7/27/13. Past couple days, been thinking about direction, path, what I’m doing vs what I WANT to do. Tonight, writing freely, truly FREEwriting. Had only a couple SB glasses. No run with Carmen after work, as planned. Who cancelled? The writer, surprisingly. Rescheduled for morrow, 6:30a, Howarth. Want 4-5 miles. Carmen’s the only other running partner that can align for such distance. So, need to in bed be soon.
9:36pm. Yesterday, wore me, with those 2 MT tours. Then today, in TR, behind bar, drained whatever the writer had to throw. When will I be in MY office, writing for 8 hours? Patience, I tell Self, but I don’t know if I can even afford that, anymore. This coming semester, changing momentum. Won’t go too far into it, but I’m assured.
Tomorrow night, opening something RED, something sizable.. something fervent. Want to get away from application, supplying answers to conveniently constructed employer questions. Writing my way away from such. Feels incredible to write as 2nite do.. so freely, wittedly, willingly. Hard to write with noise, though, distraction. Have to block it. All out. So what does the reader gain from this entry? Venom. Defiance.. the sentenced stubbornness emblematic of REAL writers.
Need rain, weather change. Maybe I can write that. Maybe I can write anything. Anything I WANT. Okay.. so, coffee in morrow, right after run.. then, 30 minutes of writing, uninterrupted. THEN, slow drive to work, getting there early, where I’ll write not thank-you notes to clients, but random rushed rhymes in Comp Book. After these thousand FREE words, rushing to that notebook. Need more musical, rhymes, metered speech. That’s what forms the Poet, what I truly am, well before a rambling diarist. The future, since that evening parking cars for SFW’s event, dominating fascinations. Simplicity, over complication…
Situation of eradication. Of what? Anything blocking. Even my Self. And that, often serves as my most considerable opponent, or ‘blockage’. Looking at still footage from earlier.. such wondrous views, perspectives, in that vineyard. And that’s why I can’t fully separate from wine’s world, because of from where wine comes. The soil, what gives to those vines, how the vines appear to eyes, especially Artists’ eyes. Those vines, during that 10k, 23 days ago, how they looked early in morning, I’m certain pushed me quicker to that line finishing.
Need a break, or at least I think I do. Need one of my berry waters. Think I left one in freezer. Now, too long. Guess I’ll settle for one from fridge. No sweetcap tonight. Need keep Self light for morrow’s run. 12 hours from now, I’ll be done, setting up at work. “Work…” What if ‘work’ didn’t have to be ‘work’? That’s where this page, all to it related have to take ME.
Poe, for this next term.. what to capitalize on his perception as a writer.. the power that perception holds. that’s how you know you’re successful as penner. Genre, maybe not such the negative I’ve measured. And maybe THIS penman should follow the dark, see where it him takes, carries.. away far from their devilish clock.
10:18pm. Should be in bed soon. Nursing the sparkling berry water. Thinking again of genre. But why does it have to be ‘genre’? Just thoughts, only. Don’t think I’ll last till the thousand. What would Poe do? Should research him a bit, before term begins. Well as the other 3 selected authors. What I love about Poe.. his discipline, his devotion to thematic consistency. Don’t want to break from page, but I need a few answers on this Author, Mr. Poe. Writing my Life’s rest, starting now, re-arranging my Now.
Found an interesting source, a website, academic foundation, but I don’t see mySelf as having enough time to read it. More verse, Mr. Poe telling me. He also orders me to defy everything. Everything. And if there’s opposition, destroy it on page. In story. Have to adjust my style, I’ll concede, if I’m to live as a Writer, one of paragraph and/or verse.
Quiet down here. On couch. Would love a bottle of that Lancaster, to push this book, or log, or any project forward. I’ll call in sick tomorrow, so I can write, play Literary hooky. No, I won’t do that. But I’d love to. And just write in Comp Book. To a mocha. No.. an espresso flight [if there is such a thing]. OR, coffee. Cup, after cup, after cup after cup after cup after… To my story: boss closes the shop, begins. He hears something on main floor, by candy isle. He ignores, walks to back register, making sure Joey turned it off, dropped drop envelope in bag by trash can– Have to sleep on story. It needs an awake writer, and that I’m now not.
Tomorrow’s run: push Self. Surprise Self. While running, imagine yourSelf sprinting on Portuguese beaches, that salty air sway stroking barely-awake face. I’ll also entertain that I need soon be changed. Not all is how I need it. These distraction, for one. But I can control that.
way out– thru verse,
questions incurred, interviewed old
nerves.. writing with Hitchcock’s Birds–
Poetry, my favorite itch. 11:03p, now. Need to close this monster, fly to bed. Writing-focused run, waiting. At work, on lunch obviously, I’ll visit my wines, see what they have to say to the writer. Overthinking.. need more detail, but I’m thinking too hard to reach it, or them [detailS].
7/28/13– 8:09. 5.02 miles in 38:52 [7’44”/mi]. Not bad at all. May do two miles tonight, or tomorrow morning. Weather this A.M., for jaunt: misty, low clouds, just over lake; quiet, still, perfect for my writing thoughts. Think I’m for the day ready. Don’t even feel like I need coffee. Not at all, actually.
Sick of prose, these paragraphs. Today, ONLY verse, rime, poem, notes. As anti-formalist as I can through the day shake. Clutter on the desk, bothering me, more than ‘a bit’. But when do I have the time to clean? If I had my own office, I’d spend the first hour or so straightening things, arranging stacks more usably. Then, to the writing. Living by my pen. Why not. Should edit a bit before shower..
Time, running past the penner–