An artist or a nutcase with a notebook?

Have a few days to myself this week so was planning on doing what I always do when the wife’s away, which is to stuff my piehole, just like I did in the last entry.

Unfortunately, the doc just told me that my cholesterol’s up, which I find shocking but it’s onea those things about getting old. It’s still better than the alternative.

The doc says I’m in fine health but it makes me think.

Been alive for 14,235 days and am guessing that I’ve got about 12,045 days left if I’m lucky. And the thing’s that my mind’s racing with all of the stuff I wanna get done. As a writer, there’re stories in my head that I need to get out before they drive me starkers or they just fade away.

There’s this news that cave paintings thought to have been painted 10,000 years ago were probably painted 35,000 years ago – or, put another way, 12,775,000 days ago.

Put yet another way, back when life was hard, brutally hard, and people were lucky to make it to 25 years of age, they somehow found a time and a way for art.

And art that survived their petty differences, their politics, their beliefs, their wars and even their good and evil; art that survived way beyond their moment on the planet.

That’s what’s been keeping me up at night. Alla my stories I think I need to tell before my expiration date.

Real artists ship. Until then, I’m just a nutcase with a notebook. Even a cave man found the time to ship.

So I get up, flip on my glowing box, and I write.

Just watch the first minute, see if you don’t watch the whole thing.

Location: about to run to the post office (again)
Mood: pensive
Music: I need another story something to get off my chest
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