Matthew Gallaway

Awareness Through Movement (Week Thirty-Seven)

As I ran, I noticed small changes in the landscape, differences between this version of the park and the one I had last seen: which trees had finally lost their leaves, and which were still showing color; the vibrant green of the fuzzy lambs ears in the pale November light; the earthy browns and yellows of the fallen leaves and hollowed-out stalks of the reeds; the angle of the sun behind the elm trees, and so on. These details made it easier to forget, at least for a little while, the overwhelming cognitive dissonance of the holiday season, made more extreme this year by the fact that thousands are dying while the rest of us are exhorted to shop, as if these are the two primary modes of existence.    

For the past year or so, I've had a few nagging injuries that haven't stopped me from running but are what I consider 'a presence -- or specter -- of pain,' a 1 or 2 on my 10-point scale, with 0 (zero) being the ideal. At times I've resigned myself to these injuries -- after all, I'm no longer young and the mileage is not trivial -- but at the recommendation of my mother, I decided to pursue a more holistic approach: I started a 48-session course in the Feldenkrais Method with a plan to do one 40-minute session per day.      

So far, I've done five. And while I wouldn't (yet) say I've healed my injuries, I'm optimistic. I've noticed several things not only about my running form, but also about how I tend to hold my body when looking down at my laptop or my phone (i.e., 97 percent of my waking hours). In this position, my chest is collapsed and my stomach muscles clenched, which in turn puts unnecessary pressure on my lower back and hips. As the instructor of my course noted, if you keep muscles needlessly clenched for long enough, they become metal rods in your body, painful and inflexible.

The Feldenkrais exercises -- or sequences -- are not 'difficult.' They do not require strength or stamina or flexibility. They are more 'mental' than physical to the extent that, by moving our bodies in unexpected ways, we understand how we hold ourselves. (Hence the 'Awareness Through Movement' mantra of Feldenkrais.) (That said, I often feel 'buzzed' and a little dizzy -- in a good endorphin-y way -- at the end of a sequence.) Students learn that posture is a choice, which means that as we become aware of one choice, we can also make a different one. It's pretty simple in theory. Miraculously, it's not that complicated in practice, either. (Although breaking bad habits is never easy.) 

I've been thinking a lot about the parallels between our bodies and our political economy. There are so many facets of our lives that we take for granted because it's what we've always done, or we 'never thought about it' or because conditions seem to be 'dictated by the market,' when in reality these policies -- whether they relate to the environment or voting or labor or factory farming or so many other issues -- are choices or bad habits waiting to be broken so that we can make different and better choices.  

The course I'm taking is by Bruce Holmes, who was one of the original students of Moshe Feldenkrais, the Israeli engineer who created the method. The sessions were originally recorded on cassette tapes but have been transferred to mp3s, which you can buy here (the best $48 you'll ever spend). I'm particularly enjoying these lessons because Holmes is also a distance runner and has a lot to say about form. For anyone seeking an introduction to Feldenkrais, here's a good NYT article from a few years ago. Or here's a free lesson from the Feldenkrais Project on 'dynamic sitting' that I found useful. 

As I ran, I tried to note the movement in my body and, where necessary, to make adjustments: the tilt of the pelvis, the swing of the arms, the angle of the ankles. Was I clomping or gliding? When I did some wind-sprints at the end of the run, I noticed that my recovery was much faster if I kept my head up, which makes sense if you think about how the chest and body need to expand to take in the air. 

Relaxation with Distortion (Week Thirty-Six)

This week I've been trying to envision life after Trump, and while I'm still relieved (assuming his ongoing coup ultimately fails) to be in a position to consider a post-Trump landscape, I haven't been feeling too great about it, either. A lot of my concerns are 'political' to the extent that I worry about the ability of the (centrist) Democratic leadership to enact reforms (voting, health, environment, labor, inequality: choose your own response) to 'roll back' the 'libertarian' Republican agenda (i.e., loosely, a government designed to maximize corporate profits and to police the world), but I'm also concerned about the psychological toll of living in a system defined by extremes, none of which seem poised to abate more than a little. Will a Biden administration radically restructure the economy to spread the money around? Will Facebook, Google, and Apple be broken up? Will the rich start paying a LOT of taxes? Will our police departments stop acting like occupying forces? Will we ban cars? (Or at least regulate them?) Will we cancel student debt? Will we pass M4A? There are countless questions like this, and the answer to all of them seems to be 'Well, maybe we can take a few steps in that direction, but . . . .' Whatever happens, getting there -- or partially there -- is going to be contentious and grueling; and because of the system in which we live, and the high stakes of reforming it, everyone will pay attention. There's an imaginary world, often depicted by Hollywood, where Americans somehow exist largely oblivious to politics, and this world is increasingly detached from our collective reality, where most people have strong opinions about politics because they understand the extent of our problems (even if they're delusional about causes and solutions, and -- like seventy million Americans just did -- voted for Trump.) And while I don't want to live in this fictional Hollywood (or the sanitized, nostalgic version of the past upon which it's based), I also don't want to be completely consumed by our reality, which even after Trump leaves will be a big risk, because our system demands our attention; it pesters us if we turn away, even for a few minutes, telling us in screams (but sometimes whispers) that we should be doing more: making more money, getting a raise or a promotion (actually: not getting fired or laid off), acting more (or less) like this or that celebrity/influencer, donating to this or that campaign or cause, doing interesting/'interesting' things that can be documented (and monetized) on social media. My fear is that Trump did not create this world; to the contrary, my fear is that he was created by it, and when he's gone, we'll still be living in it. 

In terms of coping with this reality -- by which I mean 'escaping' it, at least temporarily -- I'm sure everyone has a different solution, depending on circumstances and where you currently reside on the pyramid of needs. Given that I'm currently employed, I can afford to be relatively cavalier, even though I understand the desperation that defines the lives of so many at this juncture and -- with a few unlucky breaks -- could define mine. I mean, I actually have some spare time and I make choices about how to use it, which I believe should be a right for everyone but is more like a luxury these days. I run through the park and take pictures, which I post on this blog. It feels like I'm documenting something, even if it's mostly for myself and the imaginary audience who live in my head. I haven't written fiction in the past year, but I'm starting to think about it again. In some ways, fiction has never felt more pointless or irrelevant to me, which somehow makes it seem more interesting, although -- like anyone I guess -- I worry about whether I'm capable of writing something 'good,' notwithstanding the fact that I regularly immerse myself in television shows (and books and movies) that I feel are objectively worse than my new prospective novel. But good or bad, novels are a big investment: for me, anyway, they take years to write: I become attached to the characters, I get offended when readers criticize them (or my ability to render them in a convincing or compelling way). I think this fragility is why, this year, I've gravitated back to playing music and recording songs. Writing songs is not a big commitment but it offers a perfect escape. I've learned to fit it in with doomscrolling, which is not a habit I'm ready to break. 

About a week or so ago, I finally figured out how to record a distorted guitar that -- to my ear -- sounded the way I like distortion to sound: warm and fuzzy but capable of conveying a kind of agitated dissonance and anger that has defined my understanding of life in societies (friends, family, country, etc.) to which I do and do not belong. Distortion has been a big part of much of the music I've loved over the years: discovering it -- in high school and college -- and then using it (in my band) coincided with learning who I really was, what I did and didn't like. Rediscovering it in my fingertips felt like regaining the use of a phantom limb. 

Here's the song I recorded: NB: WEAR HEADPHONES AND TURN IT UP :)

Link. 

In other music news, I also 'produced' a (much quieter) song my brother wrote, which you can check out here. 

These days, I'm either in the park or not in the park, wondering how people decide where they want to go. 

November Gold (Week Thirty-Five)

Long before the pandemic, Stephen and I were inspired by the idea of creating an illusion of being somewhere else without the expense or hassle of having to get there. It was the reason why, almost twenty years ago, we planted two very large trees trees in a very small garden, which for the much of the year -- when we are craving more light at ground level -- seems like a head-scratching decision, but for a few weeks in November, when the leaves turn gold and yellow, seems like the smartest thing we've ever done.  

I like to think the neighbors also appreciate the trees, but I've never spoken to anyone about it. (Nobody has ever complained, though, which I take as a good sign.)

The rest of the neighborhood was poisonously warm and eerily beautiful. 

This is Riverside Drive looking south near 152nd Street. (Harlem.) 

And here's the path next to the Hudson River, just south of the George Washington Bridge. 

The city felt far away, but it was nice to have a view of the skyline, a reminder of where I could be but wasn't. 

This circle, shaded by oaks, is my favorite spot along the Hudson. 

So much of Manhattan is a tedious, oppressive grid, a symbol of our slavish devotion to the market; here, the curves of the path offer a sense of mystery and possibility. Money and efficiency seem pointless when you contemplate the leaves and the water. 

Here's an old staircase that leads across the train tracks, through the snake of highways, and, eventually, back to the grid. 

In the November light, the forest seems to come alive, the trees straining to break through the cages in which they've been kept.  

November Blue (Week Thirty-Four)

Knowing that we would soon have a new president, I found the park even more beautiful than usual. For a few minutes, it didn't matter to me that the president-elect had been a weak (and sometimes creepy) candidate, that he and his closest allies seemed more concerned with extending olive branches to the opposition than supporting the policies that mattered most to the residents of the (majority Black) cities -- Detroit, Milwaukee, Philadelphia, Atlanta -- who had basically saved his candidacy and, possibly, the country. At least Trump was gone, even if the institutional structure of his presidency remained dangerously intact. At least Trump was gone. It was worth repeating, over and over. I've been reading about running mantras lately, and it occurred to me that that it might be time to replace my usual standby -- 'fast, easy, light, strong' -- with 'fuck Trump, enjoy life in North Korea.' Or maybe not: I don't want him 'living rent free' in my head more than a second longer than necessary.

I thought about my friend Scott, who like me has long suffered from what we've long called the 'November blues.' I remember when we coined the term, senior year in high school, on a frosty, wet night in Michigan. We were both lethargic and depressed for no particular reason -- we were still too young to realize that life is the cause -- and attributed our condition to November, when -- at least back then -- it was too cold to be fall, but not cold enough to be winter, when the days were shorter than seemed possible, and when there was basically nothing to look forward to (making it worse than February, when spring is not too far away). It seemed like an important discovery to our teen selves, and we've continued to reference the idea over the ensuing decades, particularly on those elections nights that have turned out worse than we had hoped. 

My hope, once the celebration ends, is that people understand exactly what's at stake in January in Georgia, that this election is effectively a referendum on democratizing the Senate and other institutions the Republicans have used to impose minority rule. 

Intermission: For this week's intermission, I wrote and recorded a song called 'November Blues.' 

 

 

Link to song. 

Link to the DCAS playlist. 

Production Notes: A few readers wrote to tell me that despite their appreciation for my mumblecore/shoegaze aesthetic, they felt my vocals could be a bit louder, so for this one I tried pushing them up a bit :) Let me know what you think in the comments (unless you hate it!). 

Lately I'm a picture of needles and a pin//I'm tired as a newspaper trend. 

LET'S ALL BEAT THE NOVEMBER BLUES.

 

After the Rain before the Flood (Week Thirty-Three)

In the attempt to distract myself from the election and everything it may trigger, I went to the park. It was the first sunny day after what felt like three or four centuries of unrelenting rain, such was the mind-bending sensation of time during this thirty-third week of pandemic lockdown. The overnight temperature had dropped close to freezing and many of the plants were coated in a light frost. It was perfect running weather.  

I voted yesterday, after Stephen -- on his way back from a walk -- texted me to say that the line, which all week had been wrapped around the block, was relatively short. By the time I got there, it had picked up a bit, but I waited less than thirty minutes, which is maybe not reasonable in an ideal world in which government leaders place some importance on voting and fund the agencies that manage the process, but still felt pretty good in the context of our less-than-ideal reality in which governments (even or especially in 'blue states' like New York) do not make it easy for anyone to vote. 

In the park, surrounded by the ambivalent beauty of trees and flowers, it seemed plausible that Biden would win and begin the process of restoring some key elements of a democracy, including, most pressingly, voting rights and the redistribution of wealth. The internet and all of the fears it stokes about the various Trump armies -- lawyers and judges seeking to invalidate votes; thugs trying to intimidate voters -- felt far away. It seemed impossible that Trump had been elected in the first place, and yet I knew that, beyond the confines of the park, it was true. We were on the cusp of losing so much more. I felt worried about Trump winning, but I also worried about Biden. I feared Democratic complacency, the party's tendency to wilt and concede, to offer preemptive gestures of reconciliation or clemency. 

INTERMISSION: 'After the Rain Before the Flood' by Death Culture @ Sea

For those whose video did not embed, here's the song and full DC@S Playlist.

Production Notes: I spent some time working to make the drums sound more 'human,' which can be done by changing the volume (or 'velocity') on each hit and moving it slightly (not too much!) off the beat to add more 'swing.' As I did this, I thought about a culture I once read about -- maybe the Incas? -- whose artists always introduced a flaw into their patterns because only God could be perfect. That music consists of patterns of notes is always made evident when you watch the parts of a song scroll across the software of an electronic phone; but, somehow, beyond the patterns, there's always the hope that these notes will add up to something 'more'; or maybe this magical element is found in the process of arranging the notes. In a way, we are all gods of the little universes we create.  

I thought about how the park is perfect, too, in a way that exists within me -- in my ability to appreciate it -- and outside me, to the extent that it would be there even if I am not, which is a thought that's both frightening and comforting.  

Most of all I thought about how, if we as a country make the right decision on Tuesday, we can once again believe that things can made more perfect, and that this perfection can touch all of our lives. 

My Feline Teacher (Week Thirty Two)

Ever since I saw The Octopus Teacher, I've been thinking about my relationship to nature and animals, and I realized that my version of a coral reef and an octopus is a garden and cats. 

The garden's not exactly wild, of course, but like nature, it's a constant reminder that nothing is static, that humanity, for all of our technology and architecture, is still bound by cycles of life and death, and that these cycles are the source of much beauty and heartbreak. 

Then there are the cats. 

Of our cats, Clio is the most attached to the garden. Every day, she patrols the perimeter and looks for strays, whose scent I'm sure she can detect because they move through the space in the night and sometimes sleep under the ferns. Watching her, I try to imagine the fears and desires running through her mind. There are obviously limits to this kind of speculation, which is what makes animals fascinating, particularly those we see every day. They are obsessed with worlds that have very little to do with ours, and their relationship with the worlds in which they live makes these worlds in some ways seem better than ours -- more harmonious and balanced, more in sync with something primal and essential -- even if, at moments, they seem more cruel and frightening (as was apparent with the world of the octopus that was the source of so much speculation on the part of the filmmaker). 

INTERMISSION: 'THE OTHER SIDE' A NEW SONG by DEATH CULTURE @ SEA 

Links to the song and playlist. 

If all three cats are in the garden, we often try to cajole them into getting on the table at the same time, which they will do, but they always seem as perplexed by our motivations ('we want you to look cute') as we are by theirs. It's a good reminder that many -- and possibly most -- things humans do with great moral imperative are the result of desires far more arbitrary (and more destructive) than those of any animal. 

Sometimes Zephyr decides to watch the proceedings from the deck, which is a relief because he likes to eat plants, an impulse that -- if unchecked by us -- will result in days of vomiting and, a few times in recent years, fearful calls to the vet. Zephyr is now fourteen and we worry that his vomiting is a symptom of chronic kidney failure, which spells the end for many cats. (His recent bloodwork came back clean, thankfully.) Sometimes I wonder if this kind of neurotic behavior (eating plants as if they were all part of a big salad) is a result being domesticated, held captive by a life he didn't choose. 

And then I remind myself that, to extent, we are all held captive by lives we didn't choose. 

Were these toad lilies happy to end up in a trough in the city? If not, at least they are making the best of it. 

How about this new azalea we recently bought, engineered to flower in the spring *and* the fall? It was raised somewhere in the midwest and sent to us through the mail, after which it emerged from a dark box and was planted into a new spot in our garden. I look at it every day in its new home in our garden and hope that it will be happy. 

October Leaves (Week Thirty-One)

My friend Danielle drove up from Brooklyn so that we could walk in the park, just entering peak-leaf season. Like everyone else, we discussed the elections. We didn't feel optimistic, exactly, but inspired by the beautiful foliage, we allowed ourselves the opportunity to consider a Democratic win of the Presidency, the House, and the Senate. It was an exhilarating but daunting proposition. Where, exactly, should they start? 

There was the Supreme Court, of course, and the federal judiciary, which has become infested with lifelong Republican appointees, but there was also health care (in terms of the pandemic and beyond); campaign finance; the ongoing marginalization of and systemic violence toward Black Americans and other ethnic minorities, women, and nonheterosexuals; the environment (both in terms of pollution and climate change); the decimated labor movement; the militarization of the police; the militarization of the military; the tax system; finance (particularly of public infrastructure, with a focus on mass transit); public schools; unhealthy market power in any number of industries (but especially Big Tech); and probably twenty or thirty other things that need a lot of attention before we as a country can legitimately describe ourselves as a functional democracy, not to mention a 'land of opportunity.'

It was a formidable to-do list that made us wonder: Had the Democratic Party accomplished *anything* over the past fifty years? The ACA was hanging on by a thread, but once that was gone -- as it surely will be, once the Supreme Court rules on it again next month -- there doesn't seem to be much on their resume beyond meek objection and passive resistance. The Republicans, meanwhile, have with much greater focus managed to dismantle just about everything good that the post-New Deal government has ever done, and are eager to continue the work if they manage to hold any kind of legislative or executive power. 

INTERMISSION

Death Culture @ Sea playlist.

It was with this idea in mind that we agreed that, before Democrats undertake any other initiative, they need to focus on the right to vote, because what should be an open door for every citizen has increasingly started to feel like a maze. This is by design of course; Republicans understand that, if they are to protect their primary interest -- allowing white people to hoard as much property and wealth as possible -- they can't permit a majority of citizens to vote, because this same majority understands that society, in order to function, requires a government, which in turn requires progressive funding (i.e., the wealthy pay a greater percentage than the non-wealthy, with the understanding that their wealth is made possible only because of the existence of a democratic government). A government that represents this majority will provide health care and promote environmental and economic measures and all sorts of other things that will allow its people to live comfortably and securely and to envision a future that is not the dystopian hellscape in which we now find ourselves. In short, Democrats must make it *easy* to vote (and not just to register): they must fund the process and eliminate the kinds of draconian ID and signature requirements that now effectively function as a poll tax in many states. There must be a sufficient number of polling stations so that people don't have to travel hours or wait more than a few minutes in line to vote. They must recognize statehood for Washington, DC, Puerto Rico, and other places where US citizens live but have no representation in the federal government. Once these voting measures are accomplished -- it should take a day or so with the Democrats in full control -- they can turn their attention to everything else, which will follow naturally.  

As we concluded this action plan, we wondered why the Democratic Party hadn't done more in this regard when they had the chance. To ask this question, of course, is to immediately grasp the answer, which is that the Democratic leadership has always been cautious about the vote: it's been a 'lip-service' issue more than a 'let's-get-to-work' issue. They want enough people to vote so that they can remain in power, but they don't want too many people to vote, because Democratic party leaders are only slightly less repulsed than Republicans by the tendency of a majority to impose fair taxation and health care and all the other things that might spread the wealth out in the interests of creating an equitable country. But the risks of this 'just enough' strategy are more apparent than ever. Over the last four years, we've now witnessed what happens when it's no longer possible for Democrats to thread the needle; and they -- like the rest of the country -- are on the verge of complete collapse.   

If they win in November, will Democrats finally work to expand the vote with the same zeal that the Republicans have worked to restrict it? Let's hope that they have the good fortune to face this choice, and the good sense to make the right decision. 

 

October Light (Week Thirty)

In the thirtieth week of the pandemic, Stephen and I joined a very small percentage of the population who watched the debate. As much as I admired the poise and eloquence of Kamala Harris, who made the best of a horrible situation -- both in terms of the debate itself and her subservient role requiring her to defend positions I'm confident she wouldn't otherwise promote), I still wished that the debate could have taken place in an alternate universe where (of course) fracking would be considered a bad idea, where (of course) it would be ridiculous to try to belittle someone for being a 'progressive' or 'radical' (which in this country means supporting moderate things like organized labor, basic healthcare for everyone, and regulating business in the interests of sustainable society more than 'efficiency' or 'profit'), where (of course) arrogant, demeaning men could not blithely lie about supporting positions they do not support. (And where debate moderators held them to the fire for even two seconds.) 

The next morning I admired the October light, which in the garden is not intense or prolonged, but now and again cuts through the descending gloom and sparkles in a way that sets it apart from all of the other months. 

We've had a climbing hydrangea for many years, and as it has aged, it's become more interesting. Whenever I admire the hydrangea, I regret our decision to install lights on the grape arbor because the plug ruins the view. 

In this period of quiet, relentless anxiety, I find myself increasingly grateful for the presence of the cats, who have concerns and routines that are not part of a universe I belong to. Maybe someday, I think, I'll live just like a cat. 

The leaves have started to fall. In another month or so, they'll be gone. It's difficult to think about winter, when Trump will either be gone or not be gone. (But De Blasio will still be in office, sadly.) I want to hope but I don't want to hope too much. I'm conscious of the fact that my life, which began when Nixon was elected president, has, in terms of electoral politics, been marked by a steep decline interrupted by a few moments of respite that, in retrospect, did nothing to alter the disappointing -- and, now, terrifying -- trajectory. Even if 2020 worked out better than I hoped, I could already feel 2024 looming in a bad way. I needed to become more feline in my disposition. 

Every morning Clio spends time looking for stray cats through the fence we built to keep her from running away. 

In the late afternoon, the October light reflects off the building across the street and lights up my hands as I play guitar. 

In some way, October is a perfect month, which is why I never want it to end, but also why it can't end soon enough. 

Apple Picking (Week Twenty-Nine)

On Friday, Stephen and I rented a car and drove to an apple orchard about sixty miles north of the city. It was the first time we've left Manhattan since March. It felt stressful in some ways and relaxing in others. Like everyone else in the country, we were discussing the implications of the leader of the Republican Party's recent diagnosis. All things considered, we didn't understand the need expressed by centrist Democrats and the NYT editorial board to go out of one's way to wish him a speedy recovery. We speculated about what Trump would have to do in order for these same people not to wish him a speedy recovery: exactly where and how do they draw the line? If, four years ago, we had said to these people: "If I told you that this man will be responsible (at least to some important extent) for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people; that he will openly espouse white nationalism; that he will do everything in his power to disenfranchise voters around the country; that he will set up detention centers at the border and separate parents from their children; that he will gut environmental regulations (like all of them); that he will work relentlessly to eliminate health care for millions of people; that he will refuse to pay taxes despite constantly bragging about his fortune; that he will try to privatize schools and social security; that he will refuse to acknowledge global warming as an existential threat and subsidize the fossil fuel industry; that he will do all of that and so much more (for this is only a partial list of what he will do); with all of that in mind, would you still think it imperative for those of us who oppose these measures to 'set politics aside' and wish him a speedy recovery from an infection that he has often claimed was a hoax? Because if the answer is 'yes' I would like to know exactly what might prevent you offering this advice."  

The trees were just beginning to turn. 

It felt good to see the fields and the trees, even from a car. 

We understood the impulse to flee the city. Here, it was easy to social distance while buying apples (and donuts and hot cider!) We thought about our neighbors who had left the city in March. Stephen asked where they lived, and it seemed possible that it was somewhere around here. 'Or maybe closer to Albany,' I said, although I actually had no idea. People leave the city and vanish into these paintings, frozen in time. We had no plans to leave for more than a few hours, but I admired the empty road. Maybe if I lived in the country, I thought, I wouldn't have to go running at 4:30 am to have the streets to myself. 

This week I recorded a new song called 'Fear on the Ground Fear in the Sky'. Can you guess what it's about :)

Recording notes: I've been working on my finger-picking skills, which you can hear on the main guitar line (played on my 'pride and joy,' a 1972 Fender Telecaster Custom) that runs through most of the song. I tried using an acoustic guitar, but it was too screechy with my fingers moving around, so I went with the electric. Lyrically, I don't think the song is 'anything to write home about' but when I think about my favorite songs, there are quite a few where the lyrics -- except for a few words here and there -- are more 'impressionistic' and that's the effect I wanted to achieve here. I'm still recording these songs on my iPhone with Cubasis 3.0, which I recommend for anyone looking for something a bit more 'robust' and nuanced than GarageBand (not that there's anything wrong with GB!) For those of you looking to catch up on the full roster of Death Culture @ Sea, here's the full playlist. 

In a few weeks, we're going to find out what's around the bend. Let's hope it's the first step in a speedy recovery for a country that's been sick for far too long. 

When Central Park Is a Dream (Week Twenty-Eight)

As it turned out, this week -- the twenty-eighth of the pandemic and (some form of) lockdown -- I wasn't quite ready to return to life in daylight. The previous week, I had gone out at different points in the morning and afternoon and felt constrained by the need to constantly maneuver around people, cars, and construction sites. I couldn't find my 'space,' that mental state when you're running and the miles just kind of evaporate. The streets are so much more peaceful at five in the morning. I started getting up early again and found myself running longer distances for no reason except that it felt good to run through the sleeping city, to be aware of its massive scale and potential in a way far removed from the depressing news cycle. 

The city at this hour also allows for a kind of spontaneity that can be lost in the routine of lockdown days. This morning, I was planning to run down the west side to Houston Street before returning north, which has become my 'long-run' route, but when I reached 72nd Street, I decided to head east to Broadway and then south to Central Park. There was no automobile traffic, so I ran on the streets, which are always better than the sidewalks, with their treacherous curbs and cracks. 

I ran the loop in Central Park, where I passed no more than a handful of people. This part of the run wasn't easy: unlike the way it appears on two-dimensional maps, Central Park is secretly very hilly, and the road is always twisting, which makes it easy to lose track of exactly where you are, particularly when you're running in the dark. But the pavement is in perfect condition, which in combination with the trees and lamplights make it the most dreamlike landscape I've encountered in the city. (It's not nearly as dreamlike in the day, however, when the swarms of bikers and runners take you away from your thoughts.) A few times, while running along the edge of the forest -- and it seems like a forest at this hour -- I heard the trees: creaking branches, rustling leaves, possibly a falling acorn, and for a few seconds, I felt like everything was going to be okay.

By the time I made it around, I wouldn't have been surprised if the loop had been five miles long, but I also wouldn't have been surprised it it were ten miles long. In fact, it's slightly over six miles, which was a bit shorter than I was hoping, because when I left the park, I looked at my watch and realized that -- if I wanted to run twenty miles (my target) -- I still had eight to go.

I ran back back to the river, where I turned north just in time to see the first streaks of daylight. Some parts of this path are also magical, like when it takes you out over the water and the guardrails are lit by square yellow lights that remind me of the lumenaria that my family -- and many of our suburban neighbors -- used to put out on Christmas Eve when I was growing up, which as I think about it now was one of the best Christmas traditions.

And of course the George Washington Bridge sparkles beautifully over the mutating pastels of the dawn. It really *is* like a painting (except for the rats that constantly dart back and forth across the path at this hour). 

In the end, I ran 19.76 miles, which was a bit short of twenty, but got me to my other target, which was 92.24 miles over the course of seven days, or an average of a half-marathon each day. Recently, I read about a woman who's run something like 150 consecutive half marathons, which -- along with the nice weather -- inspired me to make a similar (but much shorter) effort.

Having made it seven days, I realized that I had no desire to continue such a streak. Still, with the mornings getting darker and darker, it's impossible to predict where the streets may lead.