Romanticism’s Remonstrance

Jumping journals.  Have to stop.  Nothing gets done, that’s why.  This 2010 Zin, impressive, I’ll say.  Reminding me of the interesting character cast, today.  What do I do with it, now…  Nothing.  Only in mood for poetry, honestly.  Song.  Music.  Formalism’s not in this writer’s bag.. not tonight.  More and more tired as night pans.  What to do–what can a writer like me DO?–write through it.  Would love to wake at six, morrow.  Earlier, if possible.  Full from dinner, so that slows the writer.  Should have known better, that the plate would slow this session.  Another lesson I’m learning, sharing with you reader, especially if you’re a writer.  Looking at these 4 pages printed, telling Self, “Okay, this is it, the start to THE release, the one changing everything, the one sending you THERE.”

In this home office, I’m trying to engage removal, send Self back to Paris.  Tempted to look at that ’09 footage, but that’ll just serve distraction.  Can’t afford.  MY topic, in tonight’s pages, the ones I write in newJournal [yes I’m conspiring more journal jumping] after this seated laptop hop.  Thinking of opening that ’09 Cab I took home.  Just one small glass, to help with this full feeling, disgusting.  And, to bend mind with optimal symbol.  Only choice, to write my disagreement.  Not voice it.  So have it lamented:  I conspire with separatist sects.. delightful Autonomous distance.  Needing another glass, I’m thinking.  And a couple to relax, detach.  Maybe enjoy actual time2Self.  Much I love writing, don’t feel like doing much of it right now.  Why can’t I do NOTHING?  Just for a couple minutes.  Why can I force self to be forceless?

Deciding on night’ cap.  Back in a few, thinking of Hemingway’s thoughts on truth.

And as I return to chair, I’m more relaxed.  Less serious, which can only be a good thing, this Saturday night.  But no “Saturday” for me.  Tomorrow, back behind counter, pouring.  Cab, here on desk, telling me to calm down.  But how can I, with these compositions in mind, always?  Doesn’t matter, I’m overthinking.  Soon as I post this to bx, I’m scribbling rimes the same manner I do in tasting Room.. in little pages.  Want to put Self in certain mode.  And no, I’m not halting in these types.  Have a deadline to meet.  Yes, quite Self-imposed, but it’s still a deadline.  I’m Self-published, so of course it’s serious, reader.  Heater, blaring.  Quite cozy in this Yulupa condo.  Thinking of that Paris footage, maybe I should give it a screening.  Or 2.  Why not?  What could it hurt, if I do it following this sitting?  Overthinking.. used to think it bad, now I think there’s a goldmine there, a career; a style, voice, PEACE.

Time for music, just listen, scribble random rhymed reaction into these flipping mini-pages as they turn.  Envisioning the ideal.  No flaw, I don’t think.  That’s what we all reach for, on some level.  That’s Human, at least that’s what this ’09 Cab’s telling me.

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