A few days ago. 3:28 p.m.
Here I am out on the deck in the sun. The thermometer’s hanging around 50 degrees. I weighed in at 250 pounds today, recorded it on my app, and came to the realization that instead of losing weight, I’ve gained 7.5 pounds in six months. And what happened six months ago? I retired! I stopped chasing news stories! I became more of a homebody. I stopped moving. I have become a lump.
Obvious fixes: Start moving again. Maybe not chasing news stories, but chasing something, anything besides TV screens, naps and other sedentary activities.
So here I am writing on the deck.
But it feels so peaceful in the sun.
The leaves are all gone from the big tree behind the house. I can see the water again. That’s the only — maybe not the only — thing I like about the colder, darker months. After the spring equinox, the green will be back, hiding the water again. I will have to take a walk or a drive to see the bay again, but I need to take more walks anyway.
Oh, I can feel the chill today, but the light from the sun gives me warmth. (The Light from the Son Gives Me Warmth.)
A jet races across the sky — I only know it’s there because of the contrails.
I look up, down, left and right to see what I can see and describe. What if the most interesting thing is to my rear? I’ll see it later.
With the leaves gone I can see the new house up the hill, shining in the sun. Everything is sharper in the sun, our local star.
I smell a faint whiff of diesel exhaust, perhaps the odor I dislike most. Oh, perhaps not the most, but perhaps the common everyday odor I most dislike.
Is it the cold, the light, or the outdoor air that lights up my prose and gets the pen racing across the page?
Dejah whimpers at the back door. Maybe it’s time to go inside.
3:45 — 350 words in 17 minutes. Not especially memorable words, but a pace of more than 1,000 words an hour. That’s an interesting statistic for a guy who wants to be a professional writer when he grows up.
