Ready for the day after ironing shirt and khakis, which are more so I feel informal or semi-formal slacks. I find every time I iron, there’s an accompanying meditation. This morning, thought about how one sees their self, their character, the composition of that character. Me, evaluating my personhood, I’m seeing myself as a character driven to do something, but unsure of how to so do. So what do I do? No more planning, that I know. Just put everything into the world. But the meditation also revolved around learning, how every day is its own lesson and I know that no matter what happens today or tomorrow or any day forward my story will remain MY story. And that’s where I stopped in the meditation. Shirt was done, pants were done, Emma was fed and snoozing with Alice upstairs, and I thought more while sipping the coffee, but not about matters of prolific gravity or anything of mammoth meaning. Just thoughts. But these thoughts take me to my first trip, I know.
Outside, already promising heat. Weather hanging onto the summer consistency, even though it may know it’s autumn. My street, Autumn Walk… Walking in the Autumn, through vines and around streets here in this neighborhood, letting thoughts get tangled and more poetic and crazed in their creative phase— Should I get a coffee from sbux, or just brew here? Obvious answer, no? Brew here. OR, use the money from yesterday’s tip, get a snack and mocha to last you the day. ‘Cause at lunch, you’ll be writing. About ONE idea, one thing, one thought, one thesis—
Interrupt myself with music. Just a couple tracks while I’m writing in a quiet house… Told both classes on Wednesday that if I didn’t have music, I’d “truly be get sick.” Which is true, I would. Music is too much of me, too much of how I defeat time, whether I have ten minutes to write or two free hours like between classes. Hear a plane in the distance, flying overhead maybe but I think a but east, and going south. Travel thoughts infecting my concentration, and terminally. I need the world… We all as creators and artists need the world, the skyways and highways and everything around us and far from our immediate stage placement.
Time’s almost up, but I’m giving self an extension. So what. I can do that, right? Five more minutes of ME.. me in this time and this quiet ‘cause as a parent these scenes are scarce, and becoming more so. This room, this study, needing tidying, AGAIN. Frustrates me immeasurably but gives the writer a constant focus and forum for measure. Time just darts by me like an escapee. Or am I the one in escape, or trying to, always imprisoned by a clock and a schedule and deadlines and all associated. Negative way to look at it, so I won’t.
Need leave… And more coffee. So I give in, to sbux. To a mocha, and some breakfast-y something. This day will be controlled by each of my envisages and ideas, bringing the writer closer to his travels, that first plane seat, that first takeoff and landing because of these pages.