Awake, first day of the sixth month. 6:26, Jackie awake, and I’m sickened with the plainness, the routine, the plain routine. I have to do something different today, but what… Coffee in kitchen, the little Artist next to me, leaning on my right arm, making it difficult to type, but I won’t let these hands be still, not even for a second– But today. Today. I won’t accept plainness, or anything expected. I will do something out-of-character today..
Met another character yesterday with a Literary sinew.. ‘C’ from Fairfield. She majored in English from what I remember, with a minor in Linguistics, and is now an attorney for the military. We had a colorful and very excavating interchange about literature and literature in a society so closely linked and contingent upon technology and social media. And I appreciated, appreciate presently how she cited the writing facet to her doings as an officer of the court. Has me thinking, and may be the key to today’s key action. And her character, its impact on my character, my character TODAY.. equations, more solutions than problems. Wish I could thank her appropriately. If she does write me, I’ return with a weighted epistle.
Yesterday’s poem, the one I wrote in the parking lot, also a key. And what I want from today will contribute to fruition of the first book– and I keep citing that it’s done, or nearly done, and how I go between a shorter work and a longer more expected book length.. but I can only publish what I can afford to. That realization, too, is very much integral in and all around today’s action, a circumstantial brewing of plot parts. Do I leave early to write, this morning from home or later from work, maybe 4:30? Do I get sneakier and write more on the clock? Do I blog/write every minute of the shift and organize, or filter upon the clock-out? I know, I’m OVERthinking. But maybe that’s not a negative.. it has to do with the characters, their stories, like ‘C’ yesterday.. at day’s end, right before closing, and now react reflectively to the chat by reg 1. I don’t want the story to guide me to whatever action’s executed.
No beer after work. Just writing– verses, notes, the less formalist the better. And that’s how I want to be read; not necessarily anti-formalist, but assuredly of a diffident strain; unorthodoxy’s postulates and prophesies.
Journalist, all recorded, reporting all whos whats whys and whens. No commas as my thoughts will stay speeded. More of this French Roast to fuel my morning’s Creative ire. No polishing, minimal editing, that’s all time allows at this age, 35. Putting too much pull into that number. Two cups, done. Now.. countdown to clock-in. What I’m going to do.. probably having nothing to do with wine, or everything.
I’ll be undercover.
Today will be
7:26AM.. foggy outside, getting the laundry from the dryer. Another character in there, removing her articles. That’s what I don’t want, where my son lives.. unknowns. We need removal, a true base. Today’s decision will grip that in its observational track and tactile tract. Like war reporting today, from trenches, all details exposed. I’ll be on the Road soon…