Telling myself to break structure, any blip of predictability, and I mean really BREAK it. I’ll always write, but there’s been a change in the battle plan. The last change, if you know need. Sipping a port right now from the Kunde days, one the then-Cellar Master made from who knows how many varietals. I don’t care. I’m sipping. Staying succinct in my focuses and forms. On floor of home office, didn’t make five pages but I’m on the third and I had my championing idea of day and that’s what pronounces itself to me, most palpably.
Wife across the street meeting neighbor’s new baby. Sent home from hospital when baby is barely 24 hours young. Quick? Don’t know. But what moves quick is time and I need to outrun and outgun it. I collect in this atmospheric composition of sensory— low light, me in no slight, only direction and affirmation of my story. Setting alarm for 4, and when early up I’ll do what I do.. something.. just move quick.
Needing another splash, but more needing to research a couple things. Port’s a funny thing to me. Tasty, but funny. It’s the result of an accident, if I’m not incorrect in my findings. And if not a “mistake” then certainly something unexpected. I’m about to actuate a reality, one beautiful and beneficial, for my family. Business.. creative business— Wife comes home from seeing the baby and we both hop into a nostalgic dote. Our babies, getting older and older, and we too. Time isn’t forever. So I move quicker and quicker even though this port wants to slow me. My next glass my last.. need cue coffee. The writer knows his gears and energy can only segue to delightful diversification. The nigh quiets, and my tyrannosauric talk calms. Me, into meditative modality for collections cause. But, one more port. One more pour… one more sitting pulse for the writer. 4am, ready for my invasion. It’s record, nearly undefeated. Tomorrow, this writer hopes, ebbs re-arrange.