from the morning thousand …

Large glug of coffee I made last night and here at desk.

Saying to see over and over, Magic of the Meta.  Where I am and what I’m doing.  Looking of directions for verse and music and finding them everywhere I look.

Today, before week starts, first of two I have to get quota where I want it be and I’m pretty sure I will.  Keep moving.  Igniting and writing a new offense to my character bend and tense.

Volte-face in my writing, being and voice.  Now more of this recited way and self-invited play.  There shouldn’t be a plan, there shouldn’t be excess measure, I realize.  Where I am in my life, my story, with the kids, my family, people I know and would call friends….  What I’ve read and Mr. Kerouac now more to me speaking and teaching for the next turn, next Road, what I should already know and am about to.

The light, minimal in this room.  Clouds outside overhead I’m guess… inner-estimation of my frustrated wake and take on certain days.  Then forgetting it.  Dismissing it.  Be more like my old friend Chris, from Redwood City…. All he was after was the party, was outings, was a mixed drink of some kind and some company of some girl he just met.  Not the latter ingredient obviously for but everything else.  The wildness…. Not writing about anything singular even though that’s what I always stress in class and pressure and impress upon self.  Mien of my now-self, hard to detach from.  This writer who doesn’t want to plan, who only decides and tells freeness in his milieu and attitude, actuations and penned meditations.

Writer absorbs morning, relaxes in char like he hasn’t before… aims for a new edifice and precipice.  ‘Nother sip. Coffee keeping movement in its current beat and whipped quip.

Writing always there, here, present and encouraging, antagonizing and frustrating.  With hours unknown ahead until this installation closes, what.  Writing, even if not writing is placed to page.  This goddamn pandemic, prohibiting readings, the coffee shops, the travel, the life that denotes and connotes life, living.  In adjust, and not adjusting but Newness.  New music, new tracks, new attack on the obstacles that attempt to in front of me stack and collect.

Music playing, low volume.  Emma still asleep….  Jack in other room, told him I had to do some work for a while then would figure out breakfast for him, everyone.  What can I do with THIS day, that would utterly contort the contour to my book…..  Not writing any goals or aims.  Find that just dooms them and assures aggravating antithesis.  Ever notice that…. Does that happen with you, when you scribble some sight or destination… Why not just enjoy the Road.  The wheel, the winds, the speed on the desert pavement that dashes into the sky in pulse and freed beams.