Sunday, February 4th, 2024: Weight 162.4. Went to Home Depot to get birdseed, pansies, and some wood putty for Tatine’s project. Finished the Ebet Roberts profile for Memphis Magazine. I’m pretty pleased with it. It’s 3,500 words with lots of moving parts, but it all came together, and the photographs are amazing. Took the hounds on a 35-minute walk in Overton Park. Did Duolingo (150 points).
Made wide-noodle pasta with leftover filet, shallots, garlic, fresh herbs, and butter/olive oil sauce for dinner. Very tasty. We watched another episode of True Detective: Night Country. Still not sure I like it. Stayed up late and finished The Alienist. Entertaining read, but not enough to lure me into the second book in the series.
A little over a year ago — in January 2023 — I began keeping a daily journal. At first I called it “Cancer Diary” because I wanted to track the details of my health while I was undergoing treatment. I started every day’s post with my weight, then I chronicled what I ate, what medicines I took, my doctor visits — the good, the mundane, and the scary.
As my health got better over the ensuing six months, I found myself maintaining the journal out of habit rather than for health reasons. Now I just call it “The Daily Days.” I still note my weight and any health stuff that comes up, but mostly I just keep track of what happens: errands, editorial meetings, what I’m writing about in the Flyer and Memphis Magazine, conversations, walks, dinner, etc.
The entry at the beginning of this column is pretty typical, and I’ve piled up 40,000 words of this stuff in a little over a year. Unfortunately, there’s no plot, and as Larry David might say, I’m pretty, pretty, pretty boring. I can, however, tell you which birds came to the feeder on, say, July 6th (Go, downy woodpecker!). Or what day the first mosquito showed up last spring. Facts! But no one’s ever going to read this stuff.
Speaking of which … I’m also 25,000 words into a “novel,” a word that I’m still putting quotes around because I’m not sure if it will ever be ready for prime time. It’s a hobby at this point, with a plot that jumps from our hero’s college days in the 1970s to the present, and back again. Here’s a sample:
“I turn onto a gravel road that leads to a small bridge over the stream and then winds upward into the woods. As darkness comes on, I pull over and we get out, the dogs and I, stretching, sniffing the cool, piney air. The night feels crisp and new. I’ve had enough desert to last me for a while.
“I feed the dogs and we wander around through the trees. I discover a small clearing and pull the car onto the dry needles, away from the road. I don’t expect to have company up here but I can’t assume anything at this point. I unroll my sleeping pad in the back and we soon nod off.
“I’m startled awake by Doll’s deep, crooning howl — a primeval sound from deep inside her, reverberating in the closed car. It gives me the shivers. What time is it? What the hell? I grab her collar and shush her. She’s trembling, wide-eyed. Susie is growling, low. Out the car window, I see the moon hanging full in a black sky. The woods are dark and impenetrable. I pull the glock from the side-pocket and slowly open the door and then I hear it: coyotes, dozens of them, baying and yipping, distant and thrilling, a cacophony of hound-songs echoing down from the slopes above us.
“I let the dogs out of the car and within seconds they are both howling along with their mountain brothers and sisters, heads back, sending up cries from their ancestral hearts, full of joy and life and noise. I listen for a while, smiling big, transfixed by this crazy celebration, and I want in. I put the gun back in the car, strip, and stand naked beneath the brilliant sky, alive in the sound, the moon, the mountains. I tilt my head back and howl and howl.”
If I ever finish this thing, you’ll be the first to know. A-whoooo!
