alternative value, meteoric theft...

what's that you say? four inconspicuous words now conjoined in a blithely unplanned title. In some way that is correct, I use this method as an exercise in writing, some would say it is an exercise in relieving writer's block (but since I don't believe in the ill-fated WB then I can't / won't admit that). The above title was attained by randomly picking four words from the MSN Canada home page and then putting them together into a somewhat cohesive idea (ideal?) ---- but now the trick is to make a real poem or story from this idea:

*************************************************************************************

As you can see the results are a bit blank now... but there is no need to panic, at some point I will edit this again and you'll see what happens to this row of bon mots.

seriously inured...

On a monday morning, procuring fate, I pledge not to peel your hopeful succulent Valencia orange with such sterness or solemn quailing (is that a word? or perhaps, just a bird?). Yet another revelation came to me on a deep grey Sunday afternoon, I said, smiling, (not a smirk either, but a real smile), and it was then that I realized that perhaps I've had the wrong attitude when it comes to my pursuit of writing and / or my quest of athletic achievement. And I think it is best summed up by a chortle and a giddy wink of these bottomless blue eyes, and it is here that I say, "don't be so damned hardened or severe."

There should be no disillusion in the efforts.

Yesterday the narcissistic yet lovable Julia paraded her cheerless confident "cold" into the cafe where we drank herbal tea and perused the latest edition of The Fiddlehead (a literary magazine from those wily valleys of New Brunswick, especially wily this issue - see page 77, wink!). Her illness, a minor detraction from her usual poised personality, she said, would not deter her from a long day at the library and even a mountain bike in the brisk late-autumn late-afternoon. She's a soft-tail you know, not a roadie or a tri-gal, so she doesn't always appreciate the quibbles of the pavement. Yet she passes above it all with the glazed spinning of a sanguine championness, and I, awe-filled, slack-jawed, straight lipped, rough and raw renegade???? had an instant of epiphanic manifestation; And so I now vow, in all consequences of living, to beam instead of frown.

Do you think perhaps it will make an optimistic difference?

the blue arrow

Is this the sign? Is this the shape and the colour that I remember? Is it you, the one that arches across this glazed screen like an unforeseen cloud enveloping a pre-winter escape?

Once, when we were acquiescent and still, we huddled in an embrace that only a divinity could inspire... and you said you could hear a voice, and what you heard you thought was the residue of the darkness that had separated us, and you thought this blindness might return, that the light and all of its colours weren't real, that the messages you felt like hearing would be taken away, obliterated like a mud-hutted city beneath a flood of poignant, carpeted bombs. Yet you dreamed... and I swore to you within that dream that I wouldn't let you be fooled, and I told you how inevitable it was that we would find each other again, and you said you knew it was only a dream, and that what I said was just wistful and sentimental, and you wanted to clutch something more real, and you wanted to grab hold of that which passed above you: an arrow so blue it couldn't have come from either of our skies...

what is that, a yellowish-gold and radiant circle?

I believe I actually saw the sun this morning... there it was, alone, and rising abashedly above the indurate buildings on Bloor Street. And there I was shivering in the first real signs of wind chill, that which crawl beneath one's neck. Oh to be somewhere warm, shirtless, somewhere in the midst of ordinary sweat, somewhere along the coast...

another Klima

So, this is not a reference to the former left winger Red Winger (shoots left, right Irving!) what did you say, A Player for Owen... who? alas Pan Irv, I have no idea what number Petr Klima was, an odd one I think (37, 39) or something uncommon... mais, I digress, this Klima I refer to is a book called A Summer Affair written in the early 70s, and revised, it says, in the mid 80s. I think, on the whole, I like this book better than the first one, although parts of NSoA (see previous entry) were more brilliant... anyway I'm also attempting again to read Anil's Ghost, Ondaatje, and even though I'm only 30 pages in I feel it will be a struggle to finish. There seems to be something less tragic in it even though it's all about tragedy, however I will try not to quit...

Onto other more important news, like my own literary career, it is, how you would say stalled? trodden on? although some more positive-minded people might say it is stable, or even a punctilious calvacade towards pasture... Louis? Yeah so, my manuscript was rejected again, even though it contains, many fine things, thank you, I know. I guess it is now time to spray the infield --- let bygones be bygones, let sonnets become sonatas, ponies become peonies, accents turn into ascension --- enough! what's with all the equestrian references? It must be time to ride off into the dark grey horizon that has plagued my city for the past week, at least it hasn't rained yet today. Perhaps tomorrow my thoughts will be a little more pellucid, clear... long live your endurance -- mes amis, Mika.

Youth?

why now? why the perpetual question in italics? perhaps the birthday season is upon me, and i'm even par for the front nine at Midland, I'm awash in the ponds of vainglorious delights that survive another year, in suffering in that way that most of us north americans would never admit too, in having nothing and everything at hand, the simultaneity of this wealthy and unwarranted paradox. a tree, a stretch of green grass, some fallen leaves, and an SUV, capiche?

so that book I mentioned in my last entry is by J.M. Coetzee, it was okay, okay --- maybe it was a little better than okay but it wasn't noble or novel that's for pretty sure. anyway, i've moved on to a Czech writer named Ivan Klima, and I must admit a lot more attachment to the characters' sentiments in this No Angels or Saints, even though they don't work for IBM or want to be famous poets. I think there is something in the slavic ethic that allures me... inures me? eludes me? denudes me? confuses me? J.

still injured, but should be able to run by saturday. still writing... see ;~]

WEAKNESS

my achilles heal is my achilles heal,
it stings in the morning and hurts when I run,
after twenty minutes the pain disappears,
or perhaps it migrates to another part of my body,


a work in progress - of course, like any marathon...
cheers, mika

ah ---- ha, apples and orang-atangs

no, not the skin of the vertebrate that reminds one of a coconut, or those pesky pen-tanger teenagers good at marshy volleyball and late night poker runs... but the elements of daytime that make one remember what brought them to wherever they are. Speaking of which, I haven't blogged much lately, sometimes, amid the foul mood of this cubicle I say why 'blogger', but then I'm not so crusty and disheartening all the time (ain't that right Sara?). And truthfully I've been too busy here (doing endless amounts of piddly shit) and I've been swimming, water-running (injured achillees), some cycling and lots of circuit-ry ---- good for the abs and the core.

I've also been reading a book called Youth by *******, it's about a South African in London (early 60's) who wants to be a poet but isn't very good, he says, (okay so that doesn't really relate to me), worst of all he gets a job with IBM... dull, dark, hardened IBM ---- how about that for coincidence... he also has a series of meaningless (pathetic, he says) affairs... I can't decide if I like the writing or not, parts of it are pretty dry but I'm still reading and it's only 170 pages so I suppose it won't be long until the end.

that's all from the pendulum that is downtown toronto - live well, Mika

user name and password

was i born with a password?
an innate sense of secrecy and misconstruing, am i that complex? am i the garbled snow on a sideroad north of the Mazovian Plain, am i the grit of the blistering sun in the Atacama?
Could it be so simple? my name ---- ***********

untitled (#1) (envy? nahhhhh!!!)

Sunday in the city, cool, windless, with the welling of a feeling that time is like the sun's warmth... an ever-present lingering at some place, beyond the shade of museums, oak trees, and grey office buildings with grimy facades. Beyond the incessant rolls of a stoplight'd street, half-filled yet seemingly empty. And yet time is all that we know, how we define what has happened, will happen, or is in the 'plan' of happening... perhaps it is a process... or a race?
Yesterday I spent the day at the AC, did a spin, did a circuit, ran for an hour, and met one of my tri friends at the pool, she had raced a duathlon earlier in the day (and well she was only the first-place woman, about 15th overall) and there she was doing a little swim workout in the afternoon. How does she get the energy? The race was short yes, but still I'd probably have napped, and eaten, and napped again... I'd say she has a touch more grit than I do, perhaps it's metabolic destiny, or just will... and I say this not out of envy or spite but with a genuine feeling of amazement.
Time to focus and time to find that determination... cheers, MIKA

hurricanes and gloom?

some days do not deserve the ineptiness with which they arrive? today, everything which could possibly happen to screw up my work-day has; alas I am not one to whine so I will only say good-bye, time to go running and wait for Isabel's rain... salut - MIKA

guy_ulf

no it's not a story about a guy named ulf, or even sammy wilson --- but a long day on a short course with too many half-wedges and stupid dinky holes, too many missed putts... and perhaps more imperatively too many R&G's. Still it was great to get together with most of the gang of eight, drink too much and remember why we'll always be friends. And the best part is that I'm not that hungover and I was able to participate (aka ride my bike) this morning in the annual Terry Fox Run for cancer research...

And well, in regards to the previous post suggesting my golf game may improve via osmosis ---- it seems that none of my sister's touch around the greens rubbed off on me. I need to practice a bit more, okay a lot more, as I lose so many strokes the closer I get to the pin.... hyperbolic cheerios to all, Mika...

gal-f

so i took a mid-week holiday and caddied for my sister at a two-day tournament in toronto. the weather was perf! warm and sunny with a great breeze, however the golf was not quite so-brilliant... mainly because the course was very difficult (Bayview) and the greens were unbelievably fast and the pin placements treacherous. whoever set it up on that first day was a real masochist... and likes 6 hour rounds because everyone is trying to figure out "what the hell's going on" on the greens, or perhaps they just don't appreciate the different skills in women's golf.
not wanting to sound like I'm devaluing anything or anyone else in the tourney I can say that my mercurial souer didn't really get going until the back nine in the second round: par-par-birdie-birdie-birdie... some incredible putts that her caddy (aka ME) read marvellously, and she could've made a couple of more on the way in too!!!! But at least she survived a sudden yearning for the fence and someone's backyard (from a bunker no less -- SCULLY!), and held it together for a one under 35 and the best back nine of the 2nd day. Alas she finished about 24th overall out of 55 or so, but it was all great fun and so much better than being at a desk in a cubicle-d office, where I am right now counting the minutes until the weekend... cheers, MIKA.

p.s. teeing off at 10 tomorrow... maybe some of her sublimeness will help me.

running on...

Mes amis, if you're ever a little bored with your running and can't seem to get motivated for a workout I suggest trying something similar to the one we did last night with Kevin:

Long warm-up jog.
4x400 on 3 minutes (very controlled pace)
4x400 on 2 minutes (up tempo) 4 minutes rest
3x400 on 1:45 (hard) jog + 1 minute rest
3x400 on 1:30 (hard) maintain the pace through all three as there is very little rest.

Of course one must modify this depending on ones' running level etc, and it's best to do it with a group or at least one other person, but if no one is available then psych yourself up for it and reap the benefits of an amazing feeling once you are done.

stride on - mika

e-race this, end of summer -- what the __________?

how can it be - that the time of year my teacher friends deplore is already here? I must agree it is not my favourite long weekend of the year, however one mustn't stew over things one cannot affect. Let's hope the sun stays with us until tuesday!

so I have to give the race in Parry Sound last weekend a mixed review... nice setting, decent course, but a little disorganized and chaotic. on the first run we went totally the wrong way -- someone, a disagreeable teenager probably, changed the direction of an arrow on a sign about 2 km into the run --- and we ended up on the bike course much to the surprise of a policeman, whom I think was quite unfamiliar with the idea of triathlon and / or duathlon. He then managed to point the lead group of 7 runners (me included) even further the wrong way, of course by this point there was no right way so it really didn't matter which way he pointed... much confusion, and whistling and then we all turned around and I went hard all the way to transition to try to gain some of the spots I had lost... so this caused me to have a bit of trouble for the first 5k on the bike, although I did pass a couple of people who proceeded to draft behind me... still I never felt comfortable on the bike, went hard but seemed to lack the lung capacity that was needed (perhaps the sore throat of the past week had a bit of influence). anyway it was a long (26k instead of 25) undulating course, very windy too, and onto a fairly busy highway that wasn't closed to traffic. one close call but nothing to cause me such great anxiety. Len Gushe passed me just before the hill at the turnaround, and I actually almost saw him go by me. silver bullet! envy!

the second run was only 3 km and I ran decently but not great... there was a guy about 300m ahead of me out of transition and I slowly began catching him on the out leg. then I saw Sam and the other 2 leaders coming back from the turnaround. when i reached the t/a point (located at the bridge where we went the wrong way on the first run) the sign had been blown over, yet "duathon turnaround" was still visible --- I was quite surprised by this because the person I was chasing and the 2 others who were inbetween had not returned on the path. I said to myself, "how did they miss this?"and started heading back to the finish. I finished 4th overall but didn't push the last half since there was no one ahead of me or behind me, and it was only a training race... and I didn't feel all that great. But in two weeks there will be no excuses or reasons for not pushing it.

'train on' mes amis --- MIKA!

running on viruses, powers, and the artificer's light...

okay, okay, if it's not the heat, the air conditioning, or the threat of rotating... blackouts, then it's some worm or worms flowing through our network, infecting laptops mainly; but now it all seems somewhat under control. Another weekend, another race... down-town Parry Sound on Saturday, so if you're nearby (drinking at the cottage say) come and watch us race - starts at about 430 pm.

To keep you occupied until then here is a snippet (sp?) of prose (poetry?) about my tuesday running group experience...


High Park Intervals

A summer Tuesday without rain and we gather at the edge of parking-lot sunshine, twenty or so runners waiting to get away… The people ambling towards the park restaurant just look, walk — and look, and that's what we enjoy: silence, envy?
Our workout begins with most of us talking, brief reminders of how we are. The trails, this night, are warm, soft, still humid, yet two of our women scold themselves over what they'd chosen for lunch, then my own Chicken Curry enters the conversation and I feel all the evidence of my living gets stored within my bowels. Above us, the clouds we had thought disappeared return — though not as violent, and a yellow haze looms in the city, and somewhere in our pack a pair of asthmatic lungs is already beginning to burn. We ascend the hill towards the one-way road and there is a baseball diamond bordering a bikini-clad pool. The pitcher has long white socks — is a SAINT, the batter taps his shoes, steps out of the batters' box, and behind me one of the men says, I hear endurance athletes take longer to reach orgasm. And another one asks, is that good?
The hill seems shorter on the way down and I don't bring water because I once trained with an Ethiopian named Yifter. We reach our grassy clearing where it seems a perpetual picnic is held, and there's always one kid who wants to run beside us. There's always a parent shouting the name of Ashley, Nigel, or Cody, and the kid looks at us and says I can run faster than all of you.
In the clearing we rest before the true workout begins. I don't know what time it is because I lost my watch on the long weekend, yet time doesn't seem to matter as much as my heart-rate — 160 after the first hill. I know this because I've felt it many times: it doesn't matter how many miles you've gone it's how many more there are 'til you race. And I remember I haven't been as focused as I used to, and I haven't been thinking about any philosophy, god, or church: I haven't been to a cathedral or synagogue in seven years. That was in Worms and the woman who brought me there is now married and living in Chicago. (My brother went to Chicago in June for the US Open, yet some people say, golf isn't a sport!)
I hear Rachel breathing hard behind me: we circle "the lake" in tandem though it is actually a pond — robust, grey. But tonight I won't let a woman go past me, and at the end of our loop I am slightly ahead, yet my arms are heavy, lumbering, and the coach says relax your shoulders. Then we rest again for three minutes, and sweat drifts across every ounce of our skin — and everyone but me seems to need water. The coach whistles again, once for us to go fast, twice — slow, and I think this must look funny to anyone watching and I wonder if a dog trainer would be impressed. At the end of it all a woman on a bicycle asks us where "the restaurant" is, three of us point to a road going up and she mutters, the hill, the hill…
Our coach says he once ran a final 300 in 40, then he talks about Yifter's finishing speed, and no one seems to understand how fast he really was, and no one would understand him because he only speaks sentences in Amharic. Yifter the Shifter says words like fast, fast! and faster! And I remember he once tried to tell me there are no blueberries in Ethiopia: he laughed and I didn't know what he'd meant, yet I assume we've all had fresh blueberries and ice-cream, and we've all smoked hash in a concert parking lot. We've all banged our heads and headed home without knowing…
The subway train is air-conditioned and my wet shorts are soaking the seat, a man with a clenched hand gets on at Keele Street and the skyline of a city at sunset disappears. The man walks by me with his fist close to my right eye, stops, and grabs the railing. At the last tunnel there is an exit, a staircase and another man sleeping in the orange light. Upstairs, the pizza is dry, not as hot as it should be — and I eat as I walk along a side street because the beggars and fire-trucks are too noisy on Bloor.
And I wonder why Milosz didn't write: a long row of runners' crawls along a weed-lined path. And I wonder why a woman in a green blazer is carrying two car tires out the back door of a frat house, I wonder if she has a big enough trunk. Then I see my apartment building on the corner of St. George Street — I see someone standing at the front entrance.

when we last visited here...

there was no State of Emergency and I had suggested it was just another day in the Big Smoke... well how wrong was that? 4:12 and... poof, if you live in North America then you know the story --- the computers went down (instead of 'the lights went out'). So now I'm assuming everyone has survived Power Outage 2003, and that Monday has brought back some form of normality, i.e. lights on, air conditioners alive and well, appliances running, computers ticking, and everyone doing their consumer-y best to conserve energy. yeah right. I must admit the outage had little effect on me, other than giving me a friday off... an extra afternoon at the beach as it were.
Firstly I walked home (only 9 minutes from where I work) thinking the outage was only a local one but as I passed each non-functioning stoplight and building without power I figured, hey something's going on... so I called my parents and they reported that their power was also out and they live 2 hours outside of t-dot. I then tried calling other people but the phone network was overloaded and I wasn't able to get through. Once I reached my apartment I decided that the best thing to do was to go for a run, thursday is usually my long slow one... very dedicated don't ya think! There were lots of people on the sidewalk by this time and they looked at me a little strangely as I passed by them... the only other runners I saw at this time was the UofT dudes at Churchill Park. It was very hot and humid and not the best hour of my running life but then it didn't need to be since I was racing on Sunday. I arrived home to find the lights still out, had a quick and cold shower and went outside to see even larger streams of people on the sidewalks, and lots of other people gathering on patios drinking themselves into a different state of emergency... I suppose that isn't such a bad way of coping since I've heard it took some people over 5 hours to get home during the rush. Anyway, I managed to find dinner at the Cora Pizza - they were still making some za despite the oven-y heat in their little eatery... went home, tried calling a few people but they were either not there or I could not get a connection. Fell asleep amid the peace of non-electricity and woke up at eleven p.m. when my little but effective fan came on (telling me I had power again)... isn't that a rough evening?~}

still essential even though I didn't have to work on Friday, Mika

another day another workout...

yesterday - went to the AC / Benson pool at about 445, it was crowded, about 8 people in the fast lane, 3 of whom shouldn't have been there --- managed to avoid all the obstacles and put in approx. 2700m some quick, some kick, some long stuff, (with lots of rest since I'm racing this weekend), then went upstairs for an hour of spinning, started slow but felt great by the end...
so yeah, another day another workout... what would I do without it?

stock and awe

question ---- did you ever buy Nortel? or should I say have you ever bought Nortel?
have you averaged down, or did you get in at the bottom? It's still a risky play, they say.

I won't tell you what I've done... unless I end making some doo.

revelations?

early on a Wednesday morning... would one expect something so divulging, perhaps not! But today walking along the fashionable (i.e. urbane) side of Bloor Street I encountered 3 people (of varying colour, persuasion, etc.) who were "asking" for money, I wouldn't say begging ---- since holding an old coffee cup at an angle to one's belly and glancing at you without saying anything as you pass by seems to me to not constitute begging ---- Now being the bearer of a somewhat social conscience I contrast this with the friends in my training group from last night, who arrive in nice cars and / or with fancy bikes (I have one too so this isn't a critique on anyone who is either successful or has money to spend on things they will use), and as we warm-up by jogging we talk about travelling to far-off races, or going looking for overpriced houses in this city... or adding this or that component to an already brilliant bike... and in comparing "us" to the person who is standing alone on a mostly deserted stretch of sidewalk --- glazed by the dawn glare of office buildings, i think back to the first time I was in Poland shortly after the fall of communism and most of the younger people kept telling me what a good thing it would be to have people working for themselves so they could spend their own money and make their own future, and the older people weren't as sure because even though they didn't like a lot of what communism stood for they felt that everyone was treated the same, and had the same things, benefits, health care, and were always looked after in some way by the state (though "taking the vodka" wasn't necessarily a most glorious means), and I don't remember as many street people in that first visit as I saw in my last... and now, since I was there in 2000, I know how different Poland is compared to the first time I was there, and the changes seem so much bigger than those in my own country, city, town, and yet the similarities of Canada to Poland are becoming nearer, and I think and I tell myself, "yes it is getting better, it must be getting better..."

apologies for any disjointedness but I am also working as "we" speak. carry on, live well, be kind - mika!

idea for a poem

crow, at st. theresa's track, saturday afternoon

here, grass burning without smoke, oval lungs,
and filters of humid air descending into town.

on three sides - homes, music, bottles, and smoke
of another kind, nostrils reeling...

so that is the beginning, not bad for a monday morning: but where does the crow come in... hmmmm, yes appropriate question. perhaps you'll see this poem build, mould itself, or perhaps it will end up in the landfill of recycled ideas... with the seagulls... au revoir mes amis!