Still life.

It is autumn, what Tom Robbins called "the springtime of death." Saw an old friend at his father's funeral yesterday. We hadn't seen each other for nearly nine years, It could have been nine minutes. He wrapped me in a big hug after the service.

HIM: What are you doing here?
ME: Oh man, what are you doing here?
HIM: Does it get better?
ME: I don't know.
HIM: Don't say that.
ME: I'll let you know in six months.

After the reception I was compelled to visit my father. Literally wiping fallen leaves from my father's stone with my bare hands. I told him a couple things. I never thought I would do that, talking to a cold stone in the ground. It's a little dramatic. But I felt bad before and I felt better after.

Distance: 3.3 miles
Route: Forest Hill Loop
Temperature: 50°
Climate: cool and clear
Weight: 169 lbs. (+0.5)
Goal: 165 lbs.
Mood: good

Writing two plays, and editing a third. It's the editing which has been giving me anxiety. I have been listening to suggestions, waiting for the clue, waiting for the right direction to drop in. Just started saying that yesterday, I wait for the idea to "drop in."

Last night I spoke with my most trusted advisor and she asked me the questions I needed to answer, and the answers came cleanly. They may not be the right answers, but at least I know what the questions are.

Feeling unsettled and listless, I invited the boy to come bike with me. I haven't run in a week. That was good for both of us.

And ye gods, when was the last time I quoted Still Life With Woodpecker?