Chapter Six in which Sid wakes up motivated.
Sid woke from his dream and smiled. He likes that dreams have begun again after so many decades without them. Neurontin, he had. Depakote and Seroquel in-combo. A bad experience on Haldon and Wellbutrin both and a good one with Lithium. “Non-Classical Responses” to Prozac, Zoloft, Celexa and most any drug used for his condition. A good experience with Seroquel made bad by doctors and corrected again by Sid. It was the last to go, then the dreams came. He learned why he didn’t dream anymore when he started dreaming again. Life’s funny, like that.
So when somebody like Sid, for whom a big event is turning his face from the sun during a nap, gets motivated, what does he do? He opens his eyes, stretches his sore hands and jaw, rubs his toothache for a while. Sits up. Brews up. Lays down. Lazy. Listens to surf and tide and wind and which birds. That’s about it. And, well, the climbs. He rolls onto his belly, coffee in hand. He does a full-roll further without spilling a drop. He’s done that before. He sets down the cup in the sand where he sits, right beneath a bulging mass of granite stained orange and veined with quartz knobs, chalked. It’s Sid’s project. He rolled over to approach it. Now, he reached up and low to the side, placed his feet on the stone, heels in the sand. As he gripped and lifted his butt, the heels followed. He was on. He stuck the sit-start and breathed. Good. Up and left is The Sloper. There are easier moves, but this start is new. From here, those “easy” moves are heinous and thin. The sloper is bad, but the only choice for a lazy dirtbag. He is careful not to spill his coffee when he comes off. He is low on fuel for stove and fingers alike. He selects from his book stack. “Fukthatclimb,” he said, laying back with it in one hand and his coffee in the other.