Yesterday was that day of the year when I go from long hair to virtually no hair. Before:
Walked three miles both yesterday and today, and ran 10,000 stairs each day, but I struggled. Was it the heat? Let's hope so. A hot female construction worker walking past me yesterday said, "What are you trying to do, pass out? I'm going to call your mom!" She was nice. Some people just have a nice way about them. Anyway, after about 2000 stairs, I was as drenched as I usually am after 5000. Pouring off me. The sweat made this big puddle on the island in front of the stairs. It is a lot of stairs--that's four hours' worth of stair running in two days. Today I had to come home and change my shirt. Was hard to get through all of it. I take breaks, but not until running at least 1000 stairs. (For instance, I started by running 3000 stairs without stopping--that's a half hour of stair running.) This morning, there was an abandoned wheelchair at the top of the stairs, which I ran past all 100 times, wondering about it, what the story was. Perhaps someone decided today was the day to be healed and walk. Or else a Tommy Udo-type situation unfolded. I'm sunburned.
I worked on the Sam Cooke Library of Congress piece in my head, and also "The Hornet," and EU. I don't want to say that I was born to write something, because that's not fair to my other works. I was born to write all of them. Am I going to insult Anglerfish or "The Parable of the Woodpecker" or "Jacks"? I can't do that. But EU is part of why I'm here. What I've known, experienced, how I have come to see those things, and how I've changed and grown up around them, like some tree of many roots. There comes a time, too, when you just create so much--you create worlds, universes--that other things become fair game and you don't feel like you didn't create them, or you're cheating, because you invent innumerable things anyway, and you mustn't let your ego get in the way of not using what you were born with, what happened, and what you realize did happen for a reason, and this is the reason, and you know it now. And it all changes, anyway. It enters into that place.
It occurred to me that I might have put the 1963 demo of "Bad to Me" in that list of John Lennon vocals for Just Like Them.
I listened to five hours of BBC radio adaptations of M.R. James's short stories.
Today marks 2142 days, or 306 weeks, without a drink. It's also the eighteenth birthday of my former mentee and neighbor. “Fitty” is her favorite story ever and she had knocked on my door crying after after she read an earlier version of it when it was first written in 2019 saying she was in love with a girl who didn’t exist. So I “got” her this.