“Every day I got to go through, aaaaaaagh.” —Moby, “Everyday It’s 1989”

A funny thing has happened to me in recent weeks. I have a feeling that’s new to me: If I’m not expected to write anything, I don’t.

Writing has always come to me naturally. It sprouts in my hands; think weeds, not flowers. I can produce satisfactory writing with a medium effort—that’s how I make a living, for the most part—and I can deliver good writing if I put my back and shoulders into it. But lately I’ve been struggling to write the mediocre crap. The words you’re reading now replace two previous tries that amounted to yards full of weeds. Not feeling very Substacky RN.

I could blame this slowdown on the state of the world—and yeah, it’s pretty fucked; everything around us is burning, collapsing on itself. (I’m keenly aware of both the destruction and the sheer clueless assholes gleefully stoking the flames, so hey, social media, please stop screaming at me to '“pay attention.”) But I’ve felt partially shut down for a while now—since before COVID—and I suspect that even if we’d voted to keep whatsisname out of office and out of mind, I’d still struggle to fall asleep at night and get out of bed in the mornings, struggle to make it through the day, struggle to write the Substack post that explains why I’ve struggled to write another Substack post since the end of January. I am beleaguered, listless, mildly soul-sick. If you feel the same way, solidarity, friendo. If you don’t, good heavens, why are you still reading this shit.

At the beginning of this, ah, challenging life cycle—which began for me in February 2024, when a family member was hospitalized—I realized I needed to do three things to keep body and soul together:

1. I needed to strengthen and build up my relationships;
2. to exercise and to eat better (this was actually suggested by my GP, but I agreed with it);
3. and to make art, whether photographic or written or otherwise. Shoulders in; plant some fucking flowers.

And for the most part, I’m doing alright with all of it. Killing it on diet and exercise; the relationships and art are tougher sledding, but I’m keeping at it.

Only problem is, that shit fills only so many hours a day. Art happens sporadically at best; see the previous whinging about weeds and flowers. Coffee and/or drinks with friends is subject to availability—had two cancellations this past weekend, perfectly understandable, we all have giant-assed adult schedules—and the gym, though beneficial, is basic and boring as fuck.

(In case you’re wondering, my pump-it-up song of the moment is OutKast’s “B.O.B.,” which perfectly matches my preferred running pace. Power music! Electric revival!)

So, I’m trying to invest everything that isn’t relationships, self-care or art with more keenness, more meaning and more purpose. The word the younger generations like to use for this is intentionality. I’m not sure I’m using it correctly, but I’m not certain that the Millennials, Gen Zed and Gen Alpha are using it correctly, either. To me, intentionality is about finding the enjoyment and satisfaction in everything I do and everything that happens—or, if there’s no enjoyment or satisfaction to be had, to simply be fucking present. And it means I can no longer sleepwalk through my daily rites.

I’m softly amazed at all the shit I now have to do at the beginning and end of every day. 20 years ago I could still get out the door in the morning with just a shower and a coffee; now the mornings are a checklist of medications, yoga stretches, answering emails, hopping on the VPN to edit pages, running the dog around the yard. Even making the coffee is a process, because I’m one of those pour-over dilettantes. (You don’t live in Seattle for a decade without getting specific ideas about how coffee should be prepared and served.) Bedtime is the same, but different: more stretches, more yard time with the dog, more medications. I have a skin regimen, now—not out of vanity, but because in my late 50s I’m now keenly aware that skin, hair and teeth are finite. I have to live in these rituals, every last one, because if I don’t, I feel like a machine. (And, also, I could forget to do some of them. Usually it’s the meds.)

Since I changed my head on this I’ve been consistently pulling moments of contentment from daily rites I used to do without thinking about them much, if at all. Using my phone—the damnable contraption that’s ruined our ability to focus, empathize, communicate—I flood the house with upbeat music before I even roll out of bed. I take a second to breathe in the scent of the coffee after my initial pour to bloom the grounds. Gigi has learned to run into the kitchen when I touch my toes; I give her pets, head scratches and belly rubs. I actually plan out outfits, though you’d never notice because 80% of my wardrobe is black. In the midst of these daily rituals I strive to notice new things, to make small changes, to own the actions. Monday’s coffee should be different from Thursday’s coffee. The dog should and must have belly rub variety from day to day.

Back in January I wrote about my past experiences with disassociation. But I wasn’t entirely forthright with you, in that I made it sound like a problem I had completely licked. Not the case at all. In sorting through and posting nearly 25 years’ worth of photos to my Flickr account, I’ve come to realize my tendency towards disassociating is latent. There are weeks of my life, months, nearly entire years that I remember only because I took photos of them. I’ve been surprised by what I’ve discovered—I did that?—and I’ve been dismayed to realize how much of my recent past feels unmoored.

I shouldn’t be unable to recall the last time I hung out someone without checking Google Photos. I shouldn’t be fuzzy on the events of 2022. But that’s where I’m at these days, which means I’ve got to take and organize my photos with intention, as well. When I raise my camera to something or someone, it has to be meaningful. When I leaf through my photos and delete the duds, I now need to factor in emotional considerations: Is a photo of something I need to remember, want to remember? How empathetic should I be in editing my own recollection?

Well, that got weird, dinnit. I came in here to tell you that I’m striving to find the upsides to making omelettes and commuting to Green Valley day after day. To tell you that there’s a life to be lived every fucking day, even in the simple things. And since I don’t want to undo that by telling you how else I’m feeling these days, we’ll stop here. If you wanna know more, and to tell me more about where you’re at with your hopes and your fears and your rituals, let’s make some coffee plans.

Welcome, new subscribers! If you’ve come here by way of my neighbor and goddamn hero Kim Foster, I thank you for giving me a chance. And if you found me by other means, I strongly suggest you read Kim’s stuff on what it means to be a compassionate being. And while you’re at it, read my other friend Kim: the estimable Kimberly Scott, who brings a poet’s grace and fearlessness to her posts. If my educator friend Kim Le ever jumps on Substack, my God, we’ll have a veritable Kimfecta of amazing, world-changing Kims.