Running in the morning. Ahead on timeline. IF you could call it that. Great day in meetings, dinner with parents. Still hungry but not eating anymore. Writing novel on her… her… the one wanting more… the character changing jobs, going for creative and not the expected. I should go to bed, she orders. I resist knowing I shouldn’t. In Kerouac beat mode, on beat time. So what then… more story, more in this kitchen. Cards for the babies, Valentine’s Day. What is that. I’ve never known.
Going to have capping of night, then to bed go… running in morning. Have to write more on the run, the run is life, is love is reason, is the counter to the counter, the counterargument to anything pessimistic.
Sitting in this kitchen, at the parent’s house… some could judge, and that’s fine. I’m so focused on my control and centeredness of things. Some will argue, object and counter-cross-object and puff their legalistic language in so many climates and shapes, but I just don’t listen. Right now, I’m righted in my Now.
More than simple perception or sight, I don’t know how to define it and I really don’t know how. I don’t care to. I think of the poets I study, and the diarists I admire, like Ms. Plath and Pac, Hem with his letters, and Mr. Sedaris, and I find so much funny. I’m going to delight in life, knowing some will say something.
Distracted by messages. Should go to bed. And keep with my stance, keep with my keep, assert the sight and acknowledgement of everything around me. The world is funny, Humans are funny and barely deserve that capital. No one in this kitchen but me. Running when it’s dark. So.. go. Light jazz in back, and me just going from thought to thought, possibility to new newness with this new movement. Some would maintain a detriment in my narrative, but the peripatetic jabs are only a lucrative tell. Somehow, they ought be.