OH… The writer or journalist or blogger

needs a fucking freewrite.  I hate feeling like I’m “on assignment”, even if the assignment was given by me.  So now… now that everything I wanted posted is fucking pasted, I’m going to pour myself more of this Viogneir and just freely write.  Air conditioner just came on.  Is it that hot outside, inside, here on Autumn Walk?  Poured Self final glass of that Tempranillo… message friend Jesse back and forth.  Two beatniks wondering when they’ll have another ball, a time— life is too curt and abbreviated to wait for waiting and seeing what will happen next.  I’m in a climatology of self, hearing this Miles track and not wanting to look at the name of the song, just listen, why do I need to know anything?  Why can’t I just experience?  On the drive home from mother-in-law’s house visiting little Ms. Austen I stressed about what I had to get done tonight with writing and what I’d have logged but then I ruled somewhere on Fountaingrove that I just need to be in the moment of moments.  Just enjoy my night.  Actually actuate what I advocate and live, write, enjoy my night— marvel in and at and about my moments.  Yeah…. I should be writing about wine right now but I’m writing about life and how life is righting me in some cosmic chromatic, tincture or whatever— some telling pulse.  Euclidean.  Odd forms and shapes present themselves helpfully and instructionally in my own house.  I see this home office in a way I never before thought-have.  The stairs leading to youth and me in my pilgrimage up to youth to check on my babies (when they’re not away), hoping to expend or capsule some of that naiveté, hoping it warrants flight.  Take a couple more sips and this beatnik will see clouds—

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