i. in the summer, halfnoise; ii. t-shirt weather, circa waves; iii. tongue tied, grouplove; iv. dreaming, smallpools; v. new romantics, taylor swift; vi. the louvre, lorde; vii. store, carly rae jepsen; viii. lush life, zara larsson; ix. pool, paramore; x. aquaman, walk the moon
That was what her mom called it. When her flip flops melted to the pavement and the heat was unforgiving, a low haze over every road, her mom took one look outside, and said with a sigh, “Fire weather.”
The trees were brittle enough that when she put her hands on their branches they’d snap. Little crackles, then a sharp pop; like the sound fire made at night, when everyone was tired and cold and burying their noses into the collars of their coats.
Fire weather, her mom called it, the grass the colour of dying wheat and bent like old men under the sun. It took a lot to go outside in weather like that, but she’d take one look at her mom and see the determination as her mom eyed off their property line, and go look for their shovels.
She’d only left the shovels outside once during fire season; her hands had turned red as soon as she’d come back to pick it up and drag it to the shade. Now she kept them in the garage, and her sweat had worn dark patches in the wooden handle.
The horizon seemed to shimmer, the blue sky pressing against her eyes just as brightly as looking at the sun did, and when she closed them everything was bright, like an oversaturated photo. Sweat curved down the planes of her back and across her forearms, and it dripped into her eyes when she forgot to drag her tired hand across her forehead.
Fire weather, she thought, and smelt smoke on the air.
Just a lil’ compilation of Saturday morning. I’ve been babying my knee this week & have taken to the elliptical (see previous freak out post from yesterday, lol). Today is my long run day, so that meant trying to simulate a 12-13 mile run through cross training. It wasn’t fun. And it definitely wasn’t pretty; I couldn’t believe how much sweat I had dripping off of me by the end. But I gutted it out. Prayers are appreciated so that I can run again next week and hopefully don’t have to elliptical for that long again (or hopefully ever).
Despite this setback, I’m feeling relatively optimistic. If Emily Infeld can cross train her way to an Olympic team, then I can cross train my way to one hell of a cross country season if I have to. I’m going to get faster. I’m going to get fitter. And I’m going to kick some ass.
Also, I’ve been DYING for blueberry pancakes and finally let myself have them this morning. They were AMAZING.
Regarding a few of my last posts on Maria Hill, Pleasant Hill, Ayn Rand, and A Series of Unfortunate Events:
Exhibit A: “We had good reasons… but we still did bad things.”
Almost the entirety of the Penultimate Peril (the later half of series actually) encompasses the same question as Maria’s recent plot lines: how much “objectively wrong” things should a “hero” do to save the day?
What happens when these “wrong” attempts to save the day back fire?
Ultimately, where does the line between noble and villian, super hero and super villain lie?
This isn’t a joke. This is a reflection of how literature attempts (to varying degrees of success) to capture this moral dilemma.
I’m changing my queue (for now). I won’t be doing a perpetual queue of 15 a day but 7 a day in the hours where I’m usually asleep. I’m expecting my schedule to be more inconsistent but there may be some exceptions.