thinking of the novel I want to write about Kelly, her place at the ad firm, dabbling in creative but how they keep her at that desk, in her menial menialness. I see her as the type to photograph everything, as I write about everything but she teaches me, her author, how to let go and more take my time, not rush so much. Just watered the grass outside, meaning I just turned the knobs for sprinklers, three total (more like plastic levers), clockwise, and I just stood there watching thin clouds lazily wade and be grazed by mooned ray. What I thought about… waking early, having my coffee and working out quietly down here. Ugh, it frustrates me more than I can say how fast time by me flies, like an escaping bird from another larger bird, one intent on eating him.
The office here is cold with the AC on, the vent is actually throwing its chilled anger right at me. But I don’t know what else to say beyond that— or yes I do. New York… my first travel has to be to New York. The streets, the people, those taxis, everything we West Coast-ers stereo type and think we can speak about, I want to see. No— I want to record. I want to see everything, and I know I can’t, which saddens me and motivates me concurrently. Odd sensation, but that’s where I am now in this chair in the home office. No wine tonight, just a couple beers. More and more, I realize I have to be mad. Truly mad, like the hare and the hatter think I’m with no rocker. My yay-saying angularity is my only ailment. I guess some would say. Seeing more in this office. And not just in Kelly, whom I may rename, but in what I write, what I in my head say. With the last sip of the beer, my everything is clearer than clear.