Doesn’t feel different, yet. Not sure it ever will after last year.

More of the same from me already – wake, write with coffee.  Kids awake and watching some kids show.   The aim is difference, total contrast to anything I’ve done before.

How though.  Where do I start when I’m trapped in this house?

Am I trapped?  Really trapped?  Confined?  Jailed.  What’s another word.

Headphones on.  Trying to escape through music, banal as it sounds.

Just had a memory revisit me, this time I was at a bar and started talking to this group of three people, couple and this single girl.  The guy and I started talking about writing, somehow.  He told me he’d done some time, either in county jail or possibly even some prison, maybe out of state.  He told me he wrote poetry, only poetry.  “It just helps me contain everything.” I remember him saying.  He went on to say it’s not like Rap or Hip-Hop, but the same idea, talking about his experiences doing things he probably shouldn’t have, and keeping himself calm and sane day to day behind bars.  Interesting I’d recall this now, or be greeted by this recollection, now, on 1/1.

Need to write more poetry, I know.  Take a poetry oath, or something.  Clear head of other voices and what they said, say day to day.  Self-liberate and orchestrate.  New reality in this new year.

Now it feels different.  Much, in fact.  Like I’m not the writer I was just 24 hours prior.

Keep with this, I tell myself.  Sip coffee, stay in-shop.  And not just the wine Room….

Confused about what next to do.  How.  Verse, stay there.  All answers contained in music.  All of them.  Day off, technically.  No interest in not working.  Research to do for building book, names, name by name, the “funnel” some call it.

Certain of today’s difference, and the gifts it’s already started to speak only to me.