8:22 AM. Writing verse.

Have a consuming and crippling curve and tide about me this morning to write verse.  Have a track completed by EOD, whenever that might be.  Have a hunch we’ll be dismissed around 12, but I can’t confirm.  Have 5 couplets written in first verse.  Trying too hard to rhyme… have to let the language drive me and the thoughts and intentions to the piece be only a passenger.

Two more couplets for first verse.  Yesterday driving home, saying to self, scolding self a bit, that I need return to music.  Record my tracks, gig where I can, record however I can since all my old equipment is in the garage and who knows if it works or if I remember how to work it anymore.

Not in the mood to do anything work-associated, but I know I have to and I know it’ll carry over to much in this new year, both Sonic projects and those wholly mine.

Verse 1, done.  Going to time self for the other two, starting with when I take a break which’ll be in…. 90 minutes, maybe?

Cold outside, but perfect for a run.  So much I want to get done today, in however many hours I have here.

Wrote a small piece, poem or verse, something.  Note of significance is that it’s a sovereign slice of expression.  Very much noticing that thinking is what holds you, what impedes creativity and expression, self and your SELF if you’re an artist.  Today, I’m building my conversation—not “network” or networking.  For sakes of building audience, yes, but to have a more whole and rounded conversation.

Noticing even more in these past three to five days that thinking is the impediment.  No more thinking.. in fact I’m putting that on my list of 2020 prompts.  And that’s what they are… not resolutions, or even aims as I said yesterday, but prompts.

Thought about tidying up desk but then discerned it as thinking and deliberation, too much thought.

Work, should ALWAYS be doing what you love, what’s not work but YOU.  Your identity, your immediate reality and realized rile.

2nd verse started with a couple couplets, and into the third.

Everyone around me snacking and in holiday honing, and I can’t blame them I just cant stop with this inner and numbing push to pen verse… be the poet I’ve always been but away from it walked.  I return here and there, now and then, but now this morning I can do nothing but.  Thinking of Jack, that interview with Sylvia, the Yeats poem that haunted me since the first read which wasn’t even that close of a survey of his lines.

A beat in my head and sight, said and right….

Okay, probably should do something.  Love being here and in this office, with all the conversation and new knowledge.  All of this is poetic, more than verse more than compilations of oration and pages to be read at some reading or other.  The verse, the thought of it, everything I’ve read and still read, started this…