Sunday, December 23, 2007
A-leaping and a-swimming
This morning, we warmed up with 12 Drummers drumming (200 Free, 100IM) and 11 Pipers piping. And our main set consisted of:
- 10 x 25 Lords a-leaping (4 x 25 Free, 3 x 25 Back, 2 x 25 Breast, 1 x 25 Fly)
- 9 x 75 Ladies dancing (Back/Breast/Free and Fly/Back/Free)
- 8 x 100 Maids a-milking (4 x 100 Free, 2 x 75 Free/25 Kick, 2 x Free S/K/S/K)
- 7 x 50 Swans a-swimming (25 Back/25 Breast)
- 6 x 25 Geese a-laying (All Breast--and according to Alfredo, "Breast is best.")
- 5 x 50 Golden rings (Fly drill: 25 Right Arm/25 Left Arm)
- 4 x 100 Calling birds (IM Reverse)
- 3 x 150 French hens (Pull)
- 2 x 100 Turtle doves (Stroke, moderate pace)
- 1 x 200 True love (200 ez swim) and a partridge in a pear tree!
If there's a consistently huge difference between the time you have and the demands you place on your time, you will crash and burn. Stay ignited, and find a new way to relate to time. Referees call time; musicians mark time...statisticians keep time; athletes race against time. The fact remains that we are all given the same amount of time. There are 24 hours in a day, 168 hours in a week. Use them fully--live every moment.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Imaginary Garden with Real Toads
If Moore and Bishop were alive today, they would sing Julie Sheehan's praises--because Orient Point is that good. The extraordinary is subtly revealed through the ordinary: a blooming pinecone, a tough pack of teens, a stray pet. "Gifted in humor" and "giftedly dramatic," Sheehan's voice is splendidly cool. "Polar Bear in the Central Park Zoo" would pair perfectly with Bishop's "At the Fishhouses" (or better yet, "The Imaginary Iceberg") in a poetry discussion group.
Watched, captivating, he swims to the rocky shelfBravo, Julie Sheehan--a most genuine voice!
and berths a beat before pushing off with plate-sized
foot, belly up, yellow head plowing a watery furrow.
He soaks. A forepaw of backstrokes the water once
idly, but with force enough to speed his streamlined
bulk, across the dole of open sea he's fathomed utterly.
He dives as if tethered, submerged body spread and flat
against the viewing glass, mounted momentarily, a trophy
hide on the lodge wall. Watchers shriek, but he moves on
his fixed orbit, water-logged planet, up to the rock, a push,
one backstroke, dive, eyes closed the while. His swim,
compulsory as a Busby Berkeley routine, has captivated
the bear, too, or made him half captive, while the other half,
repeating his invention move for move, seeks a different
outcome: a new mercy, colder, austere; more genuine ice.