In a car headed west. A backseat rider to a conversation. Weather and crops. Snow on the roads. Al’s Oasis and a turkey hot plate. One Coca-Cola and a quick trip through the grocery store. Leisure vans and work trucks. An endless field of sorghum. Hay bales, dead trees and million billboards. Go west. Joe West. I’m him. The rolling hills. The fields of wheat. A fence post. Not one hundred words. It happens.
08.31.23
I was awake all night taking trips to the bathroom. At one point, I didn’t make it. All of this in preparation for a preventative colonoscopy. I suppose it’s worth it because managing one’s health is paramount to all else. Today will be a short entry though. I’m tired and anxious I suppose. It’ll be over by 3:00pm. What an interesting development in this part called life. We grow up. Well, some of us do. It’s all part of it. Woof. It’ll be over soon and then I’m going to get some food that isn’t liquid. It’ll be nice.
08.30.23
Words on words on words walking down the street reciting some version of a song. I ran down the hill yesterday and eventually had to make my way back up. Tomorrow is a new day and one that should likely bring some version of rejuvenation. I suppose it’ll be a gown and some anesthesia that brings it all around. Double dogs on the porch and another in the wings. Writing writing writing. Today it feels forced and I suppose it is. Tomorrow isn’t here yet, but it could be the same again. Perhaps I need to quiet the space or the mind? Perhaps it’s the practice, but that wouldn’t make sense. Eat more. Talk less. Begin again.
08.29.23
I spent last night in a dream world and nearly caught a break to be on Saturday Night Live. I don’t recall the specifics, but I do know that it was pretty much guaranteed and that I was content with it. I can’t say that it’s ever actually been something I’ve wanted, but in whatever dream land it was last night, I was all in and it was great.
Separately, I suppose in seven Saturdays seventeen Sundays will have passed. That doesn’t make a lot of sense, but for whatever reason I’ve always leaned into writing the words seven and seventeen. Again, this is a practice in an effort to improve my skill. Exercise. Consistency.
Anyway…
Seven and seventeen. A giraffe as some kind of symbol. A thirsty whale. A lonesome drive. A new town and dinner at the bar.
08.28.23
Made acquaintance with seven strangers yesterday as we all rode along the river. Found a new path through an old city and worked our way back north. Donuts on the picnic table and a thirty dollar bill later the coffee cup was empty and it was rolling north again along the flywheel. An afternoon ride to the East found stick after stick after stick and a fair amount of discomfort. Several miles by foot and scores of the obese. Forty thousand dollars and you’re still hanging on the walls of the State Fair? Exposure they say. It’ll never make sense to me, but it also doesn’t have to. Find the path and wonder whatever happened. You’ll find the answers in the banana stand if you can get up high enough.
08.27.23
Morning light pouring through the porch windows. Fresh coffee in the cup handed down from two generations. Genuine thoughts about second home and the possibilities that lie therein for passive income. A meeting with a personal trainer is on the books and there seems to be a regular diet of proteins, starch and vegetables. This isn’t the life I saw happening when everything around me was shrouded in darkness and depression. This is what I saw coming when I looked down the road and saw self-serving doom and gloom. It’s a pretty great puzzle to find pieces for and there’s finally a table to put them all together on.
08.26.23
Chased a handful of teenaged boys through a school yard on my dream last night. No explanation as to why, but it did happen. I also had a pretty low level of patience with a couple of employees at a Subway at some point in the same subconscious experience. To summarize the whole affair, I’ll say I didn’t sleep all that well. Not for a lack of want. Practice. It’s the whole reason these words are here. Trying to get back in the habit of regular writing for whatever reason. I guess it feels good, or at least my memory of it does. Maybe I’ll never be able to restore the olden times? Maybe it’s a fools errand? Maybe it’s not like riding a bike?
08.25.23
First light with an empty water bottle. Dreams about trucks burning to the ground and a cabin in the woods. I did the twenty push-ups like I said I would, but I don’t feel like running.
The dog seems to be maintaining, but there is definitely atrophy in his face. The table in the dining room is finished, but the chairs look out of place.
Turn the tv lights on and burn a stick of incense. There’s a race coming up and a medical procedure that will likely leave you sick. Watch the tape. Make a plan. Reduce the number of words to half and keep walking. You’re failing if you’re not winning and you can always get up earlier.
Stop making excuses. Get the fucking work done. You know the rules.
08.24.23
The internet isn’t going to sail your ship or run the flag up the mast. The internet isn’t going to fix your bike and it surely won’t ride it for you. Today is a stretch. Any words placed here are ring pulled from cold, dead hands. Like Eastwood or some other longtime favorite actor. Practice isn’t easy. It’s hard to commit to doing something every day whether you’re inspired or not. It’s hard to get up, sit down and then write a bunch of words. Every day. The commitment to the practice is worth it in the long run, like it is with a lot of things. Growth happens. Writing more becomes easier. It’s practice. It’s the formation of habits and the more habits I can create that are good and add value to my life, and to the lives of those around me, the better.
08.23.23
Take a trip to Santa Fe and get lost along the way. Fix a flat tire when you have no idea and eat a sandwich in some back of the house grocery store. You’ll find yourself on the path again as soon as you’re done, but you’ll never get there as long you ride together.
Also, it’s worth mentioning that I cannot forgive you for what you did until I see fundamental changes in your behavior. You see, if I forgive you and you don’t change, I condone your actions and I cannot do that. What you said to me is irrevocable. What I watched you say to others is irrevocable. You are a patterned behavior person and you’re adjusted to being forgiven. Not here. You did things that I wouldn’t wish on anyone and I cannot forgive you for that.
It’s worth noting that I have let go of the harm and detached from it. To me you are just another human that exists and is worthy of being loved. To me you are no different than a neighbor I have yet to meet.
It’s a shame really. We were so close.
08.22.23 pt. 2
Turn off all of the noise. Shut the app down and abandon the conversation.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
Everything you have coming in is information and it is either adding value to your effort or it is taking value from your effort. You get to pick what stays and what goes. You get to decide which streams have access and which one don’t. You can get the app for that.
Create the behavior. Develop the discipline. Execute at a high level.
There will be judgement. There will be abandonment. There will be casualties. It’s part of the process. Know the circle. Study it. Live it. Breathe it. It gets exponentially smaller until it disappears. You’re learning. You’re growing.
Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
Shut off the noise.
08.22.23
An empty bottle and an old pair of shoes. Two dogs sleeping in the bed. The alarm clock goes off every morning at the same time and the mind is conditioned to hear it, shut it off and move past it without a hiccup.
Push-ups. Everything is stiff.
Toothbrush. Coffee cup. Put the lid back on it.
It’s going to be a warm one today. The kind that will pull every ounce of moisture out of your body and leave you sweating through your clothes.
Random. Thoughts strung together as practice. Get ready. Tie your shoes. Don’t forget to drink water.
08.21.23
First things come first, before the other things. It’s called prioritizing and sometimes I’m not very good at it. During other periods, I’m great at it. The trouble arises because there doesn’t appear to be any indicating factors between when one period ends and another begins. I just sort of stammer around bouncing off of one and slamming into the other. To me it’s my natural existence and is perfectly normal. Since I cannot see through the eyes of another, I suspect the pinball effect is a bit much at times. So it goes. The nice part today is that my self-awareness seems to have reached a point where I no longer feel the need to mask what I know to be how I am in an attempt to protect myself from being judged. Instead, I am open to the idea of growth and, as such, allow myself the luxury of talking through the trouble spots when they arise. Real neat.
08.20.23
Burnt toast from a toaster that was never plugged in. A pile of wood in the backyard wilting in the summer rain. The back fence is a garden wall and beyond that are the railroad tracks. Some endless amount of mileage between here and wherever those giant boxes of capitalism end up. Lawless. Like a sleeping dog. Turn the lights on with your voice. Set up some kind of timer to keep you off your phone. Get a journal. Make sense of the senseless. Wander. Get lost. Find Jesus. Get lost again. It’ll never end up the way you think.
08.19.23
Coffee table enterprise lost at sea and it doesn’t matter because the newspapers won’t tell you the truth. In fact, all they ever do is remodel the front page and slap it on top of everything they printed yesterday and the day before that. Ad after ad after ad. Sales people selling to sales people. It’s a vicious cycle of permanent resident nomads wandering from their home to their office to their vacation home and back again. Get lost. Run a mile. Ride a century. Don’t buy into the nonsense and trust no one. You came in alone and you’ll leave the same way.
08.18.23
Coffee brewing in the pot from the grounds dumped in last night. Cardboard recycling managed to make its way to the curb. Busses rolling by with their heavy turbine sounds. One dog whines and the other says nothing. Here it is, morning again. It comes every time until it doesn’t and when it doesn’t we’ll never know so the truth is that it comes every time. Counting words as though somehow just emptying my mind onto this page isn’t enough. I did make a deal with a colleague to write one hundred words every morning and this is exactly that.
Write the words.
Hold ourselves accountable.
Do the things.
05.08.21
Another cup of coffee. One per day. Drink more water and get decent sleep. The goal is eventually no coffee, but for now it serves pretty well as a routine. Still practicing being alone in this house. Sometimes the aloneness is exactly what I crave. Rarely it is not. I suppose it balances eventually, but that’s cart in front of the horse stuff. Ride the bikes. Mow the lawn. Take no shit.
05.06.21
A Short List of Drugs:
Money, Power, Sex, Experience, Memories, Cocaine, Alcohol, Pride, Fear
A Short List of Non-Drugs:
Nature, Laughter, Hugs, Marijuana, Bikes
05.04.21
Whatever is bothering you today won’t bother you further down the road.
Everything is temporary. Everything.
Get up. Do the things you need to do.
Keep going. Keep pushing.
Your time will come and things will get more comfortable. It’s inevitable.
05.01.21
It’s the first of May. Put it in a basket and leave it on the neighbor’s step. It used to happen. Thirty years ago. Hard to believe.
Three days on the bike. Today makes four. Baseball in the afternoon. Kids in the Eve.
I’m glad they’re here. They are, too. It took a while, but it happened. Piece by piece.
Look forward. Only forward. No regret. Hit the grave with a smile for everyone.