Today I run off a hangover. Two miles followed by a mile and a half of intervals. I can't really call what I do creative anymore. Whatever creativity I cling to between bouts of drinking, boredom, and crappy slow gated runs, seems to stay fickle. Maybe there was more of it ten years ago, or maybe I am not noticing the creativity that happens on a daily basis.
Regardless
I learned an elton john song yesterday. That was certainly a first. I plan on honing this song enough to use it for a bunch of listless children, kicking around shoes, laughing at nothing. -Summer days are bluish memories of waking, running around the kitchen, my mother cleaning the kitchen floor, all the chair upside down on the kitchen table; me within looking out as from a fort. Water guns and the taste of their plastic when shooting the warm water into you mouth. Water baloon fights; my brother throwing a ball clear over the house. Someone, perhaps my uncle, and him actually playing catch over my grandmother's house. The old dirty football you would only see on a farm; not something kept in a tidy garage, but left loose in the soil for years on end. Running throw the gate into my back yard. Falling hard in the garage, my head throwing, sight circled around me, from behind me; a birds eye view.
(I thumb through a few databases to get a better answer on what Tolstoy's writing does to me intellectually and emotionally. How long has it been since I used Boolean logic? I want to try his short stories as well. Enjoying the long form novel a lot though. War and Peace, currently. )
What else?

Kept thinking it would rain; one second the sky is the color of denim,
Later I admitted to being a soap snob. The sky like nickels.
Later I brewed green tea using a microwave. The heat outside temporarily broken by one a wonderfully timed thunderstorm; lasting for most of the early morning. Rolling around, digging deeper in.
My dog stretches besides me.

Birthday's rattled off in rapid fire succession. Month. Day. Year.
I sip my tea and watch the shadows brighten under the canopy of the live oak and pecan trees,
In a few hours I will run and I will leave all this behind.
Small dosages of serotonin inhibitors will allow my hands to freely dissect the air,
Prying my fingernails lose from hands chopping through the May air,
(something about showers, something about flowers).
A light hearted mumble as I pass processions of cars feasting on the day,
Witnessing blue skies and white swallows of light, lazy...
"It won't kill you, you know?" I practiced my sad little wind sprints and intervals; my times haven't really increased in decades.

Got a Jim Harrison poetry collection in from inter-library loan,
Robert told me, as I started at him, that his brother may be getting a new gun.
His range gun (Robert's) is a sig. He shot about 50 rounds yesterday with the 9mm,
then shot about 30 with his .38.
A good gun. Fun. You could shoot it one armed.
His lead bullets are very accurate.

Ran over 5 miles yesterday. I don't want to jump to conclusions but I feel like I may be back in stride. Something happened around the purchase of my new shoes where my running was trailing off and my legs were feeling stiff. Maybe this was a normal plateau? I ran less for a few weeks and feel better now. Perhaps I just needed to adjust to my new shoes; electric blue.

Post new post no; wave.

A young father and his son stumble over the rocks leading into City Park Lake
I just managed to take my eyes off of them long enough to see the sun breaking through the clouds to the west. The rays warmed my legs and arms. I pulled my hat back so my hears stuck out and kept up my slow pace. It was years before still when I ran though orange and yellow leaves; the fake autumn of the south with dead leaves and warm air. I had just downloaded a bunch of John Cale. At the time I remember thinking that i was supposed to not think; to just go one step at a time. This was somehow supposed to keep be focused on the present and not the the failings of my past. "Failings." As much as can be said for someone just trying to make it through a decade or a period of one's youth. At the time everything seems so important and so fragile.
My running has been slow lately. It could be due to the weather change, some kind of exotic floor dance I did when too much energy soars through my muscles, or just too little water. That is a thing right? I seem to remember thinking water was important. They say now you can drink too much water.
I can, however, remember this:
A small framed house, just outside of a hill and underneath dark tree coverage. Just a frame with the roof maybe missing from a fire as the walls had patches of black all over them. Huddled in the corner opposite of me sat two guys I had only met days before. They whispered about rocks and how you could throw them deep into lakes and they would never be found again. Red eyes growled from beneath their visages.

About 8 days off from running finally came to an end yesterday with the purchase of new shoes. Electric blue Mizunos. The psychological aspect of running should never be underestimated. I can't lie to you blog, I have nothing to say.

Post

My legs felt like weights the last 4 miles I ran. Yesterday was a run day; I smoked a cigarette. It is cold today, perfect running weather really. Who knows. Last week I put up some impressive mile, 5k, and 4 mile numbers (for this runner). I am reading an incredible book right now dear journal, "Light in August," by Faulkner. Reminds me of driving late at night through Duck Hill Mississippi. There is really nothing about Mississippi that I look fondly at at all. Though, I can see my headlights going forever on a long dark stretch; some random road parallel to I50. Nothing but trees and dust breaking up the beams. There is a hamburger joint north of Duck Hill in Grenada. Late drives consumed by opiates and death. Marching through fires and boredom.