Watch Wednesday (Week 19)
Stats:
Running Mileage: 342.31/1,000
Push-ups: 3,225/10,000
Sit-ups: 3,100/10,000
Pages Read: 4,041/10,000
Books Completed: 12/25
Words Written: 34,769/100,000
Fasts (Days without)
Internet: 36/100
TV: 46/100
Gaming: COMPLETE 121/100
Meat: 50/100
Junk: 36/100
Booze: 23/100
Nearly 34 miles run this week in an attempt to close the gap. Enjoying the chase with time to beat back the baseless goals I have set out for myself. People typically ask if there's some program I'm adhering to, or if it's a group project. I must appear insane when I say no.
When I'm feeling less hopeful, it does seem fruitless, like I'm updating into nothing and after completion I will receive nothing. Perhaps I'm testing that age old saying, "It's not the destination, it's the journey," by making the destination nothing more than a bragging right. So far I am proud of what I've done, but I'm so focused on each passing day and the mounting pressure of the days to come that I don't have time to reflect. I'm sure this is how great things get done, when you've been forced to do so much that reflection can only happen in the doing. And all those thoughts and feelings that would get drawn out in the time of waiting end up jumbled and polished into what's being worked on in the now, without ones own knowledge even. This is why I've never been a long term writer. I lack the analytic mind and discipline to hone any of my reckless, raw, mewling, sloppy little babies into anything mature. I just toss them out in the cold and make new ones. Better ones. Weirder ones. I'm a creation addict and my numerous infant notions are left to die out in the cold. I would say I just never learned to parent right. But that's not true. I read the books. I took the classes. It just never stuck. I got into it for the feeling of making them, not taking care of them.
This is again why I'll have trouble ever being a writer of any weight or prowess. That's weird to admit in writing, and funny to recognize that becoming a GOOD writer is something I've always wanted. Just never bad enough to go past the mewling baby stage. I just want raw nerve all the time. No finesse. No pretense. Just all out in your messy, zitty, horrible-faced, gory, beautiful, typoed and misshapen creato-vomit. Maybe I'll get good at that at least. Who knows really...a phase perhaps? There's still light to see? I'll grow into it?
I just want to have a day where I feel like I've done SOMETHING with less criticism from the heckling box seats in my head.
Stats:
Running Mileage: 342.31/1,000
Push-ups: 3,225/10,000
Sit-ups: 3,100/10,000
Pages Read: 4,041/10,000
Books Completed: 12/25
Words Written: 34,769/100,000
Fasts (Days without)
Internet: 36/100
TV: 46/100
Gaming: COMPLETE 121/100
Meat: 50/100
Junk: 36/100
Booze: 23/100
Nearly 34 miles run this week in an attempt to close the gap. Enjoying the chase with time to beat back the baseless goals I have set out for myself. People typically ask if there's some program I'm adhering to, or if it's a group project. I must appear insane when I say no.
When I'm feeling less hopeful, it does seem fruitless, like I'm updating into nothing and after completion I will receive nothing. Perhaps I'm testing that age old saying, "It's not the destination, it's the journey," by making the destination nothing more than a bragging right. So far I am proud of what I've done, but I'm so focused on each passing day and the mounting pressure of the days to come that I don't have time to reflect. I'm sure this is how great things get done, when you've been forced to do so much that reflection can only happen in the doing. And all those thoughts and feelings that would get drawn out in the time of waiting end up jumbled and polished into what's being worked on in the now, without ones own knowledge even. This is why I've never been a long term writer. I lack the analytic mind and discipline to hone any of my reckless, raw, mewling, sloppy little babies into anything mature. I just toss them out in the cold and make new ones. Better ones. Weirder ones. I'm a creation addict and my numerous infant notions are left to die out in the cold. I would say I just never learned to parent right. But that's not true. I read the books. I took the classes. It just never stuck. I got into it for the feeling of making them, not taking care of them.
This is again why I'll have trouble ever being a writer of any weight or prowess. That's weird to admit in writing, and funny to recognize that becoming a GOOD writer is something I've always wanted. Just never bad enough to go past the mewling baby stage. I just want raw nerve all the time. No finesse. No pretense. Just all out in your messy, zitty, horrible-faced, gory, beautiful, typoed and misshapen creato-vomit. Maybe I'll get good at that at least. Who knows really...a phase perhaps? There's still light to see? I'll grow into it?
I just want to have a day where I feel like I've done SOMETHING with less criticism from the heckling box seats in my head.
Haiku of the Day:
Drifting limbs over
the tops of upholstered seats
to take in the pleats
the tops of upholstered seats
to take in the pleats
Today's Drawing (inspired by the word "Trenchant" from MW's word of the day. It means keen or sharp and a bunch of other crap that pertains to keen/sharpness.)
Today's "365" Project (Make a rubbing of something! I took to the streets around the prudential and found a couple)
"Prohibition and Request"
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