Trying to consolidate everything, generally simplify, but it’s difficult. The packrating has to stop. That’ll only stress me. So old magazines, into trash. And file everything away as soon as you recognize what it is, where it needs to go.
Should take mySelf out to lunch, for reaching 1,000 words already. And print something. Like what? A poem. Have to write it first.
Realizing, this isn’t an office. It’s a bedroom. So, stop stressing about it not being as you’d like an office to be. That’ll also help make this newest year more yours. And, I quite honestly, could use another drive. And I’m hungry. Writers have to eat. Sometimes.
The song that plays now, has me wanting to lean into my chair, imagine I’m in a terminal, somewhere on the East Coast, waiting for my flight to Barcelona. More deliberative than I’ve all day been.
note: the Kerouac book I bought was the only copy on shelf.. what that means I have no idea
but I’m happy
1:55PM. Take a lunch. You deserve it. I think. There, I think the sun’s coming out. I want to see it for the first time today.
3:11PM. Back from getting lunch, at a new little deli on 4th, right where the other one used to be, by Safeway. Tempted to nap, but what would that do. Forcing Self to stay awake. I’ll make myself a cup downstairs in a minute– actually, right now.
And with the coffee, I turn on music again. This whole day’s had its own stylized rise to it. But I need to leave the keyboard, write pen-to-paper for continuing what I address, what helps. I’m about to land on page 400 of this word document. And how am I not writing for a living, with several books out, traveling? Am I putting too much pressure on mySelf? I blame the bloody coffee, for waking me too quickly, too violently. Maybe it’s mad with me.. maybe it’s just mad.
cost either way