The nucleus intention of this effort is to watch what I eat. But extended from, anything I let in— people, attitudes, moments, objects, visuals. Only allow in the ‘yay’. Push away ‘nay’, all naying rumbles. But returning to food, nutrition, just what I let it, this project will build a finer more acute character in the writer, I’m sure.
10:16AM, still nothing eaten. Want to distance more from the horrible intake of yesterday. Sipping the mocha, which I guess, technically, I shouldn’t have bought, but I thought I needed some ‘yay’ in the morning. So there it is, here it is, with me, in my tsunami of positivity.
Quite productive this morrow at the desk writing wine notes for club releases. Letting that visual of the SB blocks and distant Chardonnay lot talk to me, just telling me to live, be a better friend to myself and all presences around me. This yay-saying quake swarm is addictive, certainly more than anything— wine, food… anything. I’m more alive this morning than I’ve been in a while. Motion, life, love, productivity, sped sensibility. Music. Dreams. Love. Doer. I’m a doing-dreamer-lover-artist-runner-everything-er.
Shaking myself further and further away from anything negative, any boo-hoo-ing weights and monsters. I just let them be, but not near me. Co-worker’s music, that lovely and soothing meditative zenning café rock has me seeing the Road, where I’m headed. I’ll need a walk in the vineyard later, meditation… assurance more I’m headed toward to the Road. Alaska, Yellowstone, New York.. with stories to being home for my babies, family, friends, everyone— a mammoth sharing of LIFE.
And now I’m hungry. Not for a bite— well, yes, several bites, but not food. LIFE. More life. Kerouac said, “One fast move or I’m gone.” I’m moving, more than merely ‘fast’, and I’m going, but not gone. I’ll always be here, with the words, with my pen and keys, my stories and vines to just gawk at. The beauty’s overwhelming, it hold me in place and lectures me, reminds me I’m a student just as much as I’m an adjunct professor at the JC.
Oh, this is no velleity. There is action here, doing. And more will be promulgated. More stories— books, books and books and motion. How can I sleep when I’m this inspired and propelled? Huh, maybe I won’t.
Letting the music from my co-worker’s desk merge with my immediacy. This whole office, or my corner of it, is poetry— expression and promise. Tangible effort and obtaining. I’m happier than I’ve been in weeks, if not months. Not that I’ve been depressed or anything, just doubting self/Self. And like Ms. Plath said, that’s the worst kind of enemy for the creative. So like negativity, see me turning only to let it see my back.
What I’m letting merge with the writer: Sky. I’ll touch it. Then see what else is there, above it. “You can’t go higher,” someone might say. “Well, I’ll try,” I’ll reply.