A Reunion With Radical Kiera

Until today, I hadn’t seen my friend Kiera in nine years. The last time I saw her we were having one last group sleepover at my house the week before we each moved out of Milwaukee to seek our higher educations in other cities. I went to Missouri for the Kansas City Art Institute and Kiera went to Oakland for the College of Creative Studies. Kiera has been living in Oakland ever since. Understandable, Oakland is a balmy paradise full of bookstores and coffee shops, and it is easy to navigate without a car. Unfortunately, the gentrification of Oakland will soon force Kiera to move out. The soaring rents will soon match those of San Francisco where the average one bedroom apartment is $3,000 a month.

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Here we are at a school dance back in the day.

 

Keira tells me that this could be a good change because she would like to live somewhere quiet where there is lots of space between the houses. However, Kiera is conflicted about this idea because she a city girl. I recommend Detroit to her because whenever I go to that city it has a quiet feel due to all the boarded up houses, but remains a city where only those possessing much grit survive. She agrees with me but says she probably won’t be moving to anywhere in the Midwest since her boyfriend, Snow, doesn’t like cold weather!

 

Kiera tells me about how one time Snow and his father went skiing and got separated on the hill. Snow’s father started calling for his son, “Snow! Snoooow!!!” and people looked strangely at this man who seemed to suddenly realize that the world around him was covered in snow.

 

Kiera joins me for a meal at the Pfister café. She surveys the menu and starts to laugh when she sees it offers a salad called a “cheeseburger bowl,” featuring a hamburger with cheese on a bed of lettuce “Only out here,” says Kiera. I ask what the “only out there” regional equivalent would be in Oakland. “Maybe if you asked for the simple arugula salad, with just arugula and tomatoes.” We are sitting in one of the café booths and it reminds us both of hanging out late at night at 24-hour diners in high school. Kiera laments that Oakland has a scarcity of 24-hour establishments.

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That’s a lot of men in one room.

 

We walk around the hotel imagine what it and the city were like when it was first built. Kiera takes her time, reading every plaque and investigating every painting and photograph. We stop in front of a picture that was taken when President McKinley came to the Pfister. There must be 2000 people in the room, and we try to find even one woman in the crowd, but don’t see one, not even a maid. We both say how we cannot fully grasp what life was like back then.  Although I do look at over my contemporary, Keira, and (using my hundred year old filter) observe that she wears her hair very short. Radical! Kiera wonders if any of her ancestors from her dad’s side are in this photo. The German side of Kiera’s family had some influence in this town back when Milwaukee was considered “the gold coast” prior to the first World War.

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One more thing: Radical Kiera is just back from competing in Art Prize, a national juried art show in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Here she is modeling a nine-foot wearable art piece that she designed with five other collaborators.

This Is His Fifth Wedding In Three Years

I’m drinking tropical hibiscus in the lounge

when a woman enters the vicinity clopping

her tongue like a horse

along to the ambient music.

I record this occurrence in my notebook,

take a swig of tea,

and stand

to meet the clip clop woman

so as to tell her how much I appreciate

triumphal people who enter rooms with song.

“I did?  I don’t remember doing that.”

says the lady who mere seconds ago

was a verifiable songhorse.

I wonder if any of the other loungers

here can recall it,

perhaps

I notice more than I should

like when I ask the man with all the loose leaf notes

and who is scrawling with an extra wide sharpie

what it is he is doing

and he says

“writing an obituary”

and then thanks me for leaving him alone.

Today I overhead a woman saying,

“A successful marriage requires falling in love several times.”

Plenty of advice like that can be overhead inside the Pfister

on the seventh floor

I overhear the rehearsal of marriage vows,

a man and a woman,

scripts in hand

“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

(Which I still always hear as “Do you take this man to be your waffle-y wedded husband?” because that’s what I thought it was when my grandma and I played Barbies back in 1990 or so.)

Maybe it is none of my bee’s wax biz nizz

but I ask them if they are about to marry each other

“No!  That’s my sister!”

says the man named Jesse

who is an officiant for weddings.

This is his fifth wedding in three years,

he only marries close friends of the family.

“If I know them I will do it,”

he will marry them.

Jesse informs me that “you could even marry yourself if you want to”

or at least you could according to the Wisconsin state statue of five years ago

when last he read it

as part of getting ordained by the Universal Life Church

“I’ve paid my dues, Miss.”

His first wedding was up in the Porcupine Mountains of upper Michigan,

how waffle-y romantic sounding

I think

it is time to wish Jesse and his helping sister well

so that they may get on with the ceremony,

but there is no bride and groom,

no wedding party,

where are they?

Late.

I almost say, “Well, break a leg!”

but that’s not quite appropriate,

maybe “Go jump the broom!” is better?

Jesse recommends, “I hope you’re sure!”

or if the conditions are right, “I hope this is the last one!”

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Jesse and his sister Valerie rehearse the ceremony. They came in from Green Bay, Wisconsin.
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“I’m getting concerned that no one is up here,” says Jesse regarding the wedding party.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My IQ Is Higher Than Einstein’s

I weighed one pound fourteen ounces, pills

carried four and a half months.

I was the record until 1971.

I was the size of a big tomato,

except I was long

you could put me in a shoebox.

They put five months on my birth certificate

but it was really four and a half,

my mom knew when she conceived me.

She fell so that’s why I came out early.

She always had big babies

and then I was maybe too small.

 

I used to iron my brother Ned’s shirts

when he was in first grade

and I was three years old

my mom would watch me

I had my baby iron

it was a small toy iron

but it worked

it actually ironed

so I would charge a whole dollar.

My brother would try to get out of it

and say there was something wrong

and my mom would say

“No. She did good.”

I made sure it was done right

that the iron actually got in the grooves

like it was supposed to.

 

I could draw three-dimensionally in first grade.

I was held back a year

not because I couldn’t do the work

but because I had fever and jaundice

and strep throat a lot

it affects your heart

and it affects your liver

I got those at the same time

so I was kind of weak and tired.

 

I grew up in Kenosha, hospital

on Sheridan Road by the Keno Drive In Theater

we had a nursery

and statuary

and fireworks

and we had a food stand in the summertime

for extra money

my mom split the four of us up

each one of us selling the veggies

and we averaged about 700 each

it was call the “student stand.”

We protested about the bus system

the state did not have a bus system for younger kids

we had to walk three miles on the highway to get to school.

All us kids got together and walked

and we protested

that

was fun

and then the newspaper took care of it.

 

I didn’t have to pay for any of my college

till I was 26 years old.

I had a scholarship for high IQ

According to my friend

(and I need to check into this)

160 was Einstein

this friend of mine was 189

and I’m 298.

I didn’t care for Nixon, viagra sale but he did help students and low-income people

get into college like that

so he can’t be all wrong.

The first day my commercial art teacher asked us all,

“What is commercial art?”

I raised my hand and gave an answer

that blew his lecture for a week and a half

so after that he never called on me

I could wave my hand all I wanted,

but I was never getting called on again.

My teacher shouldn’t have asked a question that vague

I had studied it before that class,

read the whole commercial art textbook

but Milwaukee Area Technical College didn’t appreciate me

so they put me on independent study

I played piano and fourth chair violin for the Hollywood Bowl

the symphony in Los Angeles

in the summertime

that was my music theory class

when I was at Berkeley

it was kind of fun.

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The Absinthe Minded Confusion Fusion

DSCN7181My recorder has stored a highly detailed 16 minute and 12 second description of a book this man read a couple decades ago.  It is the autobiography of Bernard Baruch, a wall street guy who hung out at the Waldorf Astoria hotel in the 1930’s.  The description would have been even longer had I not the urge to use the bathroom.  To get the rest of the story I’ll have to read the rest of the book, but he warned me that it is hard to find as it has gone out of print.

DSCN7091Snooping around on the second floor I discover the Pfister’s room rates.  Even with a bath, it’s cheaper than renting an apartment.  So, I’m moving into a room.

DSCN7021Now that I live at the Pfister my breakfast always looks likes this.  Made in house daily by dainty fingered bakers that know the difference between a dried currant and a dried blueberry by touch alone.

DSCN7214My lunches are exquisite medleys of pecans, bacon, tomato, spinach and salmon grilled by low voiced gorillas with ornamental (but harmless) fangs.

DSCN7011My snacks are the giant pretzels set out for convention goers.

DSCN6811This supper of chicken and mashed cauliflower enraptures me so much that I must fill my paper napkin with the scribbles of divine savoring!

DSCN6820I take the frantic notations of my sensorial frizmitation and place it with gratitude inside the pianist’s tip jar.

DSCN7017I use to think these perfect things were made out of convincing colored wax and shined with mineral oil, too good to be true… but they are not.  They are my dessert.

DSCN6801I climb to the 23rd floor and watch all the rush hour cars stuck on the freeway.  I no longer have use for a freeway.  I live at work.  Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah!

DSCN6864Lies!  I don’t really live here. I am just around here enough to notice when the palm trees are temporarily moved from their regular posts in the lobby.

DSCN7080Last week the lobby was festooned with flowers of the sun.

DSCN7034Behind the roses and blur of movement is a lounge full of loungers.  The loungers are attended to by Val. Today Val told me that when absinthe became legal she made her own absinthe recipe.  It was a fusion that began with gin as its base because “There’s an old saying that to drink gin is to sin.”  The gin was put in to help the drinker forget their day.  Val added whole rosemary and named it “the absinthe minded confusion fusion.”  The rosemary was to help the drinker remember the name of the drink since rosemary is supposed to help you to remember things.

DSCN6795This railing remembers a lot of things.  121 years worth of visitor’s names to be precise.

 

 

 

 

I’m 90 Years Old and This is the First Time I’ve Mentioned It

Sophia and her mom live in Seattle, sale but every year they come visit with grandma for a few weeks because she lives here in Milwaukee. Julie, Sophia’s mom says that today she found out that her mother was elected high school secretary. Her mother, Eunice confesses, “I’m 90 years old and this is the first time I’ve mentioned it. I also had the lead in the school play. In fourth year English, I had to recite a poem in an Irish brogue accent in front of the whole school during the assembly.” The majority of the population in Gays Mills Wisconsin where Eunice lived were Irish. “Oh it was fun. I was so introverted I couldn’t offend anyone. I’m glad I’ve saved it till now— it won’t affect any of your lives now.” Sophia squeals with delight, “Heee, oh Grandma!” “We learned a lot today,” says Julie.

Julie, Sophia and Eunice.
Julie, Sophia and Eunice.

Julie grew up in the suburbs of Milwaukee.  “I got my haircut here in high school because Rosemary Ross, the TV personality would get her hair cut here. Twice a year. Once, I got a permanent wave here too.” Back when it was the peak of fashion, grandma Eunice would go get a permanent wave once a year, “About the time it started looking good, that’s when you had to get another one.”

Everyone is quiet for a moment and then Eunice complements my hat, lamenting, “I just wish hats would come back again. It was always the fun part of your outfit, when you were going to buy the hat.” Sophia adds,“You had a dressmaker too for a while. I think that’s the most awesome thing!” Julie looks at her mother and daughter in a moment of discovery and asks, “Why aren’t we wearing hats? We should be!” Sophia agrees so fervently that she erupts into a fit of giggles, “Yeah, hehehehe!”

Then there is silence for a while again, it is broken when Eunice points to the painting above the piano and sighs, “Isn’t that frame pretty?”

Julie and Sophia are at the end of their 2014 Wisconsin vacation. This time they went to Irish Fest, Wolf Peach— a new restaurant, and to Chicago a couple of times. “We’ve been visiting family mostly. We saw the Magritte show at the Art Institute of Chicago… it’s kind of dark.” I ask Julie if she means dark as in the subject matter of the art and Julie replies, “Well, it is, but I mean literally, the lighting was really low and everyone was very quiet. Subdued, and a lot of the pictures are spooky or kind of gruesome. It was a real experience to walk through. No one was talking.” Sophia agrees, “Yeahhhhh.” Summing it up Julie says, “It was kind of disturbing, we looked at the little doll houses after that to even it out.”

Swelling with Grandmotherly pride, Eunice tells me, “Sophia is celebrating, she just finished her Summer Intensive Ballet. Nine to five, six days a week in Seattle at the Pacific Northwest Ballet Company.” Sophia, who has been doing ballet for five years, speaks up, “It was really fun, I felt like I learned a lot.” Eunice, still glowing with her granddaughter’s accomplishment tells me, “She was told she has good stage presence.” Sophia, smiling, meekly tries to cut her off by shouting “Grandma!” But Eunice continues: “Compared to the rest of her class.”

A Haircut, A Soft Man From The Spa, A War Zone

Before.
Before.
After
After

 

I got an asymmetrical haircut at the Pfister’s salon. Carrie, medical my stylist said she had a barn growing up. It was mostly empty, so she and her brother would perform plays inside. Carrie had “an asthmatic horse named Blaze.” I didn’t know they made asthmatic horses, but Carrie tells me that it is a much more serious condition in horses. Poor Blaze had to wear an inhaler every day. Carrie had two other animals: a dog that she loved and a grumpy goat named ‘Butthead’ that she did not like so well. I have never been to a salon before, buy viagra so I was astonished to sit in the electric massage chair and get my hair washed.

I stared into the wall tiled with iridescent shells.
I stared into the wall tiled with iridescent shells.

 

“I don’t mean to be morbid, purchase but that would be a good place to die,” says a man who just got a massage in the spa. The relaxed man says that he, his mother and his girlfriend run a foundation together dedicated to the care and preservation of all 15 varieties of cranes. At a fundraiser last year he got to meet the world’s most famous anthropologist Jane Goodall. She sat at his table and gave advice to his girlfriend on how to proceed with their other fledgling project, a new animal care center. Goodall urged them not to lose vision and to keep going since there is no other organization in Wisconsin that currently spays and neuters cats as effectively as they plan to.

 

The man continues his conversation with me for an hour. I learn a lot about him including how he recently retired from a Milwaukee business his family has continuously owned since 1858, how retirement allows him to help produce off Broadway plays in New York, of years ago when he studied third world history in college, and that he’s “a soft man who cries a lot at movies,” preferring to watch animated movies over the action genre. He also tells me secrets in an auditorium compatible volume.

 

Eventually the man leaves the premises and another guy comes up to me wearing no expression on his face, asking me a lot of questions. His initial questions seem ordinary having to do about my role at the hotel, but then they get nosier: “Who was that guy you were just talking with? He was very open with you.” Only two kinds of grown people ask the things he wants to know, and guessing he’s unlikely to be a detective, I inquire if he’s a journalist. “Yes, my name is Barry Petersen and I am a correspondent with CBS, just back from Gaza. It was the worst war zone I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying a lot.”

 

Barry introduces me to his wife who is wearing a newspaper… a jacket made of crinkly fabric printed with headlines. Very convincing. Barry tells me that in Gaza “They tried to kill us all.” Now there’s a ceasefire there and Barry is safe inside the Pfister, finishing a cheese and fruit platter and about to have some carrot cake. Barry tells his wife that he had a contest with me to see who could find out more about the other. I did not know we were having a contest, but Barry definitively won. “I have always said that journalists are not interesting people,” claims Barry. He gives me permission to put him in the blog if I read five of his Gaza stories. I read of fathers burying children, 600 people taking shelter in a school and boys aspiring to become suicide bombers to get revenge.

This Was During The Depression

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DSCN6948Eleanore ate salad at the Mason Street Grill last Friday,

in honor of her mother,

a woman named Blanche,

“she was a honey”

born around 1892.

When honey Blanche grew up

she worked for a time making

the most popular salads at the Pfister

so great were her salads

that President Teddy Roosevelt

asked to meet his salad maker

so he could kiss her hand

and from that

Blanche learned how approachable lawmakers are.

Eleanore has frequently called them up too

to advocate on behalf of the poor.

Somewhere in the attic

Eleanore has the phone number

of former Senator Kohl

who by the way, I saw again

just the other day

in the lounge

so the next time I see him

I’m to tell him

Eleanore says “Hello,”

another word her father had to learn

after arriving from Poland.

“My mother was born on the boat,”

says Eleanore but soon changes her mind,

“No! She was born and then rode the boat.

She was sick all the way,

vomiting over the side,

I certainly give these immigrants a lot of credit

they were all getting sick not just her.”

Blanche’s first job was caring for a doctor’s child

she took the streetcar to work.

There were three children:

Eleanore’s older sister, herself and then Florence.

There was also her brother, Norman

who died at age three from infantile paralysis.

Eleanore was in kindergarten at the time

but had to drop out.

Even Buster could tell Norman was sick,

that dog would pick Eleanore up from school

and they would run down the alleys together

until they arrived at her house on Archer Avenue.

Across the street

was the butcher shop

the boy whose family owned the shop

was Eleanore’s playmate and eventual husband.

On the corner of Archer and Kinnickinnic was a big lot

owned by the plumbing store guy

who told the kids that they could play football

or baseball there

any time they wanted

and so they did.

Eleanore wore jeans,

played sports with boys,

a tomboy

unlike her sister, Florence

who would stand in front of the mirror,

primp her red-brown hair and announce,

“I am going to Hollywood.”

Anytime Eleanore had a date

she’d introduce the fellow to her family.

So many boyfriends dumped Eleanore!

Once they saw Florence

they started dating her instead.

“She was strictly a Hollywood type of person.”

This was during the depression

people ate horse meat,

everyone knew when Al Capone was coming to town,

they went to the streets to watch.

In 1931 there was an older lady with a hat

who owned “a big hunk of luxury,”

an electric car!

The kids used to line up and watch with mouths wide open

as she clambered the high step to get in.

Eleanore’s father planted a Victory garden for his family

where Cudahy High now sits

it was like a cemetery with different plots

for families growing tomatoes.

To this day Eleanore still gardens

at her nursing home in Oak Creek.

“I’ve had a beautiful life,

and these are all of my friends,”

Eleanore gestures at all five of her friends

also gardeners

who joined her to celebrate her life.

It’s not her birthday

she turned 96 last January

but on this August day she’s presented a birthday cake.

Someone pulls away her salad,

Eleanore protests, “I’m not done with that!”

but covers her mouth in shock and delight

when she sees a cake and one burning candle set before her

instead of singing we watch Eleanor eat her dessert

with the fire still going till the last bite.

a despondent coffee bean anticipating its consumption

This hotel is rife with whiz-bang creators. At any hour someone with an opinion on Salavador Dali is likely to state it from behind a counter, pills since so much of the staff identifies with being an artist of some sort. Certainly, there is an official resident artist and an official resident narrator, but there are many more creative Pfister residents than just that. Take the three concierges: Peter is our resident costume constructor and actor, viagra Greta is our resident painting gallery owner and Roc is our resident live raconteur with a background in teaching English.

I have been here three months and I still haven’t met all of the musicians that lurk here.

I suppose if one hoped to find the classic bohemian employed by the Pfister, ed the most stereotypically logical place to look would be near the coffee in the café. Indeed, barista Adam identifies as a creative writer and a musician. He has the samples to prove it too, once, he handed me my receipt with two links to his work.

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The song “Coins and Bullets” on the bandcamp site is particularly evocative of late fall angst.

Adam reads this blog. One day he told me he wanted me to write him a letter and handed me my receipt with a request written in his precise and gentle script.

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This is the pinnacle of my life. This is the pinnacle of my usefulness.

The pulverization ritual is nigh.

The spiritual gain of the pulverization ritual???

To become grit and aroma,

I will vanish like steam on a hot day

like health from a hot dog

like they have always said oh,

thissucksthissucksthissucksthissucksthissucks

c e a s e l e s s  

w   o   e   b   e   g   o   n   e

so present

so nipsy

there is no other truth anymore

except: I am a bean and resemble a turd from an unidentified rodent.

Whims of taste supply and demand me to be shred, submerged, percolated, strained, stained, ingested, burped, excreted,

sold en masse

never remembered as the soul that I am

now roasting in a barrel.

This is my last moment to recall how

before my memory burns away

before I knew death would come

before I knew cruelty could happen at all

before all else there was gestation

soft pod skin seal,

ambition to make mom tree proud by my expansion,

“I’ll get so big that I’ll obscure our cacao pod neighbors!!!”

Ah, the laughter of caffeine cliques

so fruitless now

that we all

die.

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He liked it!
He liked it!

I’ve Met The Following People

I am walking outside along the outdoor customers of the Mason Street Grill when I witness a woman in her thirties fly up from her seat to stand before her friends and wildly gesture with her whole body. Her four friends shriek and howl with laughter so I stop to watch too, sickness but it the story stops. I ask the woman if she will continue to tell the story and she says that she will have to tell me a different story.   None of us wants to hear a different story, so I continue down the sidewalk.

 

A girl and her doll wear matching outfits and are about to eat a cookie.
A girl and her doll wear matching outfits and are about to eat a cookie.

 

“It had to be you, stuff it had to be youuu…” is being played on the lobby piano when Jennifer and Joe, a long married couple announce that they have been on vacation for a full week just to see if they can put up with each other for that long. They drove all the way around the lake, passing Keweenah (the tippest toppest point of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula) to get here from their home in Michigan. They did not have cell phone reception for a large portion of their journey. Just Joe and Jennifer together without distractions. They got into the Pfister an hour ago, case have never been to Wisconsin before today, but they tell me that they don’t ever want to leave. The piano is playing, the lighting is warm and they both have a glass of wine.

 

A soccer team from Wales.
A soccer team from Wales.

Mary Kay worked in government for eighteen years. She wanted a change. She wanted to do something that would involve “Having people be in love, stay in love and fall in love.” So she opened a bed and breakfast in Plano, Illinois. By day she still works in social services, connecting jobs to people who have been in jail and helping underserved youth in the juvenile system.

 

Two women with similar faces sit on the couch wearing sunglasses.
Two women with similar faces sit on the couch wearing sunglasses.

Two women with similar faces sit on the couch wearing sunglasses. Yes, they are sisters. Judy and Jean. They grew up in Minnesota but now they are residents of Baltimore and Denver, respectively. They see each other once a year. This year they decided to meet halfway between their cities, and selected Milwaukee. They are sharing a room in the hotel for six days. The first place they plan to visit this week is St. Josaphat’s Basilica.

 

I ask two men with similar faces at the bar if they are brothers. “We are not related but both broth-uhs of Omaha.” The brothuhs of Omaha are here interviewing people for open Milwaukee-based positions in their small medical company. The brothuhs tell me I look like an artsy type and ask me if I ever do nude paintings of middle aged men. I deflect the question by asking them how often they dissect cadavers. The brothuhs say they get to dissect cadavers about six times a year.

 

Gazelle? Cheetah? Centipede?

While I rarely drink, today I’m yearning for a large glass of wine to glug.  Reason? It took fifty-eight minutes of vigorous scrubbing, scratching and horrifyingly dry squeaking to clean my teeth at the dentist.  My gums and psyche are sore.  After perusing the wine list I pick the New Zealand Kim Crawford white for no particular reason other than the fact that I have a crush on the concept of peaceful, sheep populated New Zealand. I take a slight sip and am immediately washed into an instant tipsy state. From this point on, I vow to cease all complaints for the rest of the evening.

“I haTe being barefoot.”

I didn’t say that, nor do I hold the opinion of the man who emphatically stated it. The proclamation peaks my interest however, and I want to know why being barefoot is so detestable. In my mind nothing feels as satisfactory as walking barefoot down a road of thick warm mud, except of course drinking this entirely salubrious grape potion here.

After listening to my neighbor’s conversation some more it becomes clear that they are discussing the topic of running. Barefoot running vs. conventional running.  One of the other men at the table repeatedly advises his fellow runners to “run for one mile as fast as you can.” I chuckle aloud  just thinking about all the people running around without a legitimate reason. Are they being chased by a hungry pickup truck? No, they are not.  Nor are they late for a very important date. They just run and it is hard. I have always wondered what animal runners imagine they are to keep themselves going when the going gets tough. Gazelle? Cheetah? Centipede?

I get up from the couch where I have been cackling to myself and approach the four men who run.  I stand there (with a slight, ever so slight sway) until I have their full attention and then ask what animals they imagine they are when they run and they look at me all confused.* Never have they considered what animal they are. Instead one says, “I just try and think about how painful it is.” The man who says that notices my frightened expression and adds, “But how good I will feel afterward.” Oh, okay. I guess.  He concludes, “I don’t think, I try to clear my mind. I try to be one with the world.”

Honestly, I will never fully get the phenomenon of self-torturous running.  Knowing this I float back to my spot by the fireplace where I have a decent view out the window.  Outside, a woman in black and lime colored athletic garb sprints past. She is thinking of nothing.  I now know this instead of guessing that she imagines she is a steed or a woodchuck on the bound.

*Similar to the confused look I gave my dental hygienist after she asked me where I get my ideas when I write. “Get ideas? Oh no, no, no!  Ideas come constantly. Uninvited. They are not mine.

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Panther? Shrew? Mastodon?