it bad I’m not in the mood to write tonight? So what DO I want to do? Well, nothing, actually. I want to research a couple authors, bloggers, strategies for marketing my work. Again, gearing to wake at— well, early. Not going to say 4, as that hour has only proved to dominate me in a disciplinary duel. Alarm set for 4, anyway. Sipping the last of this Lagunitas, have to make coffee for tomorrow. Caught myself floating down a thought river, in a contemplative tube, staring at the sky, thinking about this age, this 37 thing and how it’s not a big fucking deal at all. My master war for total happiness, coming even before total wellness, involves a minimization of much. This desktop, for one. Moving everything on the right (part of desk’s top that’s more lit), to the left (dim, barely detectable from peripheral). This desk has become a common front in several skirmishes, but now I consolidate. And my goal, TOTAL Happiness. Yes, there will be those days that will be those days, but the general new intrinsic me will be loudly happy, content. Not that I’m not now, but there are areas for cultivation, an ameliorative augment.
Still not in much mode to write, but I do anyway. The writer, exhausted from day. Not sure how busy tomorrow’s to be, but I’ll be tired if I wake at four and pound out some pages— pages for what, this blog? Have to be positive, have to see the glass heaping, not half-full or half-empty or even principally half. It’s a glass, or bottle in my blog’s case, and it’s mine to fill. Or maybe it’s already full— I’m full, full from dinner, full of nothing it seems at this desk, the adjunct English professor or instructor, or teacher, just pushing the laptop buttons.. see? I’m pushing more. A bit hot in the studio, Alice watching some ridiculous show on Bravo, and I think of what I’m always thinking about— What happened to my Spain trip? Didn’t get a chance to research at work… Just pulled up some resources here at home. Can’t wait to walk while writing, writing while stepping slow on those stones staring up left and right at the colorful houses, hearing the quiet and then the distant noises and voices echoing gently off the structures around me. If I were there, now, I’d always be in the mood to write. I’d be drinking the strongest of strong coffees at night, so I’d never go to sleep, so I’d have observations to share when back home. Just thinking about the trip pulls me from my mood to not write. Now all I want to do is write, travel, write while on the vineyard’s side road, dirt of course, scribbling whatever I could capture; wind gusts (gentle), birds, passers, men on tractors, the smell of something cook in distance near, behind where I’m standing but it wraps around me like a sensory slitherer.