Somewhere in the week or so that followed the Renegade 50, after I’d dried off, and after I removed the last vestiges of damp plant matter from the back of my truck, I had an epiphany. It wasn’t quite chori of sexless divine beings doing the samba in a pool of golden light, but it was a ‘moment’.
I stood silently, praying for a strong whiff of burning feathers, hoping against hope that I was in the midst of some deep psychosomatic break and that it would pass, and all would be well. Indeed, that the very thoughts beginning to emerge from the formlessness of recent accomplishment were nothing more than a passing fancy.
It was not to be.
The combined efforts of entire schools of post-Freudian self-analysis would have been rendered impotent when faced with my inexplicable decision to run a hundred miler in February. But, there you have it.
Rocky Raccoon, Huntsville TX
7 Februrary 2009
We’re off to the races.
For many years now I've left a trail of flecks across the Internet. Just begun novels; explorations of culture, music, writing, food, the future, mountains, long distances, shallow oceans, deep canyons; oddly-composed music; even more oddly-constructed poetry; impassioned editorial; strident analysis, and a slew of images, sounds, and scribbles. Most of this has passed into the aether, waiting only for some semi-sentient algorithm to pull it from obscurity twenty years hence. In the meantime, there is this lodestone, gathering what it can.
reb
on Oct 31st, 2008
@ 9:30 am:
you are CRAZY.