The Social Whirl Of The Inanimate World

I've never liked running routine. I enjoy not knowing, when I leave the house, which turnings I'll take and where I'll end up. But for the first time I'm finding routine a comfort. A security blanket to insulate me against the chill of uncertainty. Today, I ran the same stretch of the LA river for the third time in a row.

It was a cold, dank peasouper of a start that spoke of London and Guy Fawkes. Hints of firework fugs and bonfire smogs. The sulphurous after-breath (imagined) of air bombs and sparklers.

The Rowena reservoir felt wrong. Suffocating palm trees and a banged-up sun.

But the bike path felt right. Concrete constancy on either side.

Amidst the fixity, shopping carts shift. They change clothes as holidays demand and they move home when they get bored.

And spray paint is the other riparian variable. An endless flux of foundation, lipstick and mascara. A new face of slap every day.