Yesterday I wrote about two sentences, and didn't post them. Obviously.
On Sunday I didn't write a single goddamn word.
About 40% of my brain would like to use this as the excuse to drop this project entirely because if Thing-A-Day isn't happening literally every day then what's the point, really?
I kind of hate 40% or more of my brain at any given time, and that may be the source of most of my problems, but I digress.
You already know that I didn't write. Here's what I did do.
On Saturday I woke up and ate. There's a book I remember reading when I was very young about a boy describing the action-packed day he was going to have, well-punctuated with food. "You gotta keep eating if you want to keep going!" he'd say, and there'd be a picture of him sitting in the kitchen, fork in hand, surrounded by a city of pancakes, or sharing ten miles of spaghetti and meatballs with a mustachioed chef. I do not always eat breakfast (thanks to that assholeish 40% again) and when I do it's normally just an egg or two or a couple forkfuls of leftover dinner. Well. Biff cooked a POUND of bacon and then poached a half-dozen eggs in the resultant liquid gold left in the pan. We split that and I washed down my portion with some turmeric-ginger bulletproof coffee. 40% wanted to weigh and track everything before I took a bite and make sure it fit a certain caloric amount and macro breakdown. 60% was already starting to do developees and shoulder-loosening rolls in anticipation of the day I'd planned: an hour and a half of ecstatic dance followed almost immediately by two hours of Systema.
60% is a fucking badass, and won the breakfast war.
In the dance studio, I swayed and pulsed and leapt and spun, both with partners (who, as is the custom for these events, never spoke to request a duet but leaned against my shoulder or brushed my hand with theirs or looked long and smiling at me through the swirling throng) or alone with the music. In the dojo I rediscovered all the innumerable tiny flinching reasons I started learning this art in the first place, and the way that somehow the lacework of muscle and fascia woven in with those reasons knows better than my mind how to respond. And then curry and wine and stories and yes.
Sunday I was an Adult and did all the Errands and then abruptly stopped to drink coffee (DECAF, because I'm the master of my own desires god damn it) and dive headlong into Fragile Things for one hour. Two, tops. Maybe more. I wasn't counting. I was planning on writing as soon as I'd finished with Adulting.
And then in the middle of putting away the fruit of my labors, my roommate stumbled in with a corpse-white face and blood-soaked makeshift tourniquet, thanks to a disagremeent with a circular saw, and there went those plans.
I'm tired. Life is hard. But also good. These are just things.
And so is this.