Beer, Poetry & Happiness

Maine Beer Company combined two of my favorite things: beer and poetry. More specifically, really good beer and an iconic poem by one of my heavies, my all-time favorite writers, William Carlos Williams. Red Wheelbarrow Ale has climbed among the leaders in my favorite beer crew.

Beer and poetry are two things that I like to imbibe daily that spin my mind and soul a bit. They can reshuffle the deck, and spin the compass in myriad directions. "Red Wheelbarrow" the poem is short, simple and confounding. Check the technique:

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

I've written about Williams here before. He was a physician, who had a lifelong medical practice in Rutherford, New Jersey. He was not an ivory tower academic. He didn't much dig T.S. Eliot, who he felt was too stock in Europe--history, culture, tradition, allusion--and Williams looked to dial poetry back to more common, everyday language, and write about things and people that were more everyday life.

Some of his poetry, "Red Wheelbarrow" included is about the image it creates, like a still life painting. You can just sit with it, like you would a good beer on a deck in the sun on a spring evening, sun going down behind tall pine trees. It's a scene. You can also play with the Zen idea of the interconnectedness of the Universe. Hell, you can do just about anything you want--the thing about poetry, like beer, is not all tastes are the same, not all interpretations are the same, and you can sit and ponder that shit for a while.

I found good poetry before I found good beer. I'm not sure what the first "good" beer I drank was. But I do know that it was Carl Sandburg that slammed down the strong man mallet and lit the poetry neon sign up for me, when I was 15.

Sandburg dug and wrote about Chicago. So that became the first city I thought about when I thought about poetry. Dude, Chicago has their own poet; a cat that writes all about them and their people, the blue collar folks. Sandburg and Williams had that in common, the common.

Sandburg made his point for me, especially, in a poem called "Happiness:"

I ASKED professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
      me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of
      thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though
      I was trying to fool with them.
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along
      the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with
      their women and children and a keg of beer and an
      accordion.

Thank you, Carl. It's not the academics or philosophers who know happiness. It's not the business people, who are too clever to get caught in that game. It's the families, sitting along the river, with a keg and music.

When I think of Chicago today, I think of happiness. Not that Chicago is a happy city, but that image resonates. I think of a trip I took there and running along the lake, to Navy Point, going to the Field Museum, the Art Institute, the Adler Planetarium. I think about Wrigley Field and Soldier Field and digging the Bears after the Colts left Baltimore. But those are details, memories.

Today, it's beer, poetry and happiness.

On Dreams, Waking

For the most part, I no longer dream when I sleep. Gone are the nocturnal adventures of flying Superman-like around familiar places or walking down the middle school hall in tighty-whiteys. Gone is the house I grew up in transported to another time and place and being laid out differently. Gone is the running from or battling gangs or monsters. Gone are the falling dreams and gone are the subconscious hook-up sessions that leave you confused upon waking.

Sometimes I miss dreaming. But it cruised out of town in a land speeder with sound sleep, which is another thing missing at night.

Usually though, I don't miss dreaming at night because I have always more than made up for it with dreams during the day. My mind has been known to wander locally, continentally, internationally, globally, celestially, with little or no cue.

Geographically my mind is often led to places like England's Lake District or anywhere around New Zealand. The Hawaii of Merwin and Jack Johnson and the H.U.R.T. trail races. Mountain monasteries in France and half-conjured ponderings of Inca civilization in South America.

Sometimes my mind is immersed thru-hiking sections of the Appalachian Trail or drools at the Trans-Rockies or Trans-Alpine Runs and others it hangs with a pint at the Eagle and Child Pub where Tolkien and C.S. Lewis and Charles Williams gabbed together.

The obvious cues to kick-start these mental travels are books, magazines and movies--pilgrimage porn that cannonballs the mind to their documented destination.

Museums have been known to hotwire a journey as has music. In Chicago, within a few blocks you can meander through the Field Museum, Adler Planetarium, Shedd Aquarium, and Art Institute, which give you any number of vehicles to transcend time and space (no flux capacitor required).

But I find that I don't need much in the way of external prompts. It might be taking a different route to get to a familiar destination. Or going for a long run.

When solo runs peek over 20 miles they can turn into sufferfests for me. I've discussed the reasons I run here before, but certainly the mind-freeing/sweat lodge style transcendence sometimes necessary on a long run has to fit in there as well. Daydreaming moves beyond opportunity to straight necessity. A wandering mind is a means of survival, trying to will distraction to reality in order to dull the pain.

This is a long-winded, winding path to where my mind started out this morning--where dreams and will meet. That itch or impulse to act on a dream, to will it into reality. To bring a fantastic notion, through vision, planning, work, into something you make happen.

And that's where I like to spend my time and mind: on making something out of my waking dreams.

Of Lakes, Museums, and Frank Gehry

There is no shortgage of unique, scenic trails in Chicago's park district along the lake. Here, runners cross over the highway from Millennium Park, home of the Frank Gehry-designed Pritzker Amphitheater.

I have grown up a Baltimore fan--from the city, to its sports teams, to its lore. So when I say, on a cultural and runner/biker-level, Baltimore could learn a lot from Chicago, I don't make that statement lightly. Of course, Orioles and Ravens fans are still superior beings to White Sox and Bears fans :)

Apologies for not updating the site sooner--the last five days, I have been in Chicago for the American Association of Museums' annual meeting. Simply awesome on all fronts. Great conference, great museums to take in, and 3 running explorations that covered ground in the city, along the Lakeside Trail, out onto Navy Pier, and looping through scenic parks.

Architecturally, Chicago is a marvel. And buildings aside, the thoughtful planning that has given runners and bikers uninterrupted lakeside trails, and other wanderers, locals, and tourists, beautifully landscaped gardens and parks, in the midst of the city, could stand to permeate cities and small towns alike.

I actually managed to run 3 of the 4 mornings we woke up in Chicago--each with its own exploratory goal. I won't go into specific runs here, maybe another time, other than to say that the "Windy City" earned its street cred with me this morning. I set out to run for 60-70 minutes this morning, on what was the coldest morning of our trip, out the door at about 5:45 a.m.

Chicago's Lakeside Trail, if you vary the main path slightly, will run you by the Adler Planetarium, at 75 years old, the first planetarium in the western hemisphere (hey, I was at a museum conference).

I noticed it was cool, and could hear the wind, but couldn't really feel it. Having past the Shedd Aquarium, and coming up onto the Lakeside Center, McCormick Place (where our conference was being held, about 2 miles from where we were staying), I was passed by a group of tech-y bikers, decked with new-fangled gear and weather reports. I heard one of them say, "about 20 knots," then didn't think about it for a while, checking out other sights.

About 10 minutes later, it hit me: I could feel the wind at my back. This meant my out-and-back run was going to be a beast for the "and-back" leg. The "Windy City" left its calling card on the return--yet my time back was almost identical to the time on the way out. It just took a lot more to pull it off.

The Lakeside Trail, morning, afternoon, and evening, was bustling with runners and bikers. Chicago has kept them in mind in its layout. I am glad to have spent a few days among their ranks--enjoying the new land- and cityscape, and getting to know a new place, as a runner.