I have my routines. I go to bed. I get up at about the same time everyday, everyday about the same. No alarm, just the sun coming in through the blinds. I make coffee. I open up the blinds, pull on a pair of sweatpants. I check my email, turn on some light music — workaday jazz, ambient funk, atmospheric piano… I check the statistics from my online lives and then I write here.
I missed Saturday. I got in the car instead of writing here and drove to the big city. I had some condo real estate to look at. Like a little town mouse, I drove into the big city, parked the Honda and visited how the city mice live. Not nearly as much space. Lots of concrete and glass. Footsteps on sidewalks and traffic noises. The wind whips around the buildings like it is trying to peel off my pants and jacket. I pull my toque down over my ears a little further.
I missed writing before I left for the big city. I though about what I might have written. On the drive through downtown traffic and in the elevators and lobbys of downtown buildings, I though of what the day was missing. I thought maybe I’d write when I got back.
I hadn’t eaten anything all day. That’s pretty normal. I usually don’t eat util at least about 2pm. Writing 300 words in the morning is normal too. It’s a light interview with myself. A softball question to get the game going. It’s a homemade spaghetti meal, a purring cat sleeping in a sunbeam. It’s a train ride through the countryside. It’s like pygmies in the forest on their way to a neighbouring village. It’s just part of life, part of the routine.
I get home, have a bacon sandwich and then a nap.