more strategy in approaching all that I’ve written, and inventorying it. This laptop alone is enough to elevate my blood pressure and have me stress. Would love a glass of that Lancaster Cab right now to calm me, coffee would only worsen my position on this floor now as the couch was making me too lazy and with this new year anything resembling an idle billow must be buried. Just take it one item at a time, I tell myself, but then what? What do I do with all that I’ve written? Put it out there, fool! I say to myself. Now I do want coffee, but back off, I reiterate to self, back off and assume the natural thunder of your sitting on this floor. Still want to go for a walk, at some point before Ms. Alice takes off for her spin class.
I have to get everything off this goddamn laptop before it crashes. Want everything handwritten– in fact, in a couple minutes I’ll write a poem, about now, this moment, on the floor, on the first day of a new year and me not knowing what to do but knowing just want I have to do to get away from that fucking punchclock. But I revolve like the wheels of this toy truck to my left; a heft thick stout construction vehicle we got a J a few months ago. He ages, that little Artist, faster than I can catch him– I already told you that, and still do, ‘cause one day I’ll read this and he’ll be in bloody high school and I’ll wish for days when he’d fight us trying to put him down for a midday nap. That’s what I need, some rest. Alice just went upstairs, feeling the symptoms of her bug’s visit.