Just a few more days in Lake Placid, then across The Pond to Norway on Sunday. Great to meet up with the Amherst College Men’s Soccer team as they swung through town on their way to NCAA’s at St. Laurence this weekend. Good luck this weekend gents!
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I have 19 minutes to kill. Nineteen minutes to use. I have nineteen minutes with which I can do just about anything. For now, I choose to write. Why not? That way, at least, at some point, I can relive these nineteen minutes again. At the moment I have that untethered feeling that one gets occasionally when the world seems quite large, large enough to make it impossible to get back to the ground that you feel comfortable walking on. But, we walk on nevertheless, despite the styrofoam under our feet. It squeaks and shifts under our toes, so frustrating. It requires all of one’s energy, every kilocalorie of entropy-laden metabolism just to make the scenery change. Forging onward through the foam I go, in hopes that a like-minded soul may lie behind the next bend, willing to bear the weight of my swollen limbs until I can regain my composure. To set a course, my friends, that is really the only thing to do now. It’s imperative, lest we wander in this mire forever! And… nineteen minutes… TIME!
I walked for a while,
out on a frozen lake.
The sharp clarity of blues upon blue.
And I, in the middle of these layers,
a pepper speck,
a contrast in the flat light of winter.
Why does and empty world have beauty?
As people cling together,
like magnets on an icebox door,
I am here with no one,
and I am here with everything.
I could sleep in the mountain’s shadow,
for an hour?
And it would not judge my sloth,
for change comes on cat’s feet in this place.
Movement is not witnessed in moments,
but measured in months.
As ice becomes thicker,
snow becomes deeper,
and daylight fades faster.
I could sleep
I could rest,
Rethink the vanity
that is the modern mind.
Eventually these banks will be full of flowers,
Bees and bull moose will skirt the shoreline,
The bustle of midsummer madness.
But all of that lies on the other side of a circle,
a path that has always been followed,
and will continue
long after the last city cigarette has been snuffed out.
Can I afford to wait here longer,
and watch the birches shiver?
Or will the world be different when I return?