River oil, flower, the cannon, the crow

Thursday June 9, 2011

Run distance: 7.1km, but in all honesty, it's 29 degrees after humidity here, and though it doesn't feel that hot after yesterday's typhoon-building 40 degree day, the relative humidity this morning was 83% or something incredible like that. Apparently in Ottawa, average relative humidity is 68%, and our summers are, on average, humid as heck, so 83% is going to make your (or rather, my) legs feel like lead. Excuses excuses. In short I really only ran about 3k and walked the rest of the way, but what the heck, here's to trying.
Run-walk time: 1 hour

Yesterday's monsoon-like rain storm left the very landscaped lawns of Rockliffe and New Edinburgh a complete mess. Even the front lawns entirely composed of plants (my favorites, and a popular choice here fortunately) look worse for wear, most blossoms having lost their heads yesterday (not unlike the general population). The nice result though, is all the people in safari-type sunhats on hand and knee in the dirt in front of their homes: another pleasant reminder that this is not Westmount and that these people are different.

Crossing St-Patrick bridge towards the Byward Market, over the Rideau River: the most painterly swirls of golden oil in Van Gogh-like abandon cover the dark water. It's dramatic for 10 a.m., and uncanny. It's something limited to art. Like his stars, there's something ominous about it. Mostly this is due to texture: the seeping powder of pollen makes the water - which other days flows freely and sometimes clearly - seem so heavy and deep and still. I recognize the pollen from every surface in my apartment, from the film that covers my arms and legs these days. This makes the water seem foreign, and the river I walk past every afternoon becomes a strange thing.

After a circuit ending at Sussex I come home via the riverbank and cut down Dufferin. On a corner, the most perfect pink flowers bow out over their lawn, the two of them the only flowers left standing, complete untouched, again, seemingly unnatural. Or, maybe, there's something about anything left after such an unusual storm, that just seems otherworldly. Still tied to my devices, I photograph them, wondering if they will seem the same later.

Shortly thereafter, a cannon in a quaint backyard. A real, civil war era style cannon. Lindenlea and New Edinburgh are home to some of the capitals oldest homes, because it was the heart of parliament, hence the GGs. It's easy to imagine that this house was build around this cannon. It peeks out of hostas, behind a grey, splitting picket fence.

On my corner, a mangy baby crow, entirely unimpressed by me. Granted I am not the most impressive human being, but this small crow, probably alone for the first or second time, comes closer rather than hopping away, in their frequently equally unimpressed way. It's like a graceless teenager, feathering all amok and in need of some mother's grooming. I suspect crows do not groom. I back away first. They are too prehistoric, and the morning feels too strange. My mother has a thing about gathering crows, and I suspect angsty adolescent crows are probably the worst of them all. Then again maybe they are just misunderstood.

My first leg of the run took me past the unknown neighbor's apartment. I'd really hoped he would be there so I could ask him his name, and not just the name of his pets. I recognized though, that as I was climbing Acacia, I was a little worried he would be there, and would engage me in his rambling style of conversation. He wasn't there, and I was both relieved and disappointed. It's hard to change.