Not really me

A note on the pic: It’s not really me; I’m not angelic, not even close.

Blah blah blah  G…(pronounce that G with a bit of an edge, maybe say it out loud ,okay? Say “Eggg gah gah” )

My blah blah is what it is…. a certain blah blah blasé voice perhaps. I name that voice my blog voice…sort of a cross between journalism, memoir, letters to old friends.  It’s rather tame, really, though I admit it takes a  rigorous effort to clean- up the voice, touching up the playful intonations, some revelry. It is a hint, a peek, at a much less controlled kind of work – my poetry and plays, indeed, my daily practice—those are much more daring, fairly freaky, actually.  In fact,  most people just shrug,  “she’s so weird,  I don’t get that work at all.  She’s either a hack or brilliant, but either way, all those words she writes…it takes too much work: she uses ‘Too many notes.’ ”

Sigh. … I am quite cognizant of the various voices I house.  This is BLAH G… voice.  If you want to hear me sing jazz…you might have to wait til my next life, but I try to do it here and there,   mostly here…. But not Here.  You get that?  you hear me? Feel me?  In the meantime, this is BLAH G… blahblahlah G…. middle aged, middle class, middle of the road, easily pinned down prose.  I am a real pro baby, you found me….but you’ll have to inquire further if you want a different set of notes. and you want see me in a different dress, or under a different color light, okay?

In the meantime ….my Mean Time…my Nice Time…. Here’s a blah G…today

Walking II a(nother) revision

Yes, I was whining about not getting a chance to let my mind wander with my wandering feet–that was months ago—walking has now morphed into another surreal surround sound of Pandemic Life.

Well,  I confess, I was an Andrew Cuomo junkie for a few months.  Among a  thousand other little bites of his beautiful words,  I swallowed whole on idea he tossed out along his way. He told the national audience , ” I’m gonna start running again.”

Now that’s an idea! That’s action, the real thing.   So much for Pandemic stats and BLM upheavals, this was something I could do too! Do it today.   I will run!  Yes, I will run, I will run and run and run….(well I ran myself into the ground and then up to the heavens, only to end up incapable of either walking or running, but that’s another blog) 

I’m now a combo plate exercise gal – the run/walk combo thing. Anything to get the blood pumping hard and strong, the breath doing more work, the muscles burning with effort…oooh, baby, I like the heat, the pain…but let’s not go too far on all that…Just work it out …run it out…walk it off.  Okay.  Sounds good.

I need the hours that envelop the sunrise.— I can’t do this aerobic work with a  mask on. I’m sorry Tony, I’m sorry to all other humanoids, but I can’t run with a  mask on.  And I need to run. I also can’t run or walk among the plethora of dogs, strollers, casual couples and other such walkers. I need the alone time, the hour without the world’s opinion, without judgements.

I need the quiet of the streets.  Today, a good lookin’ guy in a pick up rolls up behind me, “ you should be on the sidewalk, not the bike lane.“

I don’t hear it at first because I’m lost in some nostalgia notes—I’m  likely dangling a conversation from Simon and Garfinkel,  reminding me of what it was like to ask a lover, “is the theater really dead?”

What? I pull out an ear bud.

You should be on the sidewalk.

Fuck!  Why do people think they can talk to me? 

Him: It’s safer.

Me: No, it’s not. I trip over things and ablahbflhalfalflabbfdajdkfjdlkajasdfbalhblahljjd

He’s gone, revving his engine as he turns around the corner, an exclamation point of some magnitude. 

I ignore his advice.   Everyone has an opinion. Blah blah blah. But they have judgements too. There’s too much MORALity being thrown about. Moral judgements are as common as the weeds.

Walking and Running at 6 am

Truck drivers, large and small (think on that for a sec, okay) … have the right to express their ideas just like the Prius drivers, I know.  Now you have to wear your mask or you’ re just an asshole. People want to be assholes. People don’t want to be uncomfortable.

If you are easily made uncomfortable, you might want to avoid my web posts…this is not to rev my engine with fanfare, but to let you know that I might drive into your lane, mix my metaphors and lose you and lose myself or vice versa….we’re on a ride. After All.


It’s just miserable out there in some ways.  But I also love it and it’s my favorite part of the day.  Mask/no mask. Avoiding eye contact or too much. “good morning”  “have a good day”  These rare rare events. Everyone is scared or running or walking away from things.  Running to survive. No one talks to each other, no one looks in your direction unless they are busy damning you.

I run to stay up with the pace of it all. 

But in late June, I outpaced my own metabolism and ended up in the nuthouse last month.  WHOOPS ! I just slipped, that’s all. A little fall? hmmmm….

It’s true.  It has to do with running and I just let it out.  Now it’s out there.  Well, I can always hide.  I write in metaphor, so either dig it or drop it baby,  we can dance and play or we can have a blasé blahblahblah…what would the point be to that?   maybe a lot?   A lot of points. Pointillism…each point a “cone” to dive down into to discover something else. Well, as you can hear, I have more than one. Step. Tone. Note. Here.


So much for my blah blah blah voice…you got a sense of the “G” …in the word today, for what it’s worth.

No pix today. I know I know…. Not good form.  But I have to be in a meeting in 15 minutes. If I don’t post it soon, I’ll lose any of my momentum on this run…

(I’m wondering about other blogsites, since WORDPRESS seems so cumbersome for the joe out there looking for some words to eat.  Who wants to dress up in a tux just to get a fucking appetizer?)

The point? – today?  The POINT: 

Walking used to be annoying in the days of my last blog.  Now, more urgent and ritualistic than ever…walking and running has become a field day for open hostility. The sun rises, the earth dips. I don my running shoes in a ritual of prayer. But it’s ” Open season.” Got a gun? A Truck? A heart?  Go for it.  It’s a field play of MORALIY, and it ain’t pretty out there. Still, I want my 60 something year old body to look cute, okay? I wear a little gray skirt made for running. And better Still…I like the pound pound pound.    Gotta build somethin’….Follow the beat…and the ellipses…

Published by rachellepell

Not like Picasso. I am no genius. Not Matisse or Kadinksi. In fact, would rather stay invisible, but I have to reveal what I'm That means work. I can also play. but fuck one likes to play much anymore. not here on the Internet. That's okay with me. I'm just trying to live and learn. and Like it.

8 thoughts on “Not really me

  1. What has truly become a delight in my later life (that’s the part of life before I die) is hearing the same old words I always hear, but put together and against each other in a new and wonderful way. The way you do it, though the words take flight they also have WEIGHT. What I mean is that your words come at me in a wonderful….weigh


  2. I’m not half as witty as you but I can tell you I am done with everyone thinking they can give you their opinion. And I do the walk/run thing because frankly, I can’t run for shit for more than two-three minutes at a time anyhow and, like you, I just wanna get the heart a-pumping and let’s face it I can walk 15,000 steps and it ain’t gonna happen.
    It’s a good ritual to have. Mask or no mask, nosy truckdrivers or not. Keep working that 60-year old body (as I’m working my 56-year old one.)


  3. I am going to post something that I posted on FB… walk run, i don’t care. I understand completely about needing to be out and about, needing both quiet and the ambience (noise) of the neighborhood I get all of that. I also get the sense of frustration, I think, you are voicing. Mine takes a different shape:

    Glennon Doyle captured my feeling, which a dance friend posted.

    “I think—somewhere in the middle of last week—I hit a wall.

    I am sad. I feel lost and aimless in my home most of the day. I am cranky with my people. Even though we’re together all day—I’m somehow gone. I’m claustrophobic in this covid world. The news makes me terrified and so full of rage I want to scream. I wander around all day with this nagging feeling that I’m not doing enough writing enough helping enough creating enough parenting enough wifeing enough BEING enough—that I’m wasting my time, my hours, my days, my life.

    Is it just me? And if so I was just joking I’m fine, totally carpeing the hell outta these diems and all that shit.

    Crawling along.
    Gonna keep going.
    Love you madly.”
    [Then, she adds the Rilke poem about hope.]


    1. Poignant words, top to bottom, side to side — we expand the dimensions of language, on occasion we, we, make up words, stretch the verbs — “careping…” (I had to read that twice, thought we were carpeting something, maybe we are, since all letters can get intimate with each other) …
      ” Love you Madly….” My cap on Madly. M for moms…. all moms are mad….sorry, If that offends anyone…actually not sorry…I have no control over what offends…I’ll take the heat, I’ll take the responsibility…moms (softer now) are often mad….my moms group of 30 years agrees to only one thing — “being a mom makes you crazy.” I call this one a deeply feminist struggle…put me in the attic when you need to, that’s what you always do.

      Not wasting Time.
      Time will never let us waste her….she’s way too powerful for that gesture.

      Crawling? yes…
      never wasted……………until it is.

      Thanks for the words today.


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