I'm abstract when I'm working, at least when I'm in deep. I have nothing left at the end of the day. Things get simple, things are simply simplified. And the harder I work the harder I have to work to blow it all out, to fit it in a box and dispose of it somewhere outside of my person. Today, after a brutal but all affirming day of script work, before going to the gym, I ran up Sunset Plaza Drive with my buddy Will. Last March, we somewhat ran the LA marathon together and have made this something of a weekly appointment - to climb the steep and winding hill until we reach the top, above the smog, above the cars, above this wonderfully poisoned city . It's metaphorical to say the least. Between breaths, we talk shit and of ideas that fetch far. And when we get to the top, we check the clock at Ice Cube's house, slap hands and decide the pace of decent -- all depending on how much time we have before the real workout starts.
I left the gym sometime after 7 tonight, overdone as usual, but lighter. My motor skills and skills of mind had long ago departed. When I'm in work, I lose my gift of communication. The vocal webs I usually sling with such skill and savvy hang limp like Durban's whiskdic. People think I'm on drugs. I'm actually not. It's all good...because I'm on pace. I'm at the exact spot I want to be. And this progression is my vigor, and I'm moving into something of a rare form, only wanting to be composed of three things -- moving towards a day where I am all and only three things...Muscle, Brain, Heart. That's all, all I have a tolerance left to carry.
