When I don’t feel like running, I have developed an ingenious strategy: I don’t run. I don’t write either.
When I don’t feel like writing or running, I split firewood.
Now my shoulder is wrecked from splitting wood, so I plant my garden. Gardening makes my shoulder hurt, too.
When I don’t feel like writing or running and can’t split wood or plant garden, I dive into the slow-roasting depths of social media hell. The heat makes my knee and shoulder feel better.
An afternoon sneaker wave of unchecked items and unfulfilled commitments washes away any pretense of productivity. Happy Hours have arrived. On the rocks.
I take my bourbon across the street where a fire pit has been drug onto the pavement. My neighbors are very Happy. Their kids are engaged in the tribal ritual of roasting marshmallows for dinner. There isn’t a single third-degree burn.
I’m thinking about adopting a dog or a teenager to have someone to blame besides my wife for the disappearing bourbon. She drinks gin.
Tomorrow is another day at the end of the world as we thought we knew it.
Maybe I’ll feel like writing.
MOST RECENT BLOG POSTS
Last evening I dropped a tree over the edge of the world as I know it. The Douglas-fir died in exactly the spot I directed, sent there with a chainsaw and hand-winch. I am not an expert feller of trees, although decades ago I did make my living dropping lodgepole pine around what then were million-dollar homes.
On the front porch of the Johnny Gunter place, I ride the incoming swell of nightfall. The last logging rigs rumbled out of the valley two hours ago. A single robin chirrups from the meadow growing April green before me. Wind from the west draws an iron overcast across the evening sky.
There sure is a lot of sex at the end of the world as I thought I knew it. After a socially distant run on the chip trail, I finish with a sweaty stroll through the neighborhood park, pausing on a footbridge across the small creek. The air has become a breathing thing, ribs of willow and cottonwood exhaling …