Watching news. Still with hype, hoped hysteria. It’s rain, a little wind.. but still, they italicize. They’re so petty as to bring their reports to “street level,” reporting on creeks here in Santa Rosa.
Allergy symptoms. Odd, this time of year.
Off to sleep. Hoping the Craft wakes me at Barleycorn hour.
11/30/12 — Now, not right2write. Tired, mood smoked. Funny dialogue at pizza place, me ordering a “grande” pizza. The young blonde responding, “I’m confused on the ‘grande’. “Do you mean ‘large’?” There was something else… about the man from Wisconsin… What did he say? No recollect. Just had my last pour of the ’10 Cuvée. My edge tonight, angular. Even though I hate that word, “angular.” The GM at the box used to cite his tasting of “angular tannins” in wines, rather recurringly. Is it raining? No. Tonight, a toast to Autonomy. Total sovereignty. Not depending on anyone for expression’s permission. We penners, only have to sit, scribble. Not such a negative note set. IT’s a game we love to play.
Need to write more songs. Was set on such a path this morning, till I was assigned something against which I needed the erratic prose, for which I’m known, to spar. I broke from the verse, never really returning. Now, this monster, low in its battery bay.
The book, needing attention it’s deprived tonight. My selfless selfishness.. shame. Tomorrow, sentences not allowed. Only rhyme, songs.. venerable–no, hate that word, too–vallecula’d verses. TOmorrow, 2 tracks minimum. certain mechanics, necessitated. I’m not going2LIVE 4ever.. but I can fight to have these page do just such. Be like Austen, Plath, Pac, Poe–
Dear Kelly… I’m in battle with Self. Coherence lack, no map. Time, surrounding me scope. IS my mental fading, yet? Probably. SO I guess I just write my delusional decline. That would sell, right?s How do I paint my lunacy, accurately? When you left the restaurant, what was your first worry? I’m worried, and I’m “secure,” “responsible.” Ridiculous, this life. The concept of responsibility, it wants to translate, simplify, me. When we’re highway’d, together [but apart], we’ll step with similar senses.
You’re my song set. Every album. I’d read these pages, handwritten, 2U. Right next to the Arc.