Stay? Go? Futurism!

How do you know that a particular unmotivating situation warrants leaving, or staying? When do you exercise patience and when do you put the pedal down and turn the steering wheel? Or are we always doing a bit of both at the same time? Do you know much about Hegelian philosophy? Me neither.

However, I spent some time this morning reading up on the Futurist movement that came out of Russia and Italy in the beginning of the 20th century.

Futurism was first announced on Feb. 20, 1909, in a manifesto published by the Italian poet and editor Filippo Tommaso Marinetti. The manifesto railed against the past, especially stale political and artistic traditions; proclaimed a love of speed, teachnology, and violence; their mascots were cars, planes and industrial landscapes and cities. The mood of the movement is reminiscent of Ayn Rand's stuff, no surprise since she came from Russia. Stylistically, I think of hi-fi black & white sci fi movies, like Metropolis. From the Italian front, one of the prominent artists (painting and scultping) was Umberto Boccioni. Above work,
Unique Forms of Continuity in Space 1913. Post script: Umberto Boccioni died in Verona, after falling off a horse during a training exercise for World War I. He was 33 years old.

The Russian Futurists however, were even more nihilistic. For one they paid no attention to Marinetti's paternal reputation. They hated the combo of history and art, going so far as to call Russian Lit Kings Pushkin and Dostoevsky total losers who should have been "heaved overboard from the steamship of modernity." But soon, a whole new wave of amazing Silver Age poets came riding in: Anna A; Maria T; Mandelstam; Block; Gorky, Mayakovski; and a whole bunch more I'm forgetting.

So, back to the original question: You have a Situation, it's been going on for a bit of time, it's bumming you out, and you wonder: wait it out or make a move? The Futurists would say Go, because to Stay would be to get gobbled up by your past. But they were anarchists and (in some cases, shhh, Fascists).

So, how do you stay and go at the same time?

Visiting dead artists and dreams

I'm tending to a small post-op foot procedure that snipped away at a tendon to free up my neuromas so I can run for miles and hours without pain. I'd like to say being sedentary has been hell but god I can adapt to being a couch-riding lazygirl. I've been catching up with friends, watching one thriller after another and reading Runner's World. And not writing. But movie-wise here are some recommendations: "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang" "Lucky Number Slevin" and the latest favorite, "Inside Man."

Here's what I do sometimes when I need a lift--I go online and look at art. A month ago I hung out with Marc Chagall. In a book about his life and art he described how he didn't distinguish much between his dream life and waking life. Pretty fascinating POV, esp. for those of us who have active dream lives. What if we regarded our dreams as reality, and our waking lives as the dreams. What if we analyzed our waking life as dreams? I once rode my bike past two men I know named Mark, and wondered, if this was a dream I could make something out of the word and association "mark." Then, a few years later, two of my favorite most visited artists are "Marks"--Mark Rothko and Marc Chagall. What does it mean? Hell if I know... but it fires the synapses of the imagination and that's all I need.

Chagall's work is extremely dreamy, in the way dreams collide locations, symbols, people, faces, movements (walking/flying/falling)... all those floating brides. The print copied here is called, "The Promenade." And dedicated to today's birthday girl, the very talented poet and human, Marily Taylor.

I recommend, when your walk needs a little kick, do an image search on an artist.
I know it's naughty, but sneak it into your work day. I used to dip into The Web Museum Paris and read about art movements, check out paintings, find myself a desktop beauty.

Simple pleasures are so damn easy.

It's October--which means it's time to change my Monthly thing. June was mascara every day; July was reach out and get in touch with someone different every day; August was write every day; Sept was express your love month; Oct is make one positive choice and it relates to eating. More on that tomorrow.

Have you ever had a dream that felt like this?

Chagall, "Au Dessus de la Ville"

Always say "never"

After years of screaming "I'll never train for or do an Ironman" I broke my rule. I should have known: "Nevers" always come true.

Originally I was going to do The Grand Columbian International Long Distance (“Nice”) and upgraded in August to a Full just to see what so many of my friends had experienced.

So my goals were pretty rudimentary: experience it, finish it, have fun and no GI probs.

It was a very intimate race—about 65-70 IM racers; only 10 of them women (I’m no dummy!) I did have to figure out a way to break the size of it up into bite sized pieces--something I figured out in the 11th hour. Originally a sprinter, the process of working up to Long-D has been a challenge, but rewarding.

On race morning it was 45d but clear; the water was in thigh 60's, and the swim was beautiful—we were surrounded by rock cliffs and sun, and at the swim Go!, a fan of birds took off into the sky right over us, which you could see when you breathed to the left. Water was smooth, beautiful (warmer than the air) and I had no panic attack, the latter helped along by keeping an eye on the natural beauty.

For the bike I did something I picked up from Coach Gordo's web site which I HIGHLY recommend. I broke the bike up into four sets of 28 miles. Ea. time I reached 28 mi. I set my computer back to 0. Let me tell you--that made the bike almost painless! I get so overwhelmed by all the miles to go I can snort and trantrum for hours.

There were some nasty (typical) headwinds but the scenery is primal and open and freeing. And the smell of sage. Delicious. So the bike ride goes by and the second quarter is always the hardest, psychologically. At 60 miles I picked up my special needs bag and filled my bento box with roasted almonds, spice drops, pringles, a few peaks of dark Toberlerone chocolate, a water bottle filled with Coke (and one with Perpetuem), and called the 3rd 28 my "cocktail party." Yes, there were winds, and I peddled downhill going 15 mph—but the last 30 miles were along the river, with the bordering cliffs, tail winds, a few eagles, no flats and it was a spectacular end to the bike.

The run. Sigh. The run. The first half went pretty well. I got a funky (*new!*) achilles twinge that made me wonder what I was in for but I stretched my calf and it subsided. The weather was obscenely kind to us—in the low-mid 60s, a clear evening, no heat. I’d rather run on a path, gravel included, but when I saw my time I was finally convinced that gravel is slower. Duh. I broke the run up into mile increments, dedicating each mile to someone in my life, wishing something positive for them; but by the 18th miles I was just pulling them in pacers and practically arguing with them. (I think I told my dead beloved grandmother that she wasn't helping and had to send her away; she was a worrier).

The piano fell on the second half of the run. Especially the last six miles--a whole 10k, no way! The last five felt hopeless; at four I thought I was going to pass out; at three I was channeling past relatives I've never met; at two I was thinking, "Last Ironman Ever" but I was also looking with awe at the lit wall of rock cliffs along the Columbia, and using my light stick to point to the stars and the big dipper so the runner behind me wouldn't miss them. And then there was the laser light show on the wall of the dam as I ran from the path up to "ground level."

So in retrospect, what I remember more about the run was the beauty of it—the sky at dusk, the smell of sage, the rock walls, the stars, the big dipper, the light show. The pain is a distant memory and I am only regretful that I don’t have a spot at Ironman Canada.

Final score: Swim: 1:01 Bike: 7 1/2 hrs Run: 5:11 Total 13.55
It was a strangely grand adventure.

But now I know …