Today was a good walking day, 3.9 miles on my hill,
harder going up, much easier coming down.
Some days the walks aren’t so great.
Yesterday the humidity was 99.99%.
If I’d had a fork, I’d have stuck it in me around mile two.
Some days, coming down the hill actually isn’t easy,
like if I’ve strained something in my foot or my back.
Some days playing music is good, others not.
On a good day, I play myself into a zone,
the same kind of zone I used to get into when I did ceramics,
the sculpture side more than the bowl, plate, and cup side.
I lose track of time, get lost someplace other, else.
Some days my writing is better with me, somedays without me.
If I find myself in the middle of a rush of ideas,
am barely able to catch words as they race around,
flashing through my mind so fast I can barely think them,
that’s when I’m in the writing zone.
With clay, there’s a physicality,
with writing I step into a movie running in my mind,
like a dream, the words and images zigging and zagging.
On a not great writing day, I have to ask for a refund at the box office.
Today was a good walking day, the writing’s okay,
and now it’s time to face the music.
I never know if I’ll find the music zone or not
until I sit down and start playing,
can sing the high notes and low notes
without turning my voice against me,
can find the notes and chords I intend to play
rather than the ones that jump in my way,
know that my fingers are with me, not off drumming away on their own.
When the neighborhood cats don’t start yowling,
I get the feeling I might be moving in the right direction.