I walked into the store and just wanted some time to myself.  Some meditation.  I watch tourists walk around and stare up and eye-level at the shelves, all the shit the store situates as they do as they know the tourists will stare at everything just like that…. “We could us that,” the lady says to her I-think-husband, “that would be great in the kitchen.” Want to be a tourist.  For a day, I thought as she said that, and as they get closer to me and shake the floor like these employees carrying boxes in and out of the back.  What if I just stayed here?  What if I didn’t go to work?  What if I called in sick or just called in and said I had something to do, stayed here and wrote?  “95?” she said with a thick, syrupy southern vowel-honed octave.  “That’s us!” she throws at the deli counter.  What did she order?  What did I order?  Coffee and blueberry scone.  And haven’t even fucking touched either, really.  Well, sipped the coffee a couple times but haven’t even looked at the scone.  The tourists look at the shelves on the other side of the room, nearer me, after getting their sandwiches for the day.  Guessing they’ll be tasting wine all day.  But not me.  Going to see how long I can go without even letting wine touch my lips.  No sip-and-spit.  No.  Not even that.  This store is another world for me. It’s a jazz tune.. Miles or Bobby… I’m encased in positives, in creative and narrative storytelling positivism.  More than meditation or expected collection.  I’m re-assembled, or re-invented— no, banal.  Re-directed— no, not that either.  Re-Me’d.  YES.  Insured against negatives with these words I’m tommygunning at the screen.  Have to go— shit.  Why.  Why can’t I have fuller than fuller-than-full day?  The store tells me to calm down.  Inventory…. Everything.  Keep yourself scribbling today.  Make sure everyone sees you writing.  Sees that you’re a writer.  Sees that you are writing.. the act and practice and habit and discipline of writing.  See it yourself— be the subject of your subject.

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