Chatted by phone with Bill tonight. He was doing the legendary drive from Amazon's Fernley DC back to the Golden Nugget. Poor Bill. We were roommates there two Xmas ago. I was a zombie half the time while Bill was unconscious when he wasn't standing.
I got home tonight, and ESPN Classics happened to be showing Game 4 of the NLCS, Cubs vs. Padres, when Garvey hit the homer off Lee Smith to win it. Ugh. I couldn't even watch the ending.
The soundtrack to Oh Brother, Where Art Thou? is great. Rich lent me his copy tonight. Good music to work by.
Anton Chekhov was such an amazing writer. I just thought of that tonight.
Sometimes, I get stuck on the same problem, the same challenges, and just refuse to cut my losses and let go. Is it stubborness or idiocy? Or both?
I remember one time in little league, I was maybe 12 or 13, playing center field on a baseball field in Palatine, a field set up high on a plateau, surrounded by corn fields. The sun was close to setting, at my back, and my shadow stretched out before me for what seemed like a mile. I was bent over, my hands on my knees, watching the pitcher deliver. The batter crushed it to right center, and at times your adrenaline and instincts take over, and I turned and immediately sprinted out towards my left, and back. I didn't even stop to think if I was heading towards the right spot, and I couldn't feel myself running, I just had my eye on the ball and knew I was meant to meet up with it out there, somewhere.
Some things I can't control, but sometimes my opportunities seem to be shot out at random. I need to stop, crouch, look in, put my hands on my knees, and wait for my chance to run.
I'm not even sure what I'm talking about. It's just a mood. As Thom Jones referred to it, the pugilist at rest.