but lost it. Second cup of coffee I blame that– Thinking of writing from the golf course, actually, a little more quiet and I can write from the outside patio, clear the path for thought and the re-writing and just something contrasting the stapled normality of my sessions.. 7:49 and little Kerouac is dressed, ready.. I re-heat his waffles as they became cold and soft and the little royal isn’t pleased with their presentation.
Writing microfiction– already have the stories and narratives in head, transfer transfer– losing Self in this page and time and coffee, so stop–
But then I come back to note I remember: a longer piece for the first pamphlet of ‘yrownjoy’.. character-based and narrative and ten pages.. short story, about a mid-20s girl who writes plays and wants to act in them as well, and does whatever she can goes up and down the west coast performing, slipping her scripts to whomever. The focus being Art and Life and struggle, self-employment and no I won’t make these hashtags…
And it was one of those mornings with the little Artist, worst in a while, but I forget how hard it must be for him, being three and already having a schedule; going to school then coming and home to play only to have that play interrupted by his pestering parents so needing to keep him “on schedule”. I hate myself for getting frustrated and am nearly brought to tears in this Starbucks thinking about it but I move on and write for him; write my family toward a position of great comfort never having to worry about money or anything, to truly live and live freely.
Bought myself a little breakfast sandwich as I feel my core’s seismology call to me. Writing the MOCK SOMM article, the first of two for the day, then write in the ‘yrownjoy’ project.. then leave to get dental meds.. ugh the dentist office.. and, ugh, this schedule. It’s hard for me, being so organized and regimented in Time so I can only imagine how it frustrates and sits with little Jack.
Started the article and watch people walk in and out of this shop, on our old block. Ten years we lived in that condo, and like Katie last night said the house we now have has that ‘forever potential’.
A guy sits on this cushioned wall-bench-seat. Also types, plugs in his devices, and I get annoyed. Why. Wanted this space to myself. I have it to myself so what am I talking about. Have to write myself out of this mood– I think about Jackie and worry he’s unhappy at school today– should I have kept him home with me? I’m a wreck, the Mikey-a-Mess role and persona and attitude..
I hate the music here.
Should write at home. Enjoy a long shower and write/type in the study, that first room when you walk in.. collect Self.