30 minutes to write, this first December day…

img_9211have coffee, but need music.  Already I’ve learned something from the morrow’s momentum—  Whatever I want from the day, tell self you want it, and just take it.  But make demands reasonable.  First, since I’m going in late today, is 30 minutes of freer than free writing.  Could go take a couple shots with camera and phone, of the vineyards on Barnes Road, but I’m a writer before I’m a button-pushing, lens-adjusting photog.  Meant to expand on note from yesterday, in the Comp Book for classes, but didn’t have the chance when home last night.  Or, I did, I just chose to relax, and I convinced myself I deserved it after surmounting the 2,300 word summit.  Now, I enjoy zen, time to self— we all should.  Still drinking coffee from yesterday’s tumbler, but I  don’t mind and see more symbolic or allegorical gravity in it than I did when I took the first sip, about ten minutes ago.  The tumbler and its contents are a relic, a stamp from the last day of last month— time echo which can only be tasted till the coffee’s gone.  The year’s going to end, I’m running out of time to do certain things, finish certain projects, in ’16.  So, I sip what’s left of November.  I said in both classes that time runs out, that it’s quick, but we can be quicker.  I’m convinced we can, but it necessitates and irregular passion, a creative fervor that has to startle us.  That is to say, we didn’t know we were capable of.

Already down to minute 24 in my 30 mins to self.  So now what.  How about not thinking so hard, like with the final papers this semester.  When you’re at the writing stage, after gathering tentative sources (which, again, I only require 3 as I don’t want your narrative negated by “research”, or some bloody rounding-up of “facts”), just start writing.  Who cares what finds its way to page… just type.  Type feverishly.  Polish later.  You only have so much time.  WE, only have so much time.  In this set of minutes I have alone in my studio, I hear that new train, somewhere out there fairing through the thinly frigid and cut-gem-like air.  There it is again.  Of course, I think of travel.  Shocker.  But what people see while on their jaunts and exoduses, what they think they’ll do first thing when they land…  What the journey will do for them, what they’ll gather, and how they’ll feel when the trip concludes.  Just where my envisage goes.  2016’s trip nears its wrap, and we have to utilize all ticks and tocks of that infernal clock.

Still no music in the room, and maybe that’s what I want.  Or, maybe not.  What do I want?  I can have whatever I want, that’s how I’m writing it, how I’m writing today, December 1st…  So, yes, music…..  There we go, some rhythmic atmospheric track by Block 16, “Slow Hot Wind”.  See and feel self bobbing head while that first EQ’d string progression, single-string, comes in.  See self when the year’s done, when ’17 lands.  Just a new récit.  Story.  A new book, a new continent of self.  How many minutes left…?  Less than 14?  What the bloody…  What can we do.  We have to work with the time given, with the story’s remainder.  Yes.  BUT… we choose what happens and what we get from what remains.  So I think to myself, and you should to, “What else do I want?”

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