“Reflective equator”, I finished yesterday saying. This median of reflection or introspection or whatever Zen mode I think I’m in has to be given a swift and swarming boost. Started the morning with a 10-mile run where I averaged 8:04/mile. My best time in the string of recent runs. What this tells me, what this instructs me to do— have the early rises be not just a habit or even lifestyle, but elemental staple about my ways as a running writer.
Just ended call with potential writing client. Excitement and a certain creative charge doesn’t even encroach on what I’m feeling this morning. Know I have several pages to make up for the 30 project, but I’m not allowing myself to stress. The week’s off to an electric and eclectic inauguration, and the ideas circle around me like busier-than-busy bees. SO, further into my story go-eth I… pardon the chiasmus, but I’m in a playful mood, the write skipping and cartwheeling around his ideas… readying some small collections that I HAVE to vend. Enough of the talk. And enough losing sight, one thing this morning’s run taught me. Couple times I tried to talk myself out of completing the 10, thinking “Eight’s good, yeah eight’s good, I’ll do eight.” Then the ferocity of Mike Madigan, his truly animal writer mental-province growled in return, “Do that and you’ll regret it.” And I remember this inner exchange right as I entered the vineyard, which I refer to as ‘my vineyard’ on Coffey. This “Reflective equator” where there realized, where I could go to one hemisphere which would only keep me in the same spot, keep me from building my business and from my travels, or treat myself to the other side where I’d get everything I want as a writer— more than a career or simple “lifestyle”, but a chain of hermetic empiricals, all experience, new Newness.
At the Equator, the writer plans, meditates, measures and then steps. This morning I stepped, and quickly, ‘why wait?’ I charged Self. Now the house is quiet, Ms. Alice out on her run with little Ms. Austen who went down for an early nap then got up refusing to sleep and now is on Alice’s jaunt. She too, both ladies, I’m sure on the route have meditations, their own set of realizations. That’s one of the multitudinous boons of being a runner, or being a baby in a stroller with a runner. Ms. Austen (Emma), now shows more ardor in setting out to crawl, climbing all over Alice and I and situating herself upward with her two little trunk-y arms. Yes, I know I’m on a tangent but that’s what happens when a writer father has this kind of energy so early and pounds a cup of Verona.
More meditation. What to do with day’s remainder. Class tonight… Lecturing more on Walls’ book but I want to discuss poetry, POETRY— capacities of different styles and read some of my own and have the students read theirs, be more lawless and creatively combustive with out meetings. English 100 doesn’t need to feel like or even be the conventionally orthodox 100 the ‘They’ want it to be. So, here in the writer’s home office he’s at another Equator. And he knows what side in which he’s meant to entrench.