(From the Morning Pages)
My body feels better than yesterday, fewer aches in the low back and behind my knees. I woke up that way — improved — though surely two aspirin have helped. I also woke with a headache, my first in
weeks, and it is not lost on me that I ate ice cream last night — lots of it — for the first time in a while, not a good decision for different reasons, which means self-discipline in refusing any of what’s left is the only way to go. Sad or smart or both or neither, life is life. A new experiment keeping my morning coffee hot and fresh, this morning, worked well — some metal container guaranteed to keep liquids piping hot making possible turning off freshly-brewed wake-up nectar, the second cup now as fresh as the first eliminating that cooked burned reality requiring more half and half for balance, thereby settling for less and, oh well, now that’s behind me. Some eighteen days past my 69th birthday. So, better late than never, or who’s zoomin’ who. One of them.
Reading Earnest Gaines upstairs in the blue recliner versus downstairs in my everyday pink, I’m mostly moved by his dedication to writing. He said more than five hours a day five days a week is too much for him, I’d be back-flipped thrilled if I could — if I do — get myself to two hours a day five days a week, which is nearly never — so far. It would jump forward, my writing.
In Rilke’s “Letters To a Young Poet” Rilke asks — the young poet — if he could live without writing. Yes, if he could live without writing, because the answer to that question determines whether one is a writer or not. It’s clear reading Gaines’s essays that he could not live without writing. My surface mind goes immediately to — I could. Meaning I’m not a writer. But on a walk with my wife the other day I brought up the Rilke measure for a true writer and told her it worried me at first glance, but, if I stop to breath –deeply — in all my past there is evidence that I have been one who writes and has written all his life, and there are few, barely any, personal characteristics/qualities I can say that about — a particular act repeated over such a stretch of time. So, a writer, then, I be, and perhaps it is character defects of chronic laziness and never-ending dis-tractability which keep me from the sweat and inner commandment to show up at the keyboard and/or notebook every single day — or die.
And like so much else of life this proposition is worth pondering — if not for you, surely for me. Which I am and I do and I will, and I do show up every single morning for these morning pages for years and years now. There’s that.