The story talking to me, narrating to myself as I type, to these loft beats, not correcting errors. Can do that when I’m done. What did they do when there weren’t laptops? Have too be like Kerouac at the desk, typing on the teletype paper. Stories of music and when my cousin and I would make music, stay up for hours and record like that one time when I lived in San Ramon and we had some beers and just wrote and made an instrumental, record vocals, then again do.
Thinking about what my average is, haven’t been writing like I usually do. Did the other night at the Villa (Nurse’s house) and a little yesterday in journal but not 1001 words. Honestly don’t remember the last time I hit it. And that’s okay. Can’t be a regular thing otherwise what’s the point.
Feeling strong this morning, and going into the noon hour soon. Back at office tomorrow, driving out to Villa immediately after. Nothing is not speaking to me right now. Free writing from free senses and conversations inwardly beaming and flashing, screaming in new euphonious harmony. And all this to blog, book eventually I guess.