9-12-2026

I am in my basement. Trying something new. Writing longhand into my notebook. Have not written longhand in a decade or more, not at any length.

This past week I have been attempting to rekindle the drive to write. Seeking inspiration. I listen to the FTL soundtrack by Ben Prunty on my headphones while setting timers on my phone. One Minute Thirty seconds. Hand on foam roller. Feel tightness in shoulder. Like a wire with tension. I imagine it snapping as I roll back and forth, waiting for the happy sound of my phone telling me to move on to the next exercise.

During the week, I listened to Natalie Goldberg on the Libby App. Writing Down the Bones. She is earnest and wise. She says to write truth. Use simple sentences. Focus on the basics. If all else fails try starting a paragraph with the quality of the light.

I am inspired and then uninspired. The crushing weight of duty tells me I cannot do this. There are other things to be done. Writing is stupid and useless and takes too much time. Plus, Jennie will not allow me to make the time. Yet I cannot do it in secret. It is a hobby that, if done correctly, takes over one’s life.

I pause and determine what other PT routines I must do before going to CT to see my friend Ray.

The trip does not excite me. It is for Penny.

Writing requires me to regain consciousness. No. Not exactly. Awareness. And caring. About how I spend my time. It will not happen overnight or automatically. I must choose it. And re-choose it. Every day, every moment. It is in some sense a choice to live more fully or completely. It will be hard to write more without also living more intentionally.

Hence the conflict. I am so used to turning on TV / Switch that there is a comfort in the conscious wasting of time and energy and I wonder if it is even possible to change anything anymore.

I am slow, a virtual cripple with one good arm, half depressed at least, my life full of lies and inconsistencies. How could I ever be anything else again?