Lion Table

img_7430Old neighborhood Starbucks, Yulupa & Bethards.  Day 9 of the 30.  What do I want?  Consolidation.  Just less.  Less of everything.  Purposeful, that’s my hue.  Just spent $6.05 on a mocha.  Yes, 4 shots.  Needed after this daddy-morning.  In full papa role and a bit sluggish.  Now to self, some time, timed 40 minutes for this sitting, listening to music, thinking of the travels ahead, how to get there, where I want to go first.  And, so you know, this isn’t just a 30-day countdown that I hope produces something.  No.. this is an arch in my story, for sure.  The writer saying he’s had enough of regularity and predictability.  That’s poison.  30 days for me to take a huge step into the direction and stage that I know I’m meant to hold.

Photography I’m seeing’s going to take a more firm placement in this journey of mine as a blogging writer.  There needs to be images, not just text, unless it’s the book, when it comes out.  But now, I need more pictures.  I would never expect myself to be in a place like Rome or Paris and not take pictures.  Of course I’ll plant somewhere and write, but I need pictures.  There’s frames to be pocketed and captured, reflected upon later, everywhere.  Right around me now, all the people standing in line to order coffee then collecting by the bar, starting at the barista hoping the next drink called is theirs.  It’s interesting, mornings and people, their coffee drinks, what they need to go on with their day, what I need to go on with my day.  Did I need this mocha?  Empirically, no.  But I had myself convinced it was part of the story.  Or maybe the story convinced me it was mandated, which would then rule it necessitated.

31 minutes left in my allocated 45.  Time doesn’t care what I have to get done nor does it even twitch or tremor at cutting away little pieces of my time like it’s meat— peeling away layers like it feasts, and it does feast on my time, so I write faster and more and care less.  Be creatively careless and wild with my beats and ideas, how I write and later read them.  This old neighborhood, where my wife and I had I don’t know how many coffees, took Jack when he was young to get little treats after a family walk up in the hills.  Seems like that happened earlier this morning, but that was over a year ago, our last walk.  And we’d been walking around Yulupa, Bethards, down Summerfield and into Howarth Park essentially since he was born.

Nine.  Of thirty.  Life is the focus on these 30.  Writing my story, re-writing it where warranted, and moving onto the next narrative.  So many urge you to follow your strengths, or find what you’re “good at” and leap from there.  Pretty sure this is my bailiwick, telling a story.  Telling MY story, hoping others will see it is as fecund for their progression.  I’m closer to the stage, and I’m ready to read.