written goals this evening? This feels, well, a bit odd and out-of-sorts for the writer. But I keep writing. Not so much as they were goals but from how tired I am from the first day back, working, after three days off consecutively for the first time since… since… I don’t have an answer for you, really. Not at all. “Really”… no, I’m not even close to knowing.
The house, this floor, littered with xmas toys… one of those specific and very shaking and stark moment when you’re reminded you’re a parent— you have two kids! Wow… so here is the writer with his stage and this pretzel-like racetrack at his feet… the five year-old asleep upstairs I bet can’t wait to wake and play with it. Lucky I brewed the coffee already. It’ll be ready when the writer wakes. Nearly tempted to have some now… odd? Yes. That’s odd. But you’re a writer so it’s okay. Lazy, but just for a second… stretching, yawning, but then I said to myself “Fuck that!”, I’m not in any position to rest or wink or blink or stretch, yawn or recline in this chair. So.. did I hit all goals? Need to keep writing if I’m to have a promise. But I should stop. Have to early wake… Finish what I need to.. email clients.. get back ahead of all. Of ALL. Tomorrow morning, with that coffee, I’ll write like I’m a machine— no, I will convince myself that I’m a machine, that I’m a mechanical creator, that my anatomy and functionality doesn’t know how to stop. I won’t be tired, or get tired. I’ll just create. I’ll play with words and ideas and the odd feel of this room and that cruelly odd and early hour. Coffee’s ready, I’m ready, I WILL be ready.