I'm going to be quick about this, as it is the last thing I am doing over this holiday weekend. It's quarter past seven right now. The week is going to be bloody and eventful. I had to put myself in the position to be ready to go and take it on. I have not even eaten yet today. I just go, man. I just go, go, go. Let's get the numbers out of the way. Today is 1274 days without a drink. I ran nine miles today; I walked eight; I climbed the Monument five times. I listened to two Suspense programs, one called Out for Christmas from 1958 (Raymond Burr is in this one), the other Christmas for Carol from 1950. I wrote and sent out about ten long-ish letters (about 3000 words' worth of letters), sitting here striped to the waist, 2/3 of the way through my nine miles of running, because I had to change my shirt, it was so drenched in sweat and it was cold out. I went to the MFA and went mostly everywhere, but spent the most time in the new Hyman Bloom exhibit. This is his 1944 painting, Christmas Tree:
Here's the Public Garden with a thin skin of ice over the pond. The Arlington Street Church bells were playing "Silent Night."
Then I went to Symphony Hall, for Handel and Haydn's Messiah. Three hour concert. When I came out, it was snowing hard, already accumulating, the first snow of the season.
My webmaster will not write me back, which is becoming a problem.
I came home from the concert and just sat in an empty Starbucks, listening to Christmas music, watching the snow, thinking, planning.
I proofed "Evening Day" more times this morning. When you get where you are going, when you change the world, it will be because even when you were abandoned, alone, when you had no hope, when you could barely remain alive, for so many years, you kept fighting. You had more talent than anyone, and you worked harder too, and when other people were sitting there with their thumbs up their ass, you were up at four in the morning working your ass off, when you already started with infinitely more. Keep going. Between today--oh; I also wrote an essay on The Irishman in my head, and only need to type it out now--and the multiple works of art I created this weekend, that is a holiday weekend for the ages, when anyone else would have been in bed, at best.
Okay. I need to eat, catch a couple hours of not doing much, and be ready to go in the morrow. The month is all about fight, courage, art, production, money, and making history.