Every day that I’m at my little studio on the ocean in New York, my days look something like this:

Wake up

Bitch to myself, or to anyone else who is around, about my lack of sleep last night

Dry brush

Stretch, while looking out the window at the dawn-time surfers, wondering how in the world they’re not freezing, it being November now, and even with a wet suit on

Make the bed

Talk to Funk if he’s here, or wherever he is in the world

Put on the coffee, while looking out the window at the surfers, wishing my body could be in the water like them

Answer email

Talk to my daughter as she’s walking to work

Write, and every once in a while, look out the window at the mid-morning surfers, wishing my core was strong enough to not get hurt if I tried to learn

Text my son, he doesn’t respond, but the cosmic child does, barely

Have a bowl of miso soup, while looking up the weather, the tides, and perusing Facebook

Put my music on, and no dishwasher here, start washing by hand

Write some more

Get a head start on dinner, while looking out the window at the afternoon surfers, feeling like I’m missing out on all the fun

Put my ear buds in, and start out the door for my 4-mile walk

I waited for low tide, so I’m down by the water’s edge

Begin returning phone calls, but first things first.  I call my mother, because you have to call your mother

I tell her about the wind surfers out on the ocean today, and how I’m gonna do that some day

“Please, Glor, no.  The board can slip out of the water and slice your head off.”

That piece falling into place, I’ve always wondered why I’m afraid of everything

Still, I’m gonna learn to surf

I’m gonna swim in the ocean in wintertime

There, I’ve said it

Now I have to

Because it would too embarrassing to have it out there and not do it

Because it’s unbecoming to talk shit, and I don’t talk shit

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