No writing today. And I’m sour. A flawed flower. On lunch, I lunched, depending on certain things to happen. Capturing my mood, and my wheels now race with served ferventness. Come apocalypse or a certain atmospheric aptness…
I’m a sword with indiscriminate pulse, momentarily. I have to fixate on the ideal. And I will, with all wheels. No way this can go on the blog, and I wouldn’t want it to— as now I hate everything and everybody and every smirk that wish boasted on social media. At least I’m writing. At least I’m true to this writer’s layer. A certain writer, I guess you could say famous, receptive to my involvement in the stage interpretation of his “novel” if you could call it that all of a sudden to back out or complain in a text to me that he’s been up since 3. And do I care… no. Just what I expect from humans. Notice I don’t anymore capitalize.
My mood and redolence is low. What can I do but hope somehow I wake early… finish this fucking book and get on the Road… travel. The whole entire wholeness of this goal, of these inward jots, is to travel. And before you say it, yes, it’s definitively a selfish aim.
Want to keep writing but— One more glass of the Meeker Malbec. Why not. I’ve had a long week and with a long semester ahead of the writer… again, why the fuck not. I’m not sorry for this day to die if you need to know. Nothing in particular persisted, just he voices of some make me wonder why I try to abide so kind. Why not not care, I’m thinking. HST said life was better once he was forces to stop taking it seriously, stop caring. Oui? Alors…. I’m here. With my mood. With all this, my life a writing father hoping these inward notes take me somewhere and tell me something… today, with all the grapes landing and the lady the other day saying something like ‘If you’re gonna dream you might as well have your druthers…’ Yeah…. YEAH. So I’m here now on the couch, with my last glass of wine, in this beatnik/gonzo/lost mode…. Quiet in this house with two kids but that could change any minute. Was going to turn on TV but then I thought “Why the fuck would I do that?” It’s quite in here. I’m a writing/working/writing-working daddy, I need the zen, peace, still, soundless romance of my balance yet fiery and multi-layered scene.
I’m writing now. And it’s sweet. Sweeter than sweet. Like the candy at Goody’s, in Sunriver— so many memories and thoughts of me as a kid there now I’m 30-fucking-8, an old fucking man wishing I was that age where I didn’t have to care about shit and…. Sip the rest of your wine, Irishman. And now he doesn’t want this day to pass, this Irish kid, who’s so far from a “kid” it’s insulting and laughable and telling to merely type that.