…each measure and note, chord and riff.  I become disconnected from my typing, writing, what I am and who I’m saying, what I’m saying.  Not that I don’t like it, but I don’t feel it as I think I should.  Is it the words I’m putting to page, where I am?  The air-conditioning in this store coming on and apparently blowing right on me.  Struggling to struggle, bumbling in my own thoughts and wishing I wouldn’t’ve come here, stayed home and wrote there.  Hemingway looking right at me from the cover of his book and ordering more fortitude, for me to toughen to not have any kind of mood, t hat I can’t afford it— and I know I can’t afford it.  New beat and new beat from me on this page, this day before a new year of self-study and sensibility.

New Year, new book, new me…. Go for a drive.  Leave this Starbucks.  Take your mocha — or latte, sorry— with you and be in the day, enjoy freedom, look left and right and see your new office.  Weather outside, encouraging, bright and sagacious, suggestive and antagonistic.  Suddenly feeling awkward sitting here, writing here, having brought self here.  The air now is aggressively and metallically frigid.  Can’t write like this.  But Hemingway did, in that Café and elsewhere, where the odors were consuming and the weather was “bad”…

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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