Finally I can write. New page, and 18 minutes to fill it and post— tireless writer tired of the routine, time to self constricted so I sip coffee as always and listen to Hutcherson, as always, do everything the same. Longing for the Road, freeways I’ve never heard of and those redeye flights where everyone around me sleeps and I stay up and scribble.
Woke this morning at 4, but went back to sleep. GOD. DAMN. IT. So now I have to wait all the way for tomorrow morning to try again.. fucking hate that. Cancelled gym membership this morning, so now I have to work out, make myself be fit, healthy, alive for the babies..
Too much on the writer’s mindplate this morning, last day of instruction tomorrow. Collect papers, have them do a little Self-assessment I guess then let them go. So that could give me up to…. 8:15 to 11… wow, lots of time to write, generate content for blog, tell stories, write lectures, lectures on what— meditation, what I’m learning about meditation, writing, teaching yourself about yourself through writing.. like what I learned this morning: I’m in moods when time reminds me I can’t do what I want right then and there. This morning was a dad’s morning, no mistaking: clean kitchen, iron pants, somehow shave and shower, pack bag, do a little more cleaning before the cleaning ladies arrive (I know… not sure if that’s irony, contradiction or paradox), and a couple other acts I can’t now summon. But the writerfather was reminded of his reality. I don’t mind it at all, I know there’s some facets of my attitude I have to tweak, adjust, fix or re-build. More and more I’m seeing ‘building’ and the act of erecting something or constructing a structure or reality a thoughtful consistency in my life. Building my career as a writer/blogger, everything is content, everything a story. And do I think I’m the only one? Of course not. I know there are single mothers out there with three kids that work two or more jobs. I know I don’t have it ‘hard’, or harsh, or at all painful. I’m complaining, and I hate myself for that. I have everything I need for the writing/blogging life I want. RIGHT. HERE.
Little more coffee… Stomach upset from having dinner too late last night, so that could be affecting mood, my sentences, my word choice and syntactic diversity. Change station on Pandora, something more easing, making me think I’m writing afterhours in some hotel lobby out-of-state, or in some Euro country. The travel’s necessitated as it’s a constant wheel of Newness, more than just inspiration or acute drive, push and pull for the writer— woman stands in front of me, airy and atmospheric-looking skin, no blemish or subtle contrast, she stands there in a black summer gown or dress, waiting calmly for her coffee. And me in the corner. She holds a bag of Starbucks goods, more than likely yogurt of treats, pastries for everyone at the office. What does she do? I see her as the owner of a flower shop, her own business, going on year three. She has a meeting with a new client, hence all the added orders. People like her, if that’s her story or not doesn’t matter, fascinate me. The business owner, like my former student Sherry, my buddy Ton, Kaz, Eddie, and everyone else with their own shops. The independence, yes, but dictation of rhythm. The business owner, selling their work, their crafts, and their ideas. Sherry, truly fascinates me with her floral arrangements and story, not to mention being a Mom, coming home to her little boy after building her business and watching it grow further, gain altitude. And, the word ‘Creative’ in its name. All smiles and freedom, yes hard work and tireless shifts in her studio I’m sure, but still, HERS. Her story, Her life, Her creations… HERS.
Past time to leave.. fuck it. I’m in MY time. Just four more minutes. I’ll write a bit on property, if I can. Yes, I can. I will. Take a longer-than-usual lunch break, produce something salable. Poem or prose, not sure. Have to be careful not to be pulled into distraction’s guillotine, that view of the Bella hill. I catch myself staring too frequently, like a tourist, and that’s death to the writer, his work. Now I understand, and I mean truly understand what Tobias Wolff meant when he said he wanted the ugliest, grittiest, most plain office on the Stanford campus. More than likely I’m paraphrasing horribly (NO, I AM, definitely), but he said something like that. So when at the picnic bench, keep your head down. Just type. Enjoy the feel of the scene, not optical.