Does the body use more energy to travel at the extremes of temperature than when it is mild? Is it better to do exercise during the heat of the day where the body needs to strain further to operate overheated, dehydrated... or at the cold of night when the body has to strain further to generate the heat that is being so quickly sapped away, or somewhere inbetween?
Is it better to eat before or after exercise? I'm afraid to just eat when hungry because I seem to be much hungrier when I'm less lethergic... and I don't want to simply match what I'm using; that would be truly silly.
How is best to breathe when jogging? I typically can't breathe through my nose at all, but find myself lapsing into three steps in and three steps out. I'd like to increase my lung capacity, though it seems a large part of my problem with breathing when running is a lack of hydration.
How do you hydrate to go on a long run? [30 minutes? an hour?] Do you take a camelback or waterbottle, or know places to stop with water fountains, or do you simply soak it all up beforehand?
Below is a good summary of life at the moment -- I'll save it here and then continue.
I've been... delving into my feelings of inadequacy lately -- working on
obstacles of "being fat" and "being ignorant".
This last week I've taken to jogging whenever I need to go somewhere close
by (once a day, pretty much). I don't know much about exercise but I figure
anything will help.
And I've been reading nonfiction for the first time in a long time. So
far, so good. My projects are falling behind, but I'm feeling much better
about myself (projecting the hope that I can continue this for a while).
I've also slowly been jotting down notes of "the real world" and free
associating from them, as it's been some time since I wrote anything of
my own... hopefully soon.
on to the paper notebook
Four minutes. Four minutes from my house has me sweaty and breathing hard. I stink. However, I'm not in much physical pain. I could have kept going but that I'd set myself the goal of the stairs down to the garden. There (here) I hoped to attain some further inspiration.
The sky is pale blue and salmon, sun slowly descending into the cold pacific. [sic: I can only presume; I see buildings and trees] Here it is warm and calm. I feel a different energy here tonight. I descend.
Again, the stairs fight my passage down but tenacity wins through to the roses blanketed by now a nearly silver sky, tinged with color on the far edge. It is both darker and brighter here. Edges are more sharply defined. Perhaps I will find a secret, tonight.
I circle round along a path between the trees and bushes. A single step, realy, and I strongly smell... manure, perhaps? It is rich and pungeant, ripe -- but my nose can not track it. I don't think it is of this world. What, then? I go further.
It is not manure but compost -- decay of fairy flesh tossed in piles, wantonly. Would I find bones if I dug in those heaps of grass and thorns?
Only twenty steps further and I'm at the base of a tree of life spreading out before me. How was this image hidden? From no other point of the garden is it so clear (clear at all?), but from here, its base, the plan stretches out and resting north, not magnetic but majestic, is a house. That house is important.
I've walked past it many times but it must be that close to it the pattern does not emerge; it seems plain. I will have to investigate it, but carefully. I have nothing but one night's images and supposition to go on. The law could be used against me. I will remember it for later.
Now pause a moment -- in my lust for beauty I failed to se that my majestic north is truly and precisely to a degree east. The highest walls are to the west and the tree of life grows down; inverted? the plan of this garden speaks of great depths, but to what end are these beings caged?
Perhaps the fairies themselves are a menace that can not be destroyed, fading into smoke and crystal shards the moment they are released. Beyond its dedication to the containment (or torture?) of these beings, this garden is of no special import or renown. I've not heard tales of anything or anyone relating to this place, no lore to hint at truth. Why is this place? Tomorrow perhaps I'll go to the library and see if I can dig up answers there.
The sun's light fades and orange eyes atop great poles peer in. Street lamps to fight the power of the moon, but not so many; perhaps they are a more subtle thing than that -- a warning, or truly eyes to watch or raise alarm.
With the sun nearly gone the flowers seem much brighter than their surroundings. With no company and little but wits to protect me, I should hurry on.
I purposefully walk the long way home so as to pass by the house atop the tree of life but it slips my mind until I'm the past the point where I can comfotably turn around and nonchalantly investigate.
With the cool breeze, I walk to the hardware store and then jog five minutes uphill to home.
Would the garden feel any different if the fairies weren't there? Who would know? What would change?
A shower washes my questions away.