Adarq.org

- walk 5.44 km in 53:19

- GMB warm up

- GMB foot routine

- push ups x 10,12,7,7,21
trying 100 pushup challenge on for size. let's see if i actually stick with it this time. meant to start 20 pull up challenge too but my pull up bar turns out to be broken. i think i fixed it but i'll wait for the glue to set before i put it up.

- run 7.07 km in 34:54
perfect pace average, although i was all over the place given the stiff wind.

- GMB warm up + foot mobilization

- push up x 10,12,8,8,22

- pull up x 4,3,2,4,5

- GMB shoulder stretches

- walk 6.48 km in 1:04:06
windy but not unpleasant.

compounding covid-19 isolation and stress, my relationship appears to be in the process of ending.

wtf? damn man sorry to hear that :/

didn't see that coming, given some of the stuff you share on ig (recently).

- run 4.29 km in 19:55
too fast (4:38 average including a sub-race-pace kick over the last 3-400m), almost like extensive tempo except it didn't feel hard. arch of right foot present at beginning of run but just that, and it went away.

- stretch

- run 7.46 km in 35:52
4:48 including little not-quite extensive tempo stretches in km 5 (4:36) and 7+ (4:32). foot felt 100%, hurray. still resting tomorrow. knees a little achey post-run.

some more found poetry for y'all. i'm reading the mirror and the light and once in a while the author, hilary mantel, just lets it rip.

here's a bit i came across just now, with breaks added every 10 (sometimes 11) syllables and the verses separated when it shifts from third to second/first person. just to see how it looks in verse form. she rules extremely hard at writing so it's a bit of a cheat to call this found poetry, but i saw someone do it with a passage from the prequel to this book, bring up the bodies, and i got a kick out of it then. so figured i'd do the same once in a while.

Don't look back, he had told the king, yet he
too is guilty of retrospection as
the light fades, in that hour in winter or summer
before they bring in the candles, when earth
and sky melt, when the fluttering heart of
the bird on the bough calms and slows, and the
night-walking animals stir and stretch and
rouse, and the eyes of cats shine in the dark,
when color bleeds from sleeve and gown into
the darkening air; when the page grows dim
and letter forms elide and slip into other
conformations, so that as the page is
turned the old story slides from sight and a
strange and slippery confluence of ink
begins to flow.

........................ You look back into your
past and say, is this story mine; this land? Is
that flitting figure mine, that shape easing
itself through alleys, evader of the
curfew, fugitive from the day? Is this
my life, or my neighbor's conflated with
mine, or a life I have dreamed and prayed for;
is this my essence, twisting into a
taper's flame, or have I slipped the limits
of myself -- slipped into eternity, like
honey from a spoon? Have I dreamt myself,
undone myself, have I forgotten too
well[? M]y sins seek me out; even as I
slide into sleep, my past pads after me, paws
on the flagstones, pit-pat: water in a
basin of alabaster, cool in the
heat of the Florentine afternoon.

here's the passage from the previous book:

These days are perfect.
The clear untroubled light
picks out each berry
shimmering in a hedge.
Each leaf of a tree,
the sun behind it, hangs
like a golden pear.

Riding westward in high summer,
we have dipped into sylvan chases
and crested the downs, emerging
into that high country where,
even across two counties, you can
sense the shifting presence of the sea.
In this part of England our forefathers
the giants left their earthworks,
their barrows and standing stones.

We still have, every Englishman and woman,
some drops of giant blood in our veins.