inward jot

photo-on-12-13-16-at-9-24-am-2journal – 12/13/16

letter…

With only 38% on laptop, here at Dry Creek General store, I try to regain some sliver in sanity’s palm.  But the xmas music playing sends me to lunacy— earphones in and I fly away in my own words.  Hors de combat, or at least how I feel presently.  But I’m not letting myself slow.  This morning, let’s make a promise to each other, that this Tuesday, today, we don’t let this fluffy sequel to Monday impact our stories in any manner we don’t order.

I fall flat with my sentence streaming, but only ‘cause I told myself so.  Outside, clouds, I wait for rain’s arrival hoping it’ll do something to the morning’s progression.  But why wait for it or anything to shift gears, why not embrace where I am now, in Dry Creek’s heart at the general store—  Two older ladies next to me speaking over their morning coffees.  They look like locals.  They’re not dressed like someone from out of town.  Yeah, I could be wrong observationally but since I’m trapping the picture on MY page I have to be right, right?  Break between songs and I’m stung by that infernal xmas music.. saved by one of my favorite ambient/electronica tranquil tracks, “Morning Star” (Parliavox Remix) by Flunk.  Makes me think of my character, what she’s doing in her studio— is she sketching or painting, thinking about what she wants to draw or just drawing and seeing what her light, euphoniously complected hands materialize.  I lose track of the battery percentage on this laptop and just scribble like a deranged dingo, about her.. her studio in San Francisco, her jogs along Embarcadero, how she sees the waves and makes daily notes of their behavior.  She finishes always with a ten minute or so cool-down, just walking, gets coffee, heads to office where they always have a stack of administrative rubble to throw at her.  And if she’s lucky then she can be involved in creative.  But when home, draw.  Anything.  She refuses to think excessively, ignores the pressure propelled at herself from internal engine to produce something mainstream or marketable, or nice.  She just draws… this morning a homeless man reading the paper by a large planter next to a pier’s entrance…

Already free.  In this character, in the wandering thoughts where traps and chains don’t work.  They just don’t.  We speak different languages for which there is no translator dictionary.  I know you’re finishing your final submissions, but do try to find time for yourself.  If it’s not writing, then something that douses you in zen, which frees you.  Time does not care about our sensitivity to it.  The numbers keep to their gallop.  Our job as thinkers, writers and creatives and otherwise, is to keep moving.

The ladies still talk, sipping their coffee hardly at all.  I’m convinced their locals.  They seemed too relaxed to be tourists with a schedule, that have wineries to hit or sites to see in Sonoma County.  Break between songs…. UGH!  It’s xmas, I get it… ahhh… “Savoir Faire” by Thievery.  Remedied.  Someone walking behind me and around the table, sitting right across from me.  He eats his scone theatrically and stares at the shelf behind me.  Definite tourist.  Looks at his phone, probably to text his friends at whatever hotel.  Annoying.  He has every right to be here, as I, but my centeredness is sectionalized now.  I won’t let it.  This entire day, this soggy sequel to Monday, has no choice but to do what I want it to.  But I have to be qui vive, in all seconds and beats.  Today.  I offer you do the same.  Make the day ever yours.  -Mike

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