Calorific
- Jul 27
- 3 min read
Monday 7/27/26
I worked late last night until eleven, then went to sleep and was back up working by three this morning.
Worked straight through until eleven, and then had to get out. I needed a good walk and also felt like passing through the Public Garden, so went off on a five mile amble. Walked eight miles in total yesterday, and did my 100 push-ups.
I need to crank six music features.
Yesterday near the end of those eight miles I worked out an op-ed in my head for Halloween pertaining to It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, and the idea of sincerity.
I read Hans Christian Anderson's "The Little Match Girl" today for competitive purposes. The story has what I call a good driver. It's less than 1000 words long.
The arrant cowardice of people is stunning.
As is the emptiness of modern minds and lives. So few people have anything in either. Hence, how they act, what they glom on to. Parasites gnawing at empty-calorie hosts, scuttling from one to the next.
And apparently there's a great shortage of mirrors, because you'd figure otherwise that people couldn't help but look into them from time to time, even accidentally. The Great Mirror Crises.
We were talking about the worst way to die the other day, in the biggest sense. I'll reiterate that in the physical sense dying of thirst must be the worst.
I woke up during my four hours' worth of sleep last night in need of some pickle for cramping. Yesterday's thirteen circuits of stairs in the Bunker Hill Monument was actually tied for the eleventh most I've done in a day.
I came up with a new story today which I've been working on in my head.
These early mornings have retained that slight autumnal aspect I'd mentioned not long ago.
Someone yesterday asked me about daylight savings time and standard time. I know next to nothing about either. I work. I create. I get up before anyone else, I have at it. After quite a few hours, I stop and do stairs so I can stay strong and endure and work and create more.
But the whole "let's just change what time it is" concept is one that has always been lost on me. You know how Watson is taken aback over some of the stuff that Sherlock Holmes doesn't know when they first move in together? I don't have many of those, but I have this one. It also doesn't interest me.
Kierkegaard was someone who had to feel passionate about something in order to allow it to occupy his thoughts or to do it, and that's how I am. Of course, my passions and that which I care about are expansive.
Been walking around humming the melody to Paul McCartney's "Junk"--the Esher demo version--that last two days.
I made this excellent change today in the fourth to last paragraph in "Mouse." Then I looked at it thinking, "And it took until now for you to do that." It's such a big thing. It was quite hard to work out what I had here, which itself was really good, but this nails it even more, making the last word of that sentence "knowing."
The amount of work that went into the end of this story especially...the entire thing is about six and a half pages in a Word document. There are almost forty pages of "outtakes," if you will, in a different document, a kind of workbook/notepad. One would never know it to read the ending. It looks like the most natural, effortless, inevitable thing ever.
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