Tasted my Merlot today. And now, just on couch, sipping night’s cap, thinking of sister’s birthday.. How is she 32? Time, scoring another. But I write, it can’t contest my might. Morrow, watching little Kerouac. Then, to classRoom. Having everything journal-based. Want students to be comfortable, confident with their own voices. Not in any mood for prose, so, to verse. And from here onward, not going to announce…
Am I “professional?” Hard to tell, stood before I crawled, fell. Re-tell,
the breeze quell.
Can’t write poetry, either. Must be the indie Ale. Sleep, what the writer really needs. Tomorrow, challenged by my little Artist. Haven’t seen him in days3. How will it change me? I’m hoping I wake early, am forced to write in hours wee. Remember when JAck was newborn, would feed early, I’d skip back to our room, scribble what notes I’d be allowed, then continue with eve. Forcing Self to go into sleep’s street by 11:30p. Time, :25. Can’t wait for my A.M. installation. Motivated by coffee– I mean, ESPRESSO. Am I writing, or just venting. I don’t know anymore. Would love another one of these Lagunitas deposits, but what would that do?
Remembered a guy that I worked with at the Marin outfit, in 2004/2005. He eventually left, starting his own ad business. Another character on my Self-employed’s roster. Again, why am I not there, NOW? Just have to keep writing, dare the writer say.. POSTING. Continue with Creative release. And this writer tires. Lovely. Hoping I dream of my 1st tour, from whimsical/unorthodox/Self-published BOOK. Writing way to Autonomy, fractionalized, maybe. But how can I project? This isn’t a marketing conference room.. THIS, a true journal. A reflective realm. Only waiting, while writing. Then writing while I wait. Mess, yes.