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  • I want to write with a quality that translates authentically. Its the work I am doing these days, to experience my life experience, listen, and write the words that fall out.
    My first season playing Ultimate Frisbee (1994), all I wanted was to be able to play a game without suffering from fatigue. I worked on my sprinting, my endurance, my agility, and eventually a single game was no problem. Tournaments lasted 6-8 games over a weekend so I needed much more than the duration of a 100 minutes, I needed 600 minutes spread out over two days. But I worked and by 1996 I was capable of excelling in the late hours of Sunday, in the finals, when the miles and miles I ran paid me back with the luxury of outpacing my opponents.
    I developed tricks. Drinking a gallon of water over 90 minutes before I even hit the fields would hydrate me for at least 1/2 of the day. If I could work in another gallon by midday then every drop after that meant I could dance till I got lucky, screw all night, rest, and wake up to do the whole thing again!
    I need to remember my struggles in those early years. I had not learned my limits, I didn't believe I could be stopped, I pursued my desire like a feral cat on the scent for town pussy. It was hard and grinding and I avoided the work. I hated running for miles, sprinkled with sprints, balancing the grind with yoga. I woke up late, squeezed in a few sprints when I found the motivation. It was not easy until I had a foundation of grinding and gametime experience that made the work enjoyable. And then the training itself became obsessive.

    My writing is in the struggle phase. I'm resisting my sprints and the stretches and I think too often about my younger stay-up-late-without-consequences days. The days when bills were few and my big concerns were on the magnitude of global saviorhood. But my writing its ugly like the cone that dripped off my ice cream today. It landed on the pier next to the Hudson.
    Remember this struggle defines me. I know I know. And I want the struggle itself to be beautiful. For each of these splatters show the potential to become something powerful in its delivery. I keep waking up and I keep fisting my pen and I keep writing because I trust that these muscles will eventually last me through an entire game. And one day I will make it to the end of a weekend, sweaty and used up, and I will smile.

    Simple beautiful potential, that is all I am asking to find in my work right now.
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