I will keep this short.
Try to.
All I can write about is what’s happening around me.
My father diagnosed me with a constant need to write.
Which means all I can think about every second of the day is writing.
Yet I don’t write anything much, just notes that feel promising.
It’s the feeling that counts.
A minute ago I was completing my thirty minute walk on the manual treadmill in the garage wearing a water backpack packed with ~twenty pounds of weight.
Reading an early Murakami short novel.
Pinball, 1973.
I came across this passage:
“On any given day, something can come along and steal our hearts. It may be any old thing: a rosebud, a lost cap, a favorite sweater from childhood, an old Gene Pitney record. A miscellany of trivia with no home to call their own. Lingering for two or three days, that something soon disappears, returning to the darkness. There are wells, deep wells, dug in our hearts. Birds fly over them.”
I stopped walking on the treadmill then began walking more vigorously than before.
Hot Chip played from my silver iPod.
Boy From School.
I heard it the night before last night suddenly while picking up celery from Whole Foods for my son’s art class.
The song carried me through the aisles.
I sang quietly aloud.
Whole Foods chorused with something deep inside me.
My wife texted about popcorn.
If you’re still at Whole Foods.
Baby blue Hurley boardshorts.
In what city did I lose you?
