Can’t believe how early I got here. Well before 8. Time now, 8:22. Only one sip of this “refill” under my belt. Feel bad for telling the lady it’s a refill, but why? It’s not, I lied. But so what. Fifty cents, for coffee this good, this hot, this comforting, this needed this morning? Yeah, not feeling too guilty.
Think I just burnt my tongue a little bit. Want to leave early, go out and take some pictures around Dry Creek. Thinking of giving photog’ a good, healthy, serious, “professional” try. But can writers do that? This one should. What do I have to lose at this point? Oui?
Both poems I wrote, meant to sell. Everything must be sold. EVERYTHING. No more freewriting, even for self. And if I do freewrite, then I break it up and play with form so I can present it on page and sell it, read it at a reading. Do something with them. If I leave here at 8:45, 18 minutes from now, I could have close to an hour to take pictures. Why not. Stop everywhere that gets me curious, or if I wonder what a shot from there would look like.
Surprised I haven’t checked any social media. Huh… maybe I can change. What if today’s the day where something amazing happens in the way of me and my career as a … whatever I am, or think I am, thought I was, dreamed of being— Life is so fucking short, it infuriates me. I continue to perpend, measure and catalogue. Let’s see what I do. Even I want to know.