Coffee Tea: Earl Grey, Bigelow; Still out of coffee. Woke up late and didn’t feel like driving. That and I’m trying to cut back on caffeine. The tea held me over. I had a soda at 2:00.
I went for a run. I’m not a runner. In fact, I haven’t gone running since they forced it on us in high school. I’m still a little sick and I could feel the stuff coming up from my lungs. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. But running was something I had to do.
Another lazy afternoon. I’ve started having trouble figuring out how to fill my Saturdays. The mornings are easy – exercise, breakfast, chores – but after the clock laps noon and we’re careening toward the western horizon, I’m out of ideas. I’d like to be writing more. But my writing is stuck in an awful quagmire. It’s like pulling on your ear lobe until all this gunk comes out of your ear, except none of that gunk was what had been blocking you in the first place.
I might take a drive. I might go hiking. I hope it’ll help. But I worry that I’ll run into myself out there on these familiar streets – another me from a few years ago, working through a different sort of listlessness – and that I’ll come home more haunted than I left.
Novel Count: 7,232
Currently Reading: Nothing! Done with Cherry, still deciding on the next book.
Coffee: Cafe Pajaro Extra Dark, Trader Joe’s Brand
Friday pushes hard brakes. The week smashes the median and things fly out: stress, joy, muddles, that clean feeling of starting something new. Now there’s just the curb and the smoking engine. It’s a busy road but no-one’s stopping. All the other cars have their own wrecks to meet.
I’m working tomorrow. I’m also driving home. I’m also, surely, going to be glued to the news, both at work and at home, to see the country put on it’s best dress as it swears in 30-40 more years of patriarchy. People will gnash teeth. Protesters will be arrested. By all indications, Kavanaugh still takes the post. Here’s a guy who spent his precious hours allotted to advocating for his competency and composure by mocking alcoholics and ranting about beer. If you cut the Capitol out of the image you could imagine him in a blue or red jersey, laughing at the tail-gate, waiting for the opposing team to leave the stands so he could smash a bottle in someone’s face. And yet we treat him like a victim, like someone owed the most prestigious legal position in the nation.
And of course he is owed. It’s his birthright: rich, straight, white man, the bleak dragon that devours us all.
Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith; Cherry, Nico Walker
A cacophony of crows caws the tips of pines and oaks and elms across the parking lot from the playground, above the river, angry at nothing I can see. Below them, a gaggle of kids plays Candy Land.
Friday’s ending and it’s my first weekend off – scheduled, regular, official – since I was a teacher in 2014. The week was long and I haven’t been sleeping well. I tried to write a few times but didn’t have the energy. Instead, I trained in a branch office for a bank where every customer was a regular and everyone had a story. A Gulf War vet brought fried chicken from Lillington for his ‘favorite people.’ An old man deposited hundreds in retirement checks but kept out five-dollars worth of dimes to cash; my coworkers call him “Mr. Dime Man” and he gives the rolls each week to his granddaughter.
Six o’clock is coming on like a freight train and I’m thinking I’ll retire early tonight. First, I’m drinking Dos Equis and watching birds.
Currently Reading: The Pardoner’s Tale, by John Wain
“For Children: You will need to know the difference between Friday and a fried egg. It’s quite a simple difference, but an important one. Friday comes at the end of the week, whereas a fried egg comes out of a chicken.” – Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt