𝗝𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿
Dispatch
10-19-02023
Another race dispatch from your favorite gonzo trail runner (ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ?).
Da’ RACE :: 𝗝𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗥𝘂𝗻
Da’ LOCATION :: The Arizona desert
Da’ DISTANCE :: A modest 25K
From the top of a hill near the start line I notice a colossal wedge of white jutting skyward 5-and-change miles from my location. The spectral form is tall, far too tall for this rural desert. It resembles a Dubai skyscraper, towering above the sun-silhouetted mountain range it bisects. I remember the town JJ (ᴍʏ ʀᴜɴɴɪɴɢ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅᴏ) and I drove through an hour prior. It was retirement town, with a large reservoir encircled by park greenery. A huge circular structure of dark inward arcing arms floated in the lake’s center, like a dead tarantula on its back. A town called, ah . . . 𝓕𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓗𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓼.
Studying it, I can see it’s slightly opaque. I can just make out the black of the blocked mountain range through what I now discern is mist.
To my eyes, this geyser is a man made phenomenon devoid of context. A great middle finger to the arid lands on all sides. On a level, it offends me. It seems like just kind of conspicuous 20th century hubris that has left the 21st misted in █▓▒░ 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗠𝗔𝗰𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗶𝘀. But on deeper primordial level, I’m gripped by a wonder akin to that I feel watching construction cranes at work, solar eclipses, or a KAWASAKI NINJA™ traveling at top speed. A childlike . . . ᗯOᗯ ᗯEE.
A distant megaphone shouts . . .
“THIRTY MINUTES TO START.”
JJ and I descend the hill to partake in the pre race festivities. The starting line of a trail race is a strange ying-yang of ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱ & 𝓢𝓲𝓵𝓵𝔂. One booth sells branded swag (technical fabric tees, trucker caps, and spandex arm sleeves), while another canopy shelters the runner sustenance station. Its folding tables are sparse. The volunteers haven’t broken out the good snacks yet, dissuading us from belly loading on handfuls of 𝓜&𝓜𝓼™ and 2” squares of chopped up PB&Js this early. In a few hours, the volunteer's job will be to dissuade runners from skipping these same calorically dense morsels, which — after 15 miles of running — can be as revolting as they are imperative.
For now there is water, a carafe of cold-brew, and a scuffed-up orange drink cooler filled with a liquid labeled 𝙂𝙉𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙔 𝙃𝙔𝘿𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉. Next to that is a bottle of 𝗧𝗨𝗠𝗦™ and a plastic jar of good ol’ 𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘭'𝘴 𝘕𝘶𝘵 𝘉𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳™ anti-chafe cream. (ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴀ ʙᴜᴅᴅɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴀꜰᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ 10 ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ɪꜱ — ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴡʜᴏ’ᴠᴇ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇᴅ ɪᴛ — ᴀ ꜱᴄᴀʀɪᴇʀ ᴘʀᴏꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴅɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴᴀʟ ʙᴏᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀᴏᴜᴄʜ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍ). JJ pours himself a cup of 𝙂𝙉𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙔 . It's eclectic purple and smells like berries and science. I ask him what it tastes like. He says it tastes like, “water with something added to it.” As someone with a tendency toward over-description, I appreciate his conciseness.
We drift to the start line as a the DJ (ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜʏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴅᴊ) full deck does a rough fade from some generic reggae to an obligatory playing of The Final Countdown. He is set up between a row of Port-o-Potties and a food vendor doing business as 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛 𝗕𝗬 𝗣𝗜𝗭𝗭𝗔. The Port-o-Potties all rattle when on bass beat, adding a 𝘷𝘪𝘷 𝘷𝘪𝘷 𝘷𝘪𝘷 to the soundscape. There are maybe 75 gathered at the start, dressed in slick skintight fabrics colored in black and vaporwave neons. On our heads are pounds of accessories (ꜱᴜɴɢʟᴀꜱꜱᴇꜱ, ʜᴀᴛꜱ, ʜᴇᴀᴅᴘʜᴏɴᴇꜱ, ᴘʟᴜɢꜱ, ᴘɪᴇʀᴄɪɴɢꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ, ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ʜᴇᴀᴅʟᴀᴍᴘꜱ, ᴛʜɪʀᴅ-ᴇʏᴇ-ᴘᴏɪꜱᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ-ᴛʜᴇ-ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ). The megaphoner is shouting race tips over the DJ set.
“IF YOU SEE A SIGN THAT SAYS ‘WRONG WAY’ YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!”
The Final Countdown starts again (ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴊ ᴊᴜᴍᴘᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴜɴ) and the megaphoner says . . .
“GO!”
We go.
The trail is soft and sandy, and the first few miles pass fast as JJ and I banter. I adopt the persona of an endurance couch/Youtube personality, conceptualizing an entire online course called 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗢 𝗚𝗥𝗜𝗧 𝗧𝗢 𝗤𝗨𝗜𝗧 𝗦𝗬𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗠. For $299.99 you can gain full access, learning to get more sun, eat more organ meat, thank more cops for there service, and suppress more sadness (ᴏɴᴇ-ᴏɴ-ᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴏᴀᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴀᴠᴀɪʟᴀʙʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ $1000 ᴘ/ʜᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ’ᴍ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ).
The fountain is on again. Despite the jet being phallic in concept, the wind catches the shaft of it, wisping it east and giving it a more vulvic appearance. I think how Freudianly bad-ass it would be to see some fighter planes fly through it . . . ᗯOᗯ ᗯEE.
I’ve never run a night race before and the deserts golden hour had me seeing the appeal. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so present to the subtle process of day becoming night. The world takes on an OᑌᖇOᗷOᖇOᔕ quality — light feeding a growing dark that is destined to feed the morning. When it comes to an OᑌᖇOᗷOᖇOᔕ, I always focus on the spot where the snake's mouth bites the tail, the single point of action on a loop of continuous emergence. Where is that point now? In what single moment does night swallow day?
I can’t find it.
It’s absence exposes the imperceptible gradualness of nature’s transitions. Human constructions are full of abrupt ons & offs. Nature's only abrupt off is death (ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ɪꜱ ɢʀᴀᴅᴜᴀʟ). It’s 8PM, too dark to see the fountain’s blast, but it has a schedule to keep. I get out my headlight.
Three bright dots are lined up in the near night sky. At first I see them as planets — Mercury, Mars, & Venus leading the star’s shine as they do — but then realize they’re commercial jets on trajectory to 𝗣𝗵𝗼𝗲𝗻𝗶𝘅 in an endless queue. More rude machines, wrestling my attention from dimmer, slower engines of the cosmos. I look back over my shoulder and see dozens of bobbing headlamps, snaking back on the trail like holiday string lights . . . human engines . . . the bridge engines between the world’s fourth tallest fountain and the desert . . . ᗯOᗯ ᗯEE.
At night, light draws my attention in a manner that shadows don’t demand in the day. The planes, the stars, the headlamps, and the distant muddy glow of 𝗣𝗵𝗼𝗲𝗻𝗶𝘅. The night is as much a celebration of light as it is a reprise from it. A chance for it to prance around and play hard to get. Darkness is has more temperance, content in to wallflower in the background. Light is a narcissist — darkness is stoic, or possibly, a schemer.
JJ’s headlamp acts as our headlight, while I keep mine the red setting, bringing up the rear. Viewed from a quarter mile, I bet we resemble a silent dirt bike. Running is when I feel most connected to my friendship with JJ, listening to the noise of our synced up foot falls . . .
.•°*•.ᑕᖇᑌᑎᑕᕼ .•°*•. ᑕᖇᑌᑎᑕᕼ .•°*•. ᑕᖇᑌᑎᑕᕼ
. . . the only audible noise save for crickets. Treating it like a mantra, I slip my skin and dip into the comfortable silence familiar to dude-pals. A secret flavor of non-dualism. It’s hard to say which side of the slip relies on illusions. In a non-dual state, am I forgetting the truth or remembering it? As I age, my friends feel more and more like storm cells — moving spirals of heat and pressure squeezing around each other, exchanging the molecules of four edges. Our continuous becoming going unnoticed, until it produces some hurricane level cacophony or double-rainbow awe.
In time, .•°*•.ᑕᖇᑌᑎᑕᕼ .•°*•. ᑕᖇᑌᑎᑕᕼ lulls even the meta-introspections. Whole minutes go by where I’m just gooone. How do two winds blow in the same direction?
Every now and again, I have a panic attack. They happen when I feel forced into an undignified feeling powerlessness by bureaucratic machines. One came on when I maxed out a credit card to pay the 𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗥𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘂𝗲 𝗦𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗶𝗰𝗲 — going into debt to support a war machine I despise. Another came after I was required to photograph my face (ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ, ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴘʀᴏꜰɪʟᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴘʀᴏꜰɪʟᴇ) for a rental application. Something about paying a $35 background check fee that required me to snap my own mug shot was so bleak it thrust me into a day of short breathed despondency. The most recent one occurred when a redlight camera ticket arrived in the mail for me. I was driving a borrowed car, but the authorities still identified me by the grainy image of my face printed in the corner of the mailed ticket, next to . . .
“𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆”
Running right now — letting the barriers selfhood melt into the desert and my friend JJ — I form a theory about these bureaucratic induced attacks. I’m becoming too indiscriminately permeable. Perhaps the same qualities of connection and non-dualism that coax me out of my body and into the benevolence of now and nature, are being abused by power-over machines. I’ve let my soul play unsupervised, and it has been ambushed by a vampiric forces. In both nature and bureaucracy, I feel out of control of my life, but unlike the former the machines of power-over are not benevolent, and, often, not even malevolent. They are as cold and efficient as a 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐞™ thrasher, grinding mice and squirrels to pulp as it harvests mono-crop grain. Or maybe, I’m just thinking too much.
But that machine is far away right now, and nothing is taking without giving. I exhale and the desert inhales. I inhale. . . the snake eats its tail forever, behind it is a ring of creation, ending in a gift.
On block one of a recent urban run, I come across a 𝗛𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗮™ 4-door parked with one wheel on the sidewalk. The engine is running, no one is around . . . I run on. 40 minutes later, on my return pass, the engine is still running. I opened the door to turn the engine off, but this is not possible. The ignition system is torn to shit by crude theft tactics. I don’t call the cops. The insurance payout for a beater 4-door could be a godsend to the owner, for all I know. Plus, I’m an abolitionist. I hope the thief escapes punishment, if only because their freedom will diminish the flow of taxpayer cash to the prison industrial complex, via a money laundering scheme known as the ℂ𝕣𝕚𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝕁𝕦𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕖 𝕊𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕞 . . . I run on.
This stolen and abandoned 𝗛𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗮™ feels like it will settle into a metaphor eventually. A running engine between faceless thieves and victims. I’m starting here to see what happens to that metaphor as I pass it through a run story. A victim, a thief, and an engine that can’t be shut down . . . maybe it will help explain late-stage capitalism, climate change, or my confused trauma bond to depressive ennui?
No metaphor yet though.
On the dark trail, the upcoming runner’s aid station will be lit up like a strip mall vape shop. But, 8 miles in, JJ and I take hopeful double takes at every distant glow. I pass the time with a body scan — I’m tired, but detect no ominous pains in acute locations. No subtle noise in my knee, strange asymmetry in my gait, or buzz of a budding nut/thigh chafe. On long runs, a homogeneous all-over pain is expected, comforting even — an electric flatline, devoid of extremes and tinged with euphoria.
Running at night is producing strange mental perceptions. The barrel cacti glow just discernibly enough to make me question whether they possess phosphorescence, or I possess a brain tumor. The crickets are cricketing in a manner that seems a tad too crickety. They sound like tracks made for sitcom night scenes. Dead crickets, recorded in the 1940s, and used over-&-over like that scream that punctuates every just-okay action flick . . .
YυɾɾɾɾɾɾAHHHHHHHHHH!!!
The aid station pops out of the night like the aforementioned vape shop as we round the edge of a hill. LEDs wind up its posts to drape over its roof and dangle from the opposite side. In my first draft I’d written a cynical bit about how the reduction of cost in LEDs has led to an urban nightscape of seizure-inducing rainbows . . .
“assaulting me like the VCR clocks I always blocked with duct tape”
. . . but during my third edit, I feel less bleak. I think, out in the desert dark, this rainbow light tent is lovely and festive. It shelters two folding tables. One supports drink coolers containing water and another 𝙂𝙉𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙔 𝙃𝙔𝘿𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉 elixir of unknown brand or flavor. The other table is laden with 𝙂𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙑𝙖𝙡𝙪𝙚™ paper bowls filled 𝗠&𝗠𝘀™, boiled potato chunks, 𝓡𝓤𝓕𝓕𝓛𝓔𝓢™, cubes of 𝗪𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱™ PB&Js, and crudely slice watermelon. I opt for water.
When it comes to running — and life, really — I limit myself to the foods farthest from industrial adulteration. My 14 year motivation for eating this way evolves quicker than I can explain it. When it comes to food, my mind is a tense boardroom meeting of health concerns, pride, orthorexia, luddite tendencies, contrarianism, and down-right realism about what capitalism has turned American food into. In line with these morals/irrationalities, I run my races on low-tech snacks I pack myself (ꜱᴀᴠᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʀʀʏ ʙʟᴀꜱᴛ 𝗡𝘂𝘂𝗻™ ʜʏᴅʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴀʙʟᴇᴛ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛᴛʟᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇʏ, ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ᴏꜰ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝕶𝖓𝖊𝖑𝖑 ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ɴᴀʀʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ).
I’ve come circle my digestive wagons around a one 𝓱𝓲𝓹𝓹𝓲𝓮-𝓭𝓲𝓹𝓹𝓲𝓮 snack for long runs. Up to about mile 20, the wheels (ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ) stay on.
Recipe Interlude (ꜰᴇᴇʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴋɪᴘ) :: 𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬
Ingredients
- Medjool Date (ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ɢʟᴜᴄᴏꜱᴇ ʙᴏᴍʙꜱ, ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴜᴘ ɪɴ ꜰɪʙᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ꜱʟᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɢʟᴜᴄᴏꜱᴇ)
- Almonds (ᴛʀɪᴠɪᴀʟ ʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇɪɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴅɪɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴘᴀᴄɪɴɢ ꜰɪʙᴇʀ)
- Cinnamon (ᴅɪɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ)
- Smoked Sea Salt (ᴀ ꜱᴀᴠᴏʀʏ ᴇᴅɢᴇ ʜᴇʟᴘꜱ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴍʏ ᴘᴀʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴜᴄᴄᴜᴍʙɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ ꜰᴀᴛɪɢᴜᴇ)
Process:
1) Pit the medjool date
2) Shove in a few almonds
3) Repeat steps 1 & 2 till desired caloric needs are reached
4) Toss them in a ziplock™ with a generous amount of cinnamon & smoked sea salt and shake the hell out of it
I stand to the side of the canopy, scribbling sweat smeared observational notes into a pocket 𝗠𝗼𝗹𝗲𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗲™ . . .
- A science class style skeleton is straddling the canopy roof, sports a pirate hat
- Boiled potatoes: the grossest option, but is the first most runners pop in their mouths
- The aid station volunteer’s lethargic ‘you’re-welcomes’ replys to runner’s obligatory, ‘thanks-for-being-out-heres’ makes me think the truest thank you would be silence.
(Explore why I hate being thanked, perhaps?)
JJ points out that the volunteers are shooting me strange glances. It’s funny that note taking is weird in this scene 100% comprised of weird human behavior. Maybe they think I’m a secret shopper and they are in the process of a covert performance review.
Still no metaphor.
JJ and I head out.
The remaining two hours of the race are a loopy blur. I remember walking for a mile as my stomach ᖇOᒪᒪᔕ & ᔕᑭIKEᔕ (ɪ ꜱᴜꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ᴀᴛ 10 ᴘᴍ, ᴍʏ ꜱᴛᴏᴍᴀᴄʜ ɪꜱɴ’ᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇʟᴇᴠᴀɴᴛ ᴇɴᴢʏᴍᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪɢᴇꜱᴛ ᴀ 𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫). I remember a gathering of large, curvy stones that hinted at the possibility of this desert's previous iteration as some Pangea-era sea bed. I remember the strange form of a runner standing wide-legged over the trail, shunking racers to either side. As I pass, I see they’re shielding the passage of a snake as small as an earthworm. I remember jumping over a tarantula, and finish line music I’d describe as 𝗦𝗸𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗲𝘅𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓮. I remember opting for the commemorative pint glass in lieu of the medal, as someone at the shouts . . .
“One or the other finishers! No, not both, one or the other!”
I remember feeling a warm, all-to-rare, gratitude for my friend, my body, and my ability to run in their company, as JJ vomits up the last of the evenings 𝙂𝙉𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙔 𝙃𝙔𝘿𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉. 5 minutes later, he’s beaming.
I remember the 𝙄𝙣-𝙣-𝙊𝙪𝙩™ burger drowning in 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓱𝓼™ mustard.
I haven’t forgotten about that metaphor.
A month later, I’m running my favorite loop around ≋Piestewa≋ ≋Peak≋ in ≋Phoenix≋. At mile 3, I pass my favorite Saguaro cactus with his distinctive teal patina. I’ve come to call him ᗷᒪᑌE. In moments of stress, I soothe myself with a mental image of ᗷᒪᑌE standing stoic, forever taking in a great and secret show. We’ve made a run ritual of exchanging salutations . . .
“Good to see you, ᗷᒪᑌE, what’s new in this spot you’ve stood for over 100 hundred years?”
Today, ᗷᒪᑌE is on his side. All 12 majestic feet of him are in various states of decay.
It was a hot year in ≋Phoenix≋. The old records for consecutive days above both 110 and 115 degrees were smashed. This overstressed the Saguaro cactus population, who dedicate themselves during the hottest periods of the year to keep from, literally, boiling on the inside (ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴜʀʙᴀɴ ꜱᴀɢᴜᴀʀᴏꜱ, ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏᴏ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴀʀʟʏ ʙʏ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴀɴᴛ ɢᴀʀᴅᴇɴᴇʀꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ). Too much time in a state of desiccation and a Saguaro’s shallow root system loses it grip upon the arid Earth (ᴡᴇ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ʜᴀᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅ ʟᴏᴡ ʀᴀɪɴꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴ ≋ᴘʜᴏᴇɴɪx≋, ɪ’ᴠᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇʀᴍ ‘ɴᴏɴ’ꜱᴏᴏɴ ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏꜱꜱ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ).
I sit beside ᗷᒪᑌE for a while. I start stacking stones into a rock tower because, I don’t know, I’ve got a real sense of grief and I don’t know what type of ceremony I or a cactus needs and trail running is an odd 𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩/𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮/𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔞𝔩-𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔢 that allows timeouts to build cacti gravestones and I love it for that.
ᗷᒪᑌE’s namesake teal is still vibrant — I don’t know enough about his kind to know if he’s even dead yet. Have I come across my friend mortally wounded, broken with his innards exposed? Am I witnessing last breaths? Breaths that take days, not seconds? Would I be any comfort if I kneeled down and whispered teary platitudes like . . .
“𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓁𝓁 𝓅𝓊𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝑜𝓁’ ᗷᒪᑌ𝐸, 𝒾𝓉 𝒶𝒾𝓃’𝓉 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒷𝒶𝒹, 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒶 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽, 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒶 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽”
. . . is that silly anthropomorphizing? Are humans the only creatures in the kingdom of flora and fauna who call upon fool hopes all the way to the door of death. Is an abandoned stolen 𝗛𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗮™ ever just an abandoned stolen 𝗛𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗮™? Stacking stones, all that feels tragic and sacred. Chocolate and peanut butter.