9:55a. Early Clock-in. Off to novel…
1432 words, 3 pages. Logged. Productive morning. Time, now, 11am. One hours left in sitting, just like the Lit Lunches in Napa. Wined instrumentals playing, but they’re tainted a bit by the coffee shop’s speakers. That acoustic whinny nonsense they deem musical. Sorry. Just hate when my moments are disrupted, are less than perfect. [Who’s whinny?] Didn’t taste any wine yesterday as I’d hoped. But that’s fine. Probably will tomorrow night with Mom and Dad. Oh, I mean tonight. What the rest of the day holds, have no idea. Think the air conditioning’s breathing on me again. Mocha almost gone. My sitting’s deteriorating. Not sure what to convey to page, now. Still feel last night’s run. Tired. Coupled with my early rise this AM, I may need some siesta later, of some length.
Standalone’s, for performing, collecting in my new Comp Book. Plan on reading within the next couple weeks, once I solidify and have practices a spoken word set. Always with poetry. With-with… Thinking four pieces. Or 3, as I haven’t performed in some time. Again, I want it to be musical. Of the instantaneous nature. Written & edited in short spans. Those are the pages I want to orate. Moment-to-moment writing. The bursts, blurbs. Have to use the restroom, and don’t want to surrender my seat. Again. Have to push through it, no matter how painful. With focus on the moment, as Mom urges. This freedom, this Artistic Autonomy. Me, this seat. The music through the earphones. How I’m not in a box anymore. No more wine labor camp… How I’m not intimidated. How I wasn’t ever, when there. How I’m Mentally Alive, more assured and Defiant than I’ve ever stood.
The shop is crowding, quick. Maybe I should leave, return home. Or write in my car for a bit, by that lake. Watch the ducks in their leisured struts. More in the mood for verse now, anyway. Done with the mocha. Surprised how quick I’ve been this AM, considering… Clocking out. Another sip. One more. Bye, mocha, mocha manuscripts. Where are my keys? Oh…
5:13p. Home. Writing till dinner. Have till 6. Well, giving Self till then. Was just having one of those what-should-I-write moments. Can’t afford it, I realize. Hate it when I read something from Capote, or King, Updike, Shakur, Plath, Poe, whomever, and think “I should do something like that. Or, worse, “I should write like that.” Can’t second guess mySelf, like Katie said. Just going to write my moments. And I know not all will want to read. Fine with me. Don’t really care if anyone does. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do have to eat, at some point, no? I just engage in sessions like this, with this tone especially, to let other writers know it’s okay to write just to write, or to stay in the habit of writing by keeping WITH the typing, staying in the chair. While sipping Cab, Merlot or whatever wine touches my palate tonight, there need be scribbles. Just the mood I’m in. My inner-Hemingway’s out.
2/10/12, Friday … NewMike [NObox]