July 14, 2010
I had a dream last night. No, not that kind of dream. On the other side of town, huge trucks were falling out of the sky. They disappeared behind the buildings in front me and disappeared with no explosion, no smoke. I have no idea what to make of it except that maybe I was channelling Arlo Guthrie — you remember, the disappearing North American Semi Blues. “Good Morning Topeka how are ya?/ that’s a big ten-four Topeka/” Tonight I’ll shut the damn window and leave the rollin’ trucks to do their business without me. Time to do some rollin’ on my own. No minimal shoes for me these days. It’s back to the old reliables. I hate Nike for some things, not the least of which is their tee shirt commoditization of vague days in a full range of engaging colors. On the other hand (foot?) their Vomero series is incredible. Writing before running is harder than I think.
July 15 , 2010
I did not have a dream last night. Apparently if one doesn’t sleep, one doesn’t dream. And there’s the rub. The night however WAS filled with sound and fury. Signifies nothing. A tale told by an idiot? Indeed. Now for a run of some short distance. Birnum Wood per chance, by way of Dunsinane? And so it goes.
July 24th, 2010
No running for me today. Rest day. I went out in floppy slippers and my favorite terry cloth robe to check the mail box. A black Cadillac cruised past my house. Then a black Chevy Suburban, tinted windows. A little weight gain, a sleepy limp and messy hair had become Tony Soprano in Eugene. I went back to bed, realized I was still in bed, that Tony and I had never been out there at all. How then to explain the copy of this week’s New Yorker on the table by the door?
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Recent Michael Lebowitz Articles:
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- Tarmac Meditations #203: Images From the Road
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- Tarmac Meditations: Haiku # 42