Sweat dripping word patterns onto gravel

“Fuck off with your sofa units and string green stripe patterns, I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let… lets evolve, let the chips fall where they may.” — Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk

Stopping to take photographs while running probably isn’t the best way to get in killer shape, but I can’t help myself. There is poetry in things and it speaks to me. The camera allows me to collect living poetry the way someone might collect jewelry or hearts.

But once I got that out of my system, snapping shots of Indian canoes and blossoming thistles, the river’s edge, a bird on a seed-coated weed, and the soft weeping branches of a willow, I put the camera away and ran fast. My lungs filled to overflowing and my muscles burned and spun barely concealed beneath my brown skin, grinding away at the mental obstacles that might have tripped me up if I let them. Good, hot, sweet sex before dawn and hard, sweaty exercise before noon. The blood pumping and the pores opening gets the words flowing. There’s only one thing left to do after the blood dries and the sweat becomes salt, before the words become stories. Do the damn dishes.


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