of my words so I find new ones, but distracted by the weather, the thin gray slightly somehow magenta cloud films overhead running away from the sun like they know they’re not supposed to be on stage. So much love for this morning so far and I type faster, or try, knowing the day will speed by me like I’m able to chase it. I know I won’t outrun time, but I can try, and I can write about trying, what I do while I try. Part of me wants to go outside, type on the patio with my coffee, watch the neighborhood be quiet and still like it never is. And it’s all mine, which I have to revel in, right? The day will be over, and I’ll wish I would have done that. Never have, now I think, but Alice has several times, usually after a run. Going to the Hopper spot, getting her mocha, and just sitting out there, stretching in her morrow’s zenful tempo.
This morning, and all today, I act from whigmaleerie. No planning. No excess envisioning. Just life, cosmic and measureless love for the day, my life, my babies, health and sky, this street, the patio I’m not on, even this over-cluttered desk. BUT… If I were to do something today, what would it be? Coffee in downtown Healdsburg? Date with the Composition Book? A categorical possibility, sewn into this positive reverb rounded in these nerves and cardio beatings, internal and external, just expansively meditative, my feast moving, more than moveable, just moving quick in a comical aim to catch the clock. More than my usual gumption. More than just priority, or “urgency” like I stress to students. This is something different, this A.M. But what? Does it need a tag? Am I overthinking this? Do I need a break?
Back from a ten or fifteen-minute. Minutes I won’t get back, but I needed a meditation, break from the words hard as that may be to conceive. And I’ve definitely reached my coffee cap. No more for a few hours, I’m guessing. Thinking of taking Self out for a nice breakfast up the street. Of course, bringing it back here, then maybe a nap? Why not. When was the last lazy day this writer had? Already five minutes away from 11AM. Like I said, I won’t outrun time. Writing down titles of these songs here in home office, the ones that motivate me or have some auditory arrangement that connects with me,w hat I’m writing. I’m writing the morning, they’re part of the morning, so they all make the list. Distracted like Emma was, by the lawnmower outside. Now I feel restless and rushed, or maybe even a but panicked. Am I living as much as I can, right now? Should I be doing something else?
Counsel comes back. “No. Stop it.” It lashes.
It’s right, wherever it came from.