Work…  I’ve always

loathed that word.  I wake and my first instinct is to write but the allergies are already in their mission, going after my eyes and throat—  mood-sink.  Thoughts of how I woke this morning just after 4 not by alarm but by story’s design and did I write, no.  I went to sleep like a foreseeable Human.  Need to toughen when it comes to this morning aim of rising early and writing a piece— and, no coffee in house.  The day’s made it clear that it parallels yesterday with its cosmic cannon, pointed directly at the writer. Jackie has no interest in the waffles that I offered him, dismissing me and saying “No, daddy, I not your friend!” I know this is just his age, the number 4, talking to me and not his elemental makeup or character.  So I don’t tally that as part of the day’s salvo.  But what else… and not that I’m looking negative attributes to tally for some woe-be-me case or thesis.  No, I’m just electrically critical this morning, of everything including my self and my son, this house, everything.  Need coffee, and yes it comes back to coffee often, do I have it and do I get it soon, can I get it soon or do the little beats and/or wife prohibit me?

Last night, could hear the neighbors at the rear of the Autumn Walk Studio, laughing and enjoying Friday night conversation and cocktails, joking and moving about their backyard freely.  I became embittered within microscopic seconds’ fragments.  But then stopped myself and thought, as I tell students, “Don’t fight the story, work with it and in it and everything that’s transpiring in the moment is a standalone piece, is something for you, to build YOUR character and makeup as an influencer in the story.” I think what I envied and scorned in the moment was that sense of freedom I heard, could smell from whatever they were cooking on that barbecue.  But I can’t allow myself to reshape in bitterness, nor to think this won’t change, that fun or some excitement or adventure won’t find me— IN FACT… treat today like an adventure, a new joint and creative cavalcade, make it unusually varied and random, unexpected like beat prose and poetry should be; a performance in every turn and angle, thus promulgating my angularity and getting me to my travels.  If I were in that hotel lobby now, at 7:43, I’d order the darkest, most growling and garrulous coffee I could.  And the hotel staff would see me write, prepare lecture notes for today’s show.  I’d lecture about being a mighty writer— a warrior, writer, yes, but everyone uses that word.. “warrior”.. ‘oh, I’m a warrior…I treat working out like a warrior.. I’m an artist warrior…’ blablabla.. shut the fuck up.  So I’m not sure what I would tag myself, but I usually call this writer ‘an animal’, relying not so much on labels and tech or even the reactions of other but my already-written primal mammalian functionality.  So then, there be the the ME— animal writer, feeding on every moment and subsisting from and within it, them, the moments, written for me to write about, and the compositional carrousel continues in fruitful turns and Road so I can finally see the Road.  Semester ends soon, and that was my first deadline.