Here to work for an hour before winery. Huge meeting tomorrow, and the writer’s more than prepared. 2nd meeting of its type. Have specific ‘eyes to hit while here— notes for morrow, readable poems, freewrite.
Back from prepping a bit for tomorrow’s meeting and I reconnect, engage with my surroundings, my usual spot at this coffee hop. Then… tomorrow morning, all the papers I have to grade tonight. Excited about it, if you must know. Not bothered at all. Today as all is one of writing. I’ll be starting my verse for the morning in about 12 minutes. Hate that I have to be so planned and orchestrated, pupated by time, but that’s being an adult. Just days from 38. At lunch today, I’ll gather for the book, I swear. I’ve sworn myself to bookdom but have not produced. If I were to tour the country or world for a reason, or from some effort, what would I want it to be? Exactly. After my time with words I’ll be skipping or not skipping to my car, to drive to work. Love the winery, the people I work with. But the pattern, the predictability in all its dimensions and corners of foreseeing… the template… that’s what kills the writer. I want to be on planes, taking rides in the back of a truck through vineyards in France, writing about the families, the histories, what happened in that block a hundred years ago versus that one. I need to move, I need to see beaches and the whole of each coast.
Tomorrow’s meeting could make so much of this possible. I know… no expectations. You’re right. Focus on the moment. Me here listening to my music looking up every so often at the people around me— their dreams, works, significant others, children, pasts, what they didn’t do and what they are making themselves do now. How they make themselves change. Last night with me going to the gym later for my speed work then coming home to a light dinner and NO wine. Vigor, electricity…
People waiting for their coffees, mixed whatevers. Jittery to begin their week, it’s Monday, and they need special wiring for the morning, day’s rest. Understanding that to slow is to not go. I need be sped in this cosmic wrap. Sip coffee…. Slow. Hotter than I remember. Typing on this keyboard, looking at time and I have to shift gears, or shift modes, chords, BPM’s. Me’s. Don’t feel as cluttered this morning. Think ‘cause I left power chord for laptop at home, by couch. Time for poetry— the realest of Me’s. The one who scribbles notes on scratch paper and work and puts them together for something to read. To people that love music or everything— thought, enjoy listening to people with thoughts. Not that my thoughts are exceeding in any one way. But, I do have some, many, many I want to share. I have no stalls about me now, I keep with my sentences and turning of head, observing and capturing. Perfect ignition to week.