Things have been Top o' the Pops. TP. Tee-pee. Squaws. A little Indian brave. Is THIS Indian brave? Even just a little? Love has come into my life, on the severe wings of a giant feathered Indian head-dress, and it has left just as readily in a puff of peace-pipe smoke.
I have no idea what I'm talking about. Let me turn and put a little more beer (read: whiskey) into my glass (read: flower vase with protruding straw). That is to say: Let me get serious with you, True Believer.
I have never been a fan of work. I hate it, actually. I know that many people would have you believe that you have to find what you love and do THAT for your living. This way, they claim, you really aren't working at all. You're Doing What You Love. But you see, therein lies the pile of bull's shit: If what you do earns money, then it's Work (capital "w") and, as it is now officially Work, I will hate the fuck out of it equally.
That's the duality of man or something. Or the frosting on the cake you have and eat, too. Oh no. I have no idea what I'm talking about again. BOTTLE! COME!
Haha, that never works...
But "Bottle" would be a good name for a dog.
So, what I'm getting at is this: After Chilean summer vacation, I'm now fully back at work, 12 hour days at the office, wishing I were deader than the proverbial door's nail. HOWEVER, I realized, as I was showering at the gym after sneaking in a 1 hour tempo run during my unpaid, obligatory lunchbreak...I realized that I'm actually THANKFUL for the limitations that work places on me. I need work to give shape to my day and provide a necessary foil, against which I can rail, wail and (ultimately) prevail. So, while I will always be impressed by dudes who train super hard with crazy work hours and raising a family, etc. ...I also know the dark truth, now. People like them need those constraints. In the same way that millennia of crushing pressure transforms coal into diamonds (Or just Superman's fist. Anyone else remember that movie? Fantastic. I knew you would.) ...in this same way, the pressures of work, love, family, etc. also serve to turn your raw carbon lazy-ass into a glistening, eternal diamond.
An eternal diamond that can run like a motherfucker.
"Eternal diamond" would not be quite as good a name for a dog. Know why? No ring.
I love you, True Believer, and I want you to know that I'm still here, running a shitload and doing my best to turn the parts of me that are black and combustible into something clear, cold and eternal.
Did you know that I write almost all of these posts as stream-of-consciousness? Haha, that's why they're completely garbage! It's mostly out of laziness, but when it goes well...ha, gosh, look who I'm talking to! True Believer, you never doubted.
Sorry for this post. Here's a video of my run last weekend. Met a goat-herder. Goat shepherd? That doesn't make any sense if you break it apart.