Driving Home Alone

I don't miss commuting, but I'm all about the occasional long drive alone.

My daughter and I drove the New York State Thruway back to SUNY Brockport from Syracuse, talking, lapsing into silences, pointing out Teslas as they passed, and staring down the unwinding road ahead of us. Time on the road loosens her just enough to say things she might not otherwise. It's lovely.

After we unpacked her things in her room it was time for her swim practice. I said, "I guess I'll get going," hearing Dad's voice, the repeated rhythm of being a father. She didn't say anything or even nod, but there's almost imperceptible that sadly said, "I guess so." Then she half accepted my hug. "I love you," I said and went out the door.

In the stairwell I took in all the air I could hold, held it, then sighed it out of me, thinking, I am not going to cry.

I walked to my car, got in, pulled the seatbelt around me, chose music, and drove away. I was distracted enough I made one wrong turn, another, and then found my way to Main Street, out to 31, down 531 to 490, and back on the Thruway, east away from my girl.

It would have all been terrible, but the drive was lovely. Music played and I listened some, but mostly my mind drifted almost dangerously away from driving. I daydreamed like a child, sank into memory, told myself silent stories. Rather than think everything through, I drifted with feelings, the unfocused images and ideas carrying me further than the car ever could.

I thought, this could make a good piece of writing. I considered dictating to my phone, but no, it would wait. And so it has.

Nearly two hours later I exited the Thruway, traveled 690 East to Teall Ave., snuck down Lynch Avenue behind the concrete plant and abandoned green house succumbing to gravity, crossed Erie Boulevard to Westcott and home. I walked up the steps, unlocked the door, and called hello to the animals. The cats arrived first, then went off on their own. The dog yodeled and whinnied, her tail wagging her whole back end, her teeth bared in what we know as her horrible smile of ecstasy. It had been over four hours after all.

I miss my girl, but the drive cleared my mind and restored me. I'm ready to write. A blog post and then a note I'll seal in an envelope addressed to room in Brockport. The words come less like thoughts than like the lines on the road, the solid one down the side, the broken lines between the lanes, and the varied line of the horizon always ahead, ever out of reach, quietly pulling me forward toward tomorrow.

Without Numbers

Second day in a row, I went for a run without my watch. I have no idea if this will be a trend. I kept turning my left hand over to look at my wrist during the run. At the end of today's I almost pushed my right index finger to my left wrist but felt foolish enough to stop. Old habits. The watch keeps track of heart rate too and I've long run in a low heart-rate range. Going without the watch, I don't know what my heart rate was. I just ran by feel and felt good.

A guy this week ran a marathon in under two hours. First time that's been done, so far as we know. It's nice to know we have almost limitless potential. I just hope he didn't do better running through chemicals. That sort of thing happens when we get too caught up with numbers.

I'm listening to a record on the turntable. I don't know how many times I've played it and lack any way to tell mathematically, algorithmically which record, song, or artist I've heard most. Instead, I scan the spines and see what strikes my fancy. Right now it's Steely Dan's Greatest Hits and "Here At The Western World." How did that song not make it onto a regular album? I mean, really.

This month I've stayed off the scale. I know about what I weigh. No matter the number, I'm heavier than is healthy. The daily weigh in became, as it often does, a drag, so I stopped. Sitting here, I feel my belly over my belt. That's all the data I need at the moment.

This week I started a new writing notebook. It lacks page numbers and I haven't written any in. I begin notebooks wondering how long I'll take to finish them. Maybe there's a better way of thinking.

Our older daughter is home from college this weekend. I could count hours and minutes until I take her back (and we resume missing her daily presence), but I'll skip that.

Numbers are my habit and often my friend. Sometimes they get in the way and every relationship needs a break at least for a little while. I would tell you how long this break will last, but I've decided not to count.

I Made A Mess

I'm struggling to write about coffee, the environment, convenience's costs, and simple solutions. Since I've made a mess of it, but want you to know one idea, I'm just saying it here in big blue letters:

Carry a ceramic mug and stop using disposable paper coffee cups.

How difficult is that really?

There's no good reason to ever use a disposable coffee cup. No matter what you want to believe, they're likely not recyclable, so just stop. I'm sure you're smart enough to figure out another way. Get to it.

I'm going back to writing. I've got good coffee in my ceramic mug and eventually I'll clean up the mess I've made. Maybe we all will.

I Am So Not A Good Salesperson

I should be better at publicizing my blog and newsletter. I was pretty concerned about such things when I was in the process of quitting my job and hadn't yet found a new one. But then when I found and started a new job I took a break from writing and marketing. I gratefully dropped out of Facebook and Twitter. So what's a boy to do in getting the word out?

Luckily, I don't need to go viral. There are people who need to make money blogging. I'm not one of them. With money off the table, I just write, publish, and let things happen.

And I do it mostly for myself. Sorry, but it's true. I'm glad when something I wrote works for someone, but I write here because it feels good, feels right, feels like the next level of something I've done most of my life and always will.

Yesterday I posted a newsletter link to LinkedIn, the one social media that seems worth my time. I wanted to identify myself as a writer there and maybe provide someone some enjoyment. It won't expand the subscriber ranks much.

There are easy things I could do to increase readership and having a larger audience might push me in some interesting ways. I'm not against having more readers, but for the moment I'm not interested in pushing that. I'm more curious what happens if I keep showing up and doing the work. I have a feeling things will work out as they should.

I started with less than a dozen readers, all family. Fifty-seven people subscribe to the newsletter now, one more than a month ago. Slow growth? Sure. I can live with that. I'm in it for the long haul and for things other than fame, glory, and money.

That said, if you want to send me money, shower me with glory, or connect me with fame, I suppose we can work something out.