Malbec. My night’s varietal. Feels a little hot, writing here on couch. May be from the 1,000 words I just blended into book. New policy: not letting ANYTHING bother me. I’m a writer. Management, with their ever-convenient rule sets, changing them as they fit see.. irrelevant to me. I’m one from Artistry. Nothing harms my immediacy. Laughing, you should see my smile spree, truly. Need a break, honestly, especially after that 1k sprint. The morrow’s shift, considered a challenge. MEANING: note everything, then inject into book. Nothing, NO ONE, escapes my pen. All exposed.
Think that dream last night, about being re-hired at the box, put me in a certain slant even before situating in tasting Room, today. Those people, in that sterile devilish quarter, still angering me. And yes, my re-read of the 2011 entries last night, ignited the recollection while dormant, past eve, I’m sure. But I have to pass, forward, keep writing. I want to write about growth, positivity.. Life, LOVE, Autonomy, FREEDOM.
Not a wage slave, in expressive sovereignty
stay paid.. my home, the Bay, stay–
Brag my independence in the face of cops,
Never wait or stop.. never lay or drop. Too loud 2 rot–
Can’t wait to read again. Feel time taunting me, like it’s saying, “You better get it to it soon, old man.” Wish it were materialized, live, so I could physically fight it. Beat it into silence. Tonight, celebrating my severalty, in this newly journalistic jubilee. Time for night’s cap, some news, even though it’s all loud, laughable, lit.
The blog, this log.. ill feeling towards. It’s not a book. Enough to make the writer sip, really. Can just hear her laughing at me, knowing the solution’s at my 12, before eyes, nose, face, front. But I complicate, overthink EVERYTHING. My story. 2much thinking. Maybe that’s why I am where I am. Why I’m not on the road with my sister, as an Artist.
Limp lecture volume.
Entertaining, or direct?
Writers. Ignore. You.