There is no time for thinking now, but the mechanical slapslap of feet against pavement. I can sum up Murakami’s book: what does he think about when running? Nothing. Justin’s been reading more about running lately and letting me read his books. I realize that I enjoy how mechanical it is: I like the forward lean, the rhythmic labor of breathing, driving forward, but not too far forward lest you tumble (where?). I’ve been feeling more aggressive with my run form, enjoying the feeling of being fast and the brushing of warm rays on my back. It’s going to get me in trouble.

I lean into the whoopsiedaisy turn lane and find that will be occupied in three-two-one but thankfully I reel back in and thank my lucky stars. A wandering Kia once leaned into me and gently lay my bike down in the bike lane. I am happy to report I didn’t go down with it, but wondered in a few panicked moments if people would do their better thinking laying down.

With much sighing, a flock of photons once barreled into the earth in a lazy arc, leaving tendrils of dirt-dust in its wake. The sun bathed us in a lemonade glow in the evening–I tried to catch it in the viewfinder, but decided to let the moment stand silent, solemn by my side, the way you would imagine you would feel in one of those movie-moments pregnant with meaning, voiced by a steel guitar. On the way back from Portland I imagined just that, feeling like our car was the only one in the world, leaning into thin slices of daylight. I caught myself singing along to the stereo, and at that moment thought that we should drive to the world’s edge, then go some more.

Blaise Pascal, one evening, recorded a spiritual experience he had. It affected him so much that he sewed it into the lining of his coat until his death. He titled it The Memorial:

L’an de grâce 1654,

Lundi, 23 novembre, jour de saint Clément, pape et martyr, et autres au martyrologe.
Veille de saint Chrysogone, martyr, et autres,
Depuis environ dix heures et demie du soir jusques environ minuit et demi,

FEU.

« DIEU d’Abraham, DIEU d’Isaac, DIEU de Jacob »
non des philosophes et des savants.
Certitude. Certitude. Sentiment. Joie. Paix.
DIEU de Jésus-Christ.
Deum meum et Deum vestrum.
« Ton DIEU sera mon Dieu. »
Oubli du monde et de tout, hormis DIEU.
Il ne se trouve que par les voies enseignées dans l’Évangile.
Grandeur de l’âme humaine.
« Père juste, le monde ne t’a point connu, mais je t’ai connu. »
Joie, joie, joie, pleurs de joie.
Je m’en suis séparé:
Dereliquerunt me fontem aquae vivae.
« Mon Dieu, me quitterez-vous ? »
Que je n’en sois pas séparé éternellement.
« Cette est la vie éternelle, qu’ils te connaissent seul vrai Dieu, et celui que tu as envoyé, Jésus-Christ. »
Jésus-Christ.
Jésus-Christ.
Je m’en suis séparé; je l’ai fui, renoncé, crucifié.
Que je n’en sois jamais séparé.
Il ne se conserve que par les voies enseignées dans l’Évangile:
Renonciation totale et douce.
Soumission totale à Jésus-Christ et à mon directeur.
Éternellement en joie pour un jour d’exercice sur la terre.
Non obliviscar sermones tuos. Amen.

“FIRE… certainty, heartfelt joy, peace,” he cries. “Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy.”

View the full version on Flickr.

I poured my words into these grids, and everything was fantastic at first. I felt like I was writing with so much more clarity. The vertical bars stopped each word from running into the next, and the horizontal shelves held sturdy. Things were intricate, precise, and beautiful — mathematically so.

Until they began falling out. The more I tried to place, the more would begin to fall. Lines wavered, words waffled, sentences wilted, melted, forming ink puddles at my feet. oh no, stop it i said, my precious words but i could not keep them from crashing through each other and shattering as they hit the floor and in my frustration i wanted to sweep them, words, grids and all in my arms and toss them all out as a child does  …

San Francisco is a city I love and a city that, now that I’m no longer there, lives adjacent to that space in my head reserved for nostalgia. As such: the scent of dewy redwood groves, the family vacation to Big Sur when we were all crammed in the minivan and Dad couldn’t find that one hotel so we drove for hours until we ended up turning around and driving all night back home and I lay half-sleeping in the front seat listening to him sing to himself, the fearful arrangement of piano keys, that long walk to class with Lesley (my elementary-school crush, the one with the silken hair), looking up at dark clouds and smelling the dampness of impending rain.

It’s the kind of morning that slaps you with its chill, but seduces you by warming your extremities with gentle sunshine and crisp air. Children are clamoring over the steps of the Conservatory garden, some settling in groups of twos and threes content to gossip over television shows and pop stars. Others run over the lawn, drinking red hickory air. Parents, their faces belying exhaustion, labor to bring out school-boxed lunches. A pair of blue-eyed girls, mischievous as they come, grab an unsuspecting boy’s hat and toss it down a hill.

He gets up, his face registering confusion. “Hey!” A hesitant half-smile grows on his face. “Where did you put it?” I look closer; he clasps his hands in the awkward fashion that little boys do.

“You have to run down and get it!” they twitter. He turns, visibly dejected, and slowly pads down the hill. I imagine him picking up the hat (a shy smile lengthening to span his cheeks, a laugh hiding in its corners) and taking off, running.

I can feel chimney-smoke envelop me and my memory churns: Was I too fearful to look Lesley in the eye?–the Number of Bay Area Bike Fatalities has Increased Twenty-Three Percent over the Past Decade. Fell-Scott-Haight-Pierce-Waller-Steiner-Duboce (For-Sure-Hannah-Played-With-Sand-Dunes)–Dad and I got home at 2AM that night (but what was it about Lesley?). I remember feeling the rough-hewn edges of my dad’s five o’clock shadow, wishing for his strength. The Wiggle was carved by years and years of rushing water; the Conservatory is made of tooth-picks.

Autumn is summer’s swan song; a bridge one crosses once youth is spent. It never arrives, only passes, lodging itself beneath the consciousness. Later that day, dodging buses, I let out a gasp. The air is nippy. I am that boy.

Inspired from Genesis 28:16.

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–8/28/2004