Watch out for the…

img_3569No run.  Didn’t sleep well, or not much at all.  And Jackie coming down here promptly at 6:10, waking me.  So a rough start to the birthday but I refuse to not have this time for writing, planning, day.  Won’t let the mood that’s already landed around my coratid damage the new instillation of habit.  I didn’t run, so what.  I’m writing.  And differently, not just collecting content, but putting everything in my journal, recording and sharing and reacting with more depth, description, appreciative energy later.  How can I run?  When will I run?  Can let it go, that I didn’t get out to the pavement, that bloody 4AM won again, and on my birthing day.  Having trouble waking, even with this cinnamon whatever coffee.  The mood won’t leave me.. have to kill these patterns, the predictable stories in my day.  When I wrote it out yesterday, it about gave me those adrenaline waves, quake, like when you know something’s going to happen like a car crash or something falling, or when you know you’re about to clash with something; that feeling right before the gun goes at a race, when you’re ready to run but it’s still early and you may be a bit tired— fuck, I hate this feeling.  And why today?

Keep sipping the coffee, diving headfirst into it, hoping for Newness, or finding it on my own.  Keeping the 4AM alarm on my phone, so I’ll wake at that time every morning so it’s part of the habit, this New story I’m trying to write.  What else can I do this morning, differently?  Write in the Carpe journal, small barely assemble-able clauses and words that say and show something about my moment.  37… how many do I have left, I think.  I’ve had birthday-day funks, or low ebbs before.  Not sure this is one, but if it is, it’s odd, interesting and something I want to work with, mold into what I want.  A beneficial place for the writer to begin is with ink, small sheets as those in the Carpe.  What I’m doing right now, predictable, I’ve done this before, obviously, wake and walk to the keys, so the next step is write, see ink—poetry, something to recite to large crowds.. everything today must be a recital.  This sitting, my position here at the tall red iron or something metal chair, coffee right, well as phone, then Alice’s running armband left, reminding me I didn’t fucking run this morning…  confusion and motivation, fry in my station, think more but I only age if I do, a new nothing much ado…

Need more poems for recital, go to readings, have that be part of my pedagogy and lesson planning, semester to semester.. have the students be supreme readers and editors, polishers of their work.  No summer vacation for the writer, but the semester will be like a vacation, the same recharging and enriching qualities.  I’ll go from lesson to lesson and lecture and watch my notoriety explode, launch at the cosmos the same way I do at the page.

Coffee erodes, Jackie sniffles, people sending me birthday messages, but I see it only as a reminder that I’m aging, that this day won’t last for more than a day, all the love and ‘happys’, and expecting everything to somehow cosmically be colored for me.  I’m writing as if it’s not my birthday…  like it’s any other morning and I decided to say ‘fuck it’ and do everything different.  And all for the writing, not just producing “content”— fucking hate that word, now.  Content, what does that mean?  Makes me think of just filling something, doing something or writing something ‘cause you have to, or there’s some void to be filled.  I’m a writer, I tell stories, mostly my story but a story several people (especially adjuncts, runners, running parents, especially running fathers, and running writers, notably running writer fathers) can translate to make their own.  After this sitting, if I get to a thousand or not I don’t care, I’ll be walking around the Autumn Walk Studio with my Carpe pages, a pen, noting everything, like now, “hunger”.  Didn’t have a dinner last night, as time wouldn’t permit, but rather had a PB&J (And that sounded amazing at the time, don’t know why, probably in my reflective posture the night before 37).

I’m 37 and there’s nothing I can do about it, and if I can’t immediately defeat 4AM, I’ll destroy 37.  Having it be the year I get everything I want.

-Which is?

-Easy.  Travel, living from writing, growing my blogging/visual business, lecturing independently, running more, answering to nothing other than my readers, and employees…

-How will you do that?

-Write everything.  Everything.  Even if it’s a single word.

-Good luck.

-What do you mean?

-Well, sometimes there are compromises in life, maybe that won’t happen.

– I have to go… write.

There is no other option for me.  Like one of the bloggers I follow, with whom I don’t agree on everything but much of his counsel is useful and motivating, I’m going to have everything out for readers and “followers” (another word I hate) to consider.  Not appreciate, not learn from, but to just CONSIDER making their own, interpret as they’d like.  Have to write that down, “consider”, so I don’t forget it.  And I know what Stephen King said, “The good stuff sticks.” But I don’t always agree, sometimes the “good stuff” escapes, and you kill yourself trying to remember what it was but it never comes back, for whatever reason.  What I’m considering this morning, not caring like HST offered.  Not from anger, just exhaustion, exhausted with normality and the predictable.. how is that life?  That’s existence.  I want students to consider change for their character, going about their stories differently, truly controlling the path of their Personhood.  I’m not afraid of this new age, at all.  I’m propelled by it.  I’m getting old, older, but certainly not deterred.  I’m eager for the day’s challenge, invitation, story to my story.

Leaving work at 4:30 and coming home to family, food and wine.  I’ll have the Carpe in my hands even then.  Everything’s to be recorded.

Life isn’t short, it’s contained.  It’s a box.

What if I go outside its edgesand lines?