasn't been about both running and the rusting tilt-a-whirl that is my head.

Safety Gate         5/7/2007       Brewster, NY

If you want the first drops of rain against the cedar shakes
If you want to let loose the scent of reason
Dried brush and electrical storms
Misery without boundary and a long low moan into the tactile summer air
Then, please, come inside

I am waiting 
Aquamarine eyes set on the doorway 
The scent of lust and petroleum 
Aged lumber and hob nails penetrating wanting flesh
I am breathing
Tachypnic, infection born, your trepidation
The ant climbing the peony, the rattle of the last breath
Please, come inside

This flush of trees, thick skinned and darker than the night sky
My winding thought, ink blot against the deep grey before me
Alternating currents and Parkinsonian rhythm
The tar and the stone and the work of the sun
(I am these quiet surroundings, the murderers lair, the insect vibration, 
the fresh cut grass, the broken branch scraping against the screen door)
Please, come inside.

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