Only made it to the bottom of page 54. But I did dive into older efforts. Done with cold coffee concoction. And tired. In fact, this exhaustion serves a stark strand of humility. Leaving for work tomorrow around 2:30pm. Staying home a little longer so I can be with little Kerouac, play a little longer. He won’t be this little forever, so I need all the captures I can gather, whether they’re written, photographed, or lived– ESPECIALLY if they’re lived. If I “just” live them, I’m not distracted by focusing a camera, or which words I’m putting onto page. That’s real Art, when you’re focused on moment, LIVING, reacting later in Craft from what you remember, like Hemingway with his war days.
Page 491 of this laptop’s “doc.” So I have more than enough to finish this book in the next 5 days. Only need two to edit. I’ll have to abstain from wine during those editing days, as well. More coffee, though. A lot of it. IF this were my office, I draw from a stash of these little cold coffee shots to push me through project. I’ll pretend, use petty cash. The poetry in this laptop, needs to be immediately freed, injected into this book, those following. TV on, but muted as always. Older I get, the more I hate that image-pimping box. Just want to read, write. There’s nothing Literary, or Artistic, in shows, channels. It’s all poison.
The exhaustion, mounting a fearsome assault on my concentration, senses, balance. But I will say, I much prefer this Equilibrium when writing, coffee-curved, rather than the taxing tilt red wine provides. Like I said in an early entry, “Write sober, edit soberer.” On lunch break today, looking at Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet paintings, thinking of my city, what other pieces I haven’t seen in person. I’m almost there, I know. Just have to stay in this project box, reach page 206. Just two hundred and six sheets. That’s all. And the story? Already wrote itself.
Have to say, this imposed oeno-absence has only been fruitful. This tells the writer something.