Looking for Bolts

Still feeling the writer’s high from last night.  Dressed and with coffee now.  Today is letter writing to prospects.  Doing a little more research on them, and writing genuine letters. Concise yes, but with the curtesy of authenticity.

Didn’t write any poems yesterday.  Oh well, I say to myself.  Can do different today.

Difference.  Something assuredly different about me today, this morning.  More into my writing, writing about writing and not writing, the beauty of not thinking so much and just putting down that first sole in a run, touching the first square of concrete on the sidewalk just past your driveway.

Running my old route today, to get over the mental wall or pause of the long straightaway that I used to dread, or just not get excited about.

Want to look through old journals today.  And, do more pen-to-paper tapping and driving.  I had to touch the keys first thing today…. What my character wanted and a stem from last night’s class.  Today, no matter pace, I’m obligated to run an hour.  60 minutes.  No more of the 40-45 minute runs, and if I do those why not slow pace and stretch it to 60.  Was thinking about this last night when the glass of Claret, and how I used to not run but everyone thought I was a runner ‘cause I was skinny.  One guy in the St Francis tasting room even saying, “See?  You’e built like a runner.” Can’t remember what we were talking about or the exact context but I remember feeling embarrassed.

Playing with running, route for today, right now in head.  Thinking of half-mile dashes, meaning down San Miguel for .5, then changing direction for .5, or something like that.  Francisco I think the street’s name is, quite long at least .5.  Sorry, just thinking aloud to page.  What my book is going to say about me, how I’m going to be remembered.  Tom Foreman brought this up last night, how after a certain time collection passing it’s inevitable that people are forgotten.  Interesting… so only focus on the Now.  How I interpreted it.

I one time tased myself, and wrote, “Where do these pages go?” Now I guess to a blog, or hoped for book, but beyond that what.  Why write, what do you want to do with it, what do you want others – your readers – to do with your writing?  Thought from last night but also this morning, NOW, this new day and a new run only a few hours ahead of me… at this desk with this coffee, the new year at the doorstep asking me “NOW WHAT?”.

8:07 Have to make my Friday calls.  Look for businesses you want to call, I tell myself.  Don’t just make calls to make calls.  Sales, such a funny thing, but not when you look at it as something you don’t find funny at all, when you see it as something you love, something is YOU, your passion, love.  Student this semester writing her final paper on love and when people do what they love for a living that says something about them.  What, I should ask her, maybe text her this morning. If you decide, “Okay, you know what, I’m going to draw and nothing else.” Or, “I’m a chef, and that’s all I’m going to do for my life, that’s it…” What does that level of conviction and commitment show readers of your story, or just show the people around you.  I rarely use the word passion, but this morning it’s all I’m thinking about.  I may be good at sales, but am I passionate about selling?  No.  What is my most blaring of sharp and obvious passions….  Writing.  Music.  Poetry.  ART.

I have answers, this morning.  Answers that have alway been here just now with more deconstructed and readily framed vein I feel them.  Can do something with them.  Another idea… saving, writing in 1948 journal.  Love that thing, Dad giving it to me this past Father’s Day.  Pandemic Father’s Day.  The year, encouraging me more as it ends, like I dread its end.  So many can’t wait and are posting memes and whatever else.

Struck.  Finally.  But no, I could have been struck whenever if I’d chosen to look closer, more carefully.  2021…. Begging, prompting, instructing before it lands, or maybe it already has.  Maybe this year and next year are the same, or meaningless.  They’re numbers.  I’m the one with eyes and mind, right?  Coffee, sip up fleece a bit from California cold, and the day and I meet.  We agree to collaborate.  To be courteous to each other, but more imperatively, honest.  On today’s run, be forthcoming with pavement, with your stomps, with SELF.  I’m re-building Mike Madigan as the most writing and running of running writers.