Sunday 1/23/22
Ran 5000 stairs today, which also marks 2030 days, or 290 weeks, without a drink, and actually worked on the two stair-based stories--"The Hornet" and "Mount Edifice"; major works--while running said stairs. Today is my niece's birthday so I texted my sister and asked her to give her a hug for me.
Like I've written a number of times, the stories in There Is No Doubt: Storied Humanness all feature female narrators and/or protagonists. I would say that there is no more anthemic work of feminist literature than "The Girl Who Couldn't Cry." It is more than anthemic. It's deeper. It occurred to me today that there is no reason I couldn't do three, four, five, six books like this, with what I already have right now. I have everything here at this point, and lots of everything. As someone said to me yesterday, "The only reason for not including you, all that remains now, is discrimination. There is no way someone can cite a lack of ability, expertise, track record, a kind of work, writing in a certain vein, something that fits, because you have it all. You have written so much, so many ways, done so much, published everything everywhere, that you have removed any doubt, any counter-argument. You could legally prove. You've removed any theoretical shred of doubt or a valid reason not to include you. No objective third party can say the writing isn't better, or you don't know enough, that you don't clearly know far more on any of these topics, or the track record isn't there, when the track record destroys anyone else's, and that's with no help at all, ever. You've also written more eloquently about social justice and civil rights, and more often, and no one writes about women like you do, and there are hundreds and hundreds of pieces pertaining to both. You have beaten them even at 'their things,' as a straight white male."
There's a simple reason as to the variety. Well, one reason. Some things are so complicated, and some minds so complicated, some ideas, some artists, that we can paradoxically summarize them simply and pithily. I am story. That's one for me. Most people project what they are into the world, and that's certainly what writers do, and it's all they can do. I don't project anything. That's not how being story works.
Worked up a great sweat in the cold. I have the hockey hair again now, and the sweat was pouring off of me. Winter stair running is not easy, I'd say. You have on a lot more clothes, and though they're but clothes, they "add up" as you go. They get wet naturally, too, so they're heavier. This is my first winter running stairs outside regularly, though I've done a poor job of late. In years past, there was the Monument, and my trips to the stairs out at BC occurred only once or twice a week, because it's so far away. So, a new experience.
From a text exchange today:
"Totally the kind of guy who would have a refrigerator that talks out loud and tells him when he's low on pizza."
Another:
J: I'm in a Hebrew school meeting. I have to give a big talk in a minute I didn't realize this
C: Exciting. Shalom.
J: Waiting to speak is the worst part
C: Pretend Bledsoe just got hurt. You're going in, son.
J: Yes that will work
***
Later now. The hot water is completely gone. What's worse, the plumber cannot come until Friday at the earliest. Called someone else. Cannot be contending with additional problems right now. I am disgusting from my workout, can't even shower. I thought about it, but it's ice cold.
***
Okay--just thought about it again. Stood naked for thirty seconds in front of the running water. Dipped my head in. Ultimately backed down. Nothing else I can do right now except throw on some deodorant, and get back to work. Let this be motivation to work harder to get out of this disgusting hovel.
***
NB: Kind of disappointed in myself that I'm not pulling a Bear Grylls here and jumping in this bad boy. (Just thought about it again.) I also don't want to have a heart attack and be found naked--eventually, as I have no friends and no one calls--in this hovel. But it would also be a good way to test my heart, maybe? A normal person would think the 5000 stairs ran did that, and all of the regular stair running, and the 290 alcohol-free weeks, but a C-Dawg--and a Zulu warrior--is not a normal person.
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