Anatomy of the day

25-4-21-M
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Anatomy of the Day

Last night granted me a full harvest of rest—nine uninterrupted hours. I retired around 2200 and rose just after 0700. The conclusion felt inarguable: my physiology does not merely request nine hours—it demands them. When the body engages daily in intellectual marathons and physical exertions spanning up to two hours, eight hours of rest becomes a kind of mythological ideal—chiseled into our culture but misaligned with real recovery. Perhaps that has been the missing link all along: sleep not as indulgence, but as strategy.

I began my fast early, around 1700. When it breaks today, the fast will have lasted approximately 19 hours. More than the duration, it marked a quiet discipline: my first evening without sustenance, a liminal passage between hunger and intention. There was clarity in that pause. Hunger sharpened my resolve.

Upon waking, a necessary omission from Questions of Value became apparent. How could one write a book of questions without first exploring what makes a question good? The absence felt like a philosophical casus belli—a just cause for immediate revision. I devoted the morning to crafting “Anatomy of a Question,” a 2,000-word inquiry into the very architecture of asking. I sent both the text and its accompanying artwork to Steve Harris at Amazon KDP. The piece will anchor the reader to a deeper inquiry, one that does not merely scratch but pierces.

Sergio from One Generation stopped by with what he described as a pre-packaged ten-meal portion of chicken Alfredo. In truth, it resembled a bland arrangement of chicken and soggy broccoli, steamed into submission and leaking an odor faintly sulfuric. I quietly discarded the vegetables once he left. Still, the intention mattered more than the meal. As Epictetus reminded us, “Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants.” I accepted it with gratitude.

He mentioned that his Easter unfolded beautifully. Arren passed by just as Sergio departed. He confirmed receiving my Easter message but somehow missed the artwork. Timing, as always, governs more than we admit.

Caesar Cervantes—leasing agent, local Caesar—drifts through the complex like a man born for dominion but fated to paperwork.

A flicker of pain nudged the base of my spine. I’d handled the Ab Carver cautiously, so perhaps my morning stretches had overreached. Two Aleve and a caffeine-acetaminophen blend provided a chemical shield. Better precaution than pain.

10:58: Arrived at the Zone.
11:00: Serratus crunch.

Later, I found myself cheek by jowl with the inefficiencies of modern telecom. I began by contacting T-Mobile customer service—not because of the issue with Jonathan’s call initially, but to address Billy’s line. Since the number remains occasionally useful, I wanted to preserve it without incurring unnecessary expense. The only viable option involved converting the line into a data-and-text-only plan at $20 per month. I stripped away a host of redundant services tethered to that number, trimming the fat from an overfed billing structure.

While reviewing the account, I discovered my assumption about complimentary Netflix access had been misplaced. The plan only included the most rudimentary tier—Netflix Basic. Meanwhile, we still paid $18 monthly for the premium version. A subtle sleight of hand, more omission than deception. I considered downgrading, but the prospect of intrusive advertising felt unbearable. Some things simply aren’t negotiable. As Marcus Aurelius reminds us, “The impediment to action advances action.” In this case, inconvenience reaffirmed the value of tranquility.

With that matter resolved, the representative kindly transferred me to technical support. I explained a separate issue: my attempt to call Jonathan Nguyen, my long-time auto mechanic, triggered an odd message—my phone allegedly lacked permission to make outgoing calls. Jonathan’s line had been disconnected during his recent move. The technical agent listened with genuine care. Together we reset the network, and order returned.

Thanks to her initiative—and my having Jonathan’s direct number—she reached him on my behalf. He confirmed that his move from Northridge to Sylmar had proven arduous, tangled in setbacks and delays. City permits slowed their pace, old parts went missing, and the new garage had yet to feel like home. He permanently closed the old shop. The new location, Mad Auto—named for his father’s garage—now carries the family legacy. I’ll bring him the car Monday for its smog inspection. Not convenient, but loyalty rarely is.

In a welcome coda, my phone bill dropped from $165 to $118—a modest but meaningful victory.

On my way back from taking out the trash, I crossed paths with Brian. He shared concern about a tenant creating disruption—loud, belligerent. We joined Aaron in the hallway, a man of formidable size and surprising grace. His steps, though heavy, held an odd precision. We walked together to investigate. There we found the source: a man I’ve passed often, now drunk and disheveled, stirring up noise and tension. Two Black men now stood cheek by jowl—one in a dudgeon, the other in a stupor. Being drunk does not make one evil, but it does fog the moral compass. And by midday, the fog thickens.

After reviewing the Landrum Law Firm contingency agreement for settlement purposes only, I encountered Fred Robey, the building manager. He looked worn—his shirt half-untucked, his face marked by sleepless nights. He mentioned stress: this building, the house he’s constructing from scratch, his wife, his kids. A life crammed full, resilience stretched taut.

Two checks arrived: one for $6,000 from Landrum Law Firm, the other a $60 cashback reward from Costco. The latter will fund my next Costco pilgrimage. The former likely finds its way into the Chase account. I may transfer $1,000 to Bank of America—a redistribution of liquidity.

Late afternoon brought the pool. A 40-minute water workout—side shuffles, high knees, backward sprints. The water held me like an old friend. I ran, bounded, floated. Fred passed by and granted me access to the Jacuzzi. Repairs begin tomorrow. I pray it won’t return in some jimcrack approximation of a spa. For today, I soaked for 30 minutes, letting warm water unknot my spine. An Audible selection on Michelangelo kept me company. Who knew he built fortifications? I do now. And his unfinished sculptures—those raw, yearning blocks—speak more loudly than polished marble. Perhaps completion is an illusion.

Back upstairs, I gave my abdominals five minutes of disciplined attention. Cautious, methodical. Dinner followed: brown rice, grilled chicken breast, pumpkin seeds, and cashews. I blended a vegetable-fruit smoothie in the Vitamix, rich and clean. No waste.

As I reflected on the day, a line from Lao Tzu came to mind: “To attain knowledge, add things every day. To attain wisdom, remove things every day.” Today removed clutter—mental, digital, dietary—and revealed a shape more whole.

RMSDJ

Wall Art Description Prompt

Title: Anatomy of the Day

Medium: Oil on Canvas
Reflecting Randy Sydnor’s application of his unique technique, Mnephonics, this medium blends visual storytelling with symbolic language to evoke memory, learning, and reflection.

Style of Art: Surreal Cubism

Dimensions: 24” x 36”

Copyright: Randy Sydnor, The Mnephonist

Description:

(Opening Statement – Establish the Central Theme or Emotional Tone)
What if each day were not a blank slate, but a living anatomy—veins of time, a skeleton of habit, muscles of meaning? Anatomy of the Day explores this unspoken biology of experience through fractured geometry and radiant form.

(Medium and Technique – The Artist’s Craft)
Crafted in vibrant oil, the piece captures the muscular expressiveness of Cubism fused with the symbolic intention of Mnephonics. Every shard of color acts as a mnemonic trigger, guiding the viewer through the psychological topography of time and purpose. Randy Sydnor’s brush does not simply depict—it deciphers.

(Central Figure or Focus – The Visual Heart of the Piece)
A human figure stands as the core—torso angular, chest exposed in planes of sienna, gold, and umber. The form, stripped of superficial detail, radiates a sense of interior purpose. Neither static nor in motion, the figure appears to contain the day itself, eyes fixed on something beyond the horizon of obligation.

(Supporting Elements – Symbolic Imagery and Details)
The sun bursts behind the figure—shattered into geometric rays that flood the canvas with amber and lemon hues. Below, a clock anchors the lower quadrant, hands pointing to 7:25—an hour