Jogging #4: When Variables Attack!

I went running with the band (as pictured). Mom was right: exercise does make you not hurt...UNTIL YOU STOP.

It was strangely warm and, get this, foggy. This turned out to not actually affect what I was doing (other than "Oooo!"). OTOH, the random spots where the ground slopes down to the walkway and mud has washed all over it from the rain--.

The backlight on my watch has inexplicably started working again.

90 sec. run was easier today, but I think that's because I downscaled my expectations; I tried to obey the screed of "you should not be out of breath, you should be able to carry on a conversation" which meant I was moving about as fast as an arthritic hamster.

2.5 lbs down from Monday's horror, so I'm a whole half pound under where I started a week ago. YAY TEH BUS.

Analysis shows that I do, in fact, land differently on my right foot than my left. It really wants to come down on its ball rather than its heel; and when I force it to land heel-first, it's requiring muscles to do what they have not been accustomed, and that is why I have had a funny ache in my right shin only after these exertions.

Sufficiently-Advanced Technology Is Indistinguishable From A 1st-Level Wizard

DHS pays $1mil for a Wand of Color Spray.

I have no idea what just happened.

I had a day composed of frustration, self-loathing, and despair (and hormones) and felt incredibly woeful by the time I got on the train. Feelings did not get better, and I was as emo as a truck full of MySpace and listening to "Sister Rosetta" by Alabama 3 when I saw a painting in my mind's eye, the capturing of which was instantly of the utmost importance.

I have paints...somewhere.

OK, charcoal. I would sketch it in charcoal/ash (since we haven't cleaned out the fireplace, aheheh) and paint later.

On what?

I was grimly and slightly-hysterically considering ripping the back off a pizza box when I thought that maybe the Rite-Aid by the train station might have posterboard, at least. And so they did. I twitched in line, feeling like Coleridge hearing the man from Porlock coming up the walk, because I felt that if I didn't get this down out of my head as fast as possible, it would fade like dreams do if you don't write them down first thing you wake up.

And then it started bucketing rain on the way home. I howled in frustration but Did It Anyways, taping the soggy posterboard to the back of my workroom door (that also was sub-optimal, let me say), turning off all the lights, lighting six or seven candles, and using chunks of charred wood to sketch--more or less--what was in my head.

I looked at it in the light, after. I have no idea if it sucks or what. But I am going to try and paint it. (Can you paint on posterboard?)

I now feel like the-day-after-Ecstasy.