6:31.  Soon to class.  More awake than I thought I’d be.  Haven’t had caffeine in a bit. May go get a decaf.  To bed early, tonight.  Soon as home.  Wake early tomorrow morning and either write or run.

 

1/29/19— Not in much mood to write, I’ll be honest.  But if I decide to here at the Stony Point Star’, I have about an hour.  Brought the latte I bought at another location.  Not sure if that’s taboo or not but I’m of much mind to care at present.  Woke early but not early enough.  Was in bed just a couple minutes after ten last night, after giving easily the most fiery and animated lecture so far this term.  What I need amplify, intensify.

Some guy, one I see here every morning I get a coffee here just asked me to plug in his cord, in the outlet just to the left of my shoes, then the long extension cord stretching left, and even over another person working or doing something on laptop, left.  Can’t help but be annoyed, put in a mood even as the man had, has, no regard or apologies in interrupting me.  He didn’t say “excuse me”, or “I’m sorry, would you mind…” Now a bit warm.  Not taking off hooded sweatshirt.

Need my own office more than ever, right now and all days leading up to now.  Need quiet.  My own room, like a brother or sister sharing a room with their sibling.  The power cord guy sits at a table across from me, across the floor and talks with another man I see here all the time, while his laptop and bag stay at base at the tallboy to far left, cord still expanded.

Now someone sits in front of me at this communal table that can, could, sit about 8.  Not letting anything sever or puncture my quietude, my morning write.  More people sit at the table, speak loud and interrupt the jazz.  I don’t know if I’ll stay.  Should I just go to the office early, write in the nook, or breakroom?  Should take about ten or fifteen minutes to get there which would get me close to 8:20.  No… stay, I tell self. There’s story in this struggle, in this fight with self to ignore the people around me and write something… something…. Stories and little narrative islands and roaming meditations that go from one direction to next, to next, to….

Try to wake up more, even after all the sleep of night last.  Work today, no class tonight.  Working on ideas in head not yet writing them down, lectures on Sedaris, writing and reading, the college student’s story, me teaching Philosophy anywhere and everywhere I can.  I absolutely cannot work like this, anymore.  In cafes and corporate coffee shops.  Too many distractions, too many pushes and pulls.  But that’s ‘cause I let myself be so shoved, shrugged.  The page in front of you, what’s to be said, don’t force pace, simply follow what’s around you and what is being said to you by the day and the room, the people to whom you don’t listen.

You try to tune them out, can’t, but rather than fight you embrace what’s proximal, the jackets and people showing each other pictures on their phones, the people walking through the door letting in cold air then standing in line to get whatever they need get.  You remember why you came here, to have  a language of moments for you, for your morning, to start your day how you wish.  There is nothing to this, more than this.  Your intention, your aim, what you see for self.  Still settling into a writer’s form and mood, you type faster.  The two men in front of you speaking to each other and laughing, even occasionally hitting the table from the overwhelming humor and value of their stories, disappear.  It’s only you and what you want to do.

Your beat and music erases everything.  There is only this, this, only your moment.  You think of stories and pieces you need finish, what you want done with day.  You make a list, then scratch it out.  Reason to keep it in head, to memory committed. No need for pen and sheet.  Your music elevates in decibel, to a point where the bothers and intrusions dissipate.  You’re in the mood, now.  Finally.  There will be no departure from where you are.  No surrendering your seat.  You forget about the cord guy, the men in front of you talking whom you can’t understand why they don’t choose some other table and seats set in room.

This is your room.  Yours. For your morning.  Whether you write or not, territory yours.  The men in front of you get up and move to another table as that lady leaves and you saw her rise for departure but they had it in sights as you did.  So you stay, you don’t unnerve or frustrate, but stay in place.

You stay to further understand, study, appreciate, LOVE, your Now.  Alive early somewhat in morning, to find more of your Self in what you do.  The room becomes your classroom, to study all movements, speak in and from new realities and realizations.  Don’t overthink, you tell self.  To do so is detrimental to the rise of this Now, this storm of thought and deconstructions of immediacy—why you’re here, how free you are now in this sitting.

Identity molded and written, re-written by a morning.  Not even a full morning, the hours that make a morning, but a handful of breaths.  Breaths you made productive and transporting for your story.  To think excessively is a sentence, one to permanent rest of effort.  Just create, don’t deliberate.  Find something, learn something through discussion with the scene itself.  Tussling and conflict with it only holds you in place.  More awake now than when I arrived.  Awake and alive, aware, apt.  The words from the walls and people around me

Chose to come to this coffee spot, already with a coffee humorously enough, to collect.  Find something.  And I did.  What distracted me is nonexistent, now figments if I allow.  Identity is shaped by the presence and self-preservation you permit.  So now, accumulation.  Of Self, Life, Knowledge, Presence.  The mood morphs into a luminous reasoning belt.

Today I’ll be in SF, Richmond District.  Don’t think it’ll rain but I’ll bring jacket in event of.  No lunching out, none.  Goal is to save, build something, build.  Something.  Young lady next to me typing on a laptop, asking if she can sit there I tell her sure but she has to move that idiot’s infinite white chord that reaches the wall over there, left.  Still can’t believe or grasp that man’s nerve.  Moved past.  Past to this page, and the ones following.

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mikemadigan

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