My mood becomes a rattlesnake, any sort of agitated predator.  Why should I … you know what, never mind.

I will not allow fear.  I will only let myself chase what I want.  No, fuck chasing.  Hunt it down.  My Attitude Project, not gaining anything right now.  I need a break, walk away from the keys…. 

Be the poet you need be, freely—

Another.  Zen calm tranquil, more composed in the New Comp style of thought, writing, living, interpreting words of others, be it brilliance or blather.  Rising, altitude over any aggression.  Whatever accosts my spirit will lose.  Surprise attacks, haste-hastened judgement, all of it disregarded.

JO – Don’t forget about you, he said toward the end.  So true.  Promising myself to work late tonight, in my room.  I’ll type in my bed since Henry now sleeps on a mattress at the foot.  Writing everything that comes to me.  No editing, no filtering or distillation.  All of it.  Being a single dad and nearly 45 and still trying to settle some shit.  Everything… freestyle writing, all days.

These fucking flowers on the table stink.  Throwing them the fuck away.  Gross.

Nearing 1000 words for the day.  Some people, and what they say, I really don’t get it.  Think of something else, I tell myself.  But it’s hard.  Certain obsessive quality to me today, going into early evening.

I remember I used to tell students, “Don’t think, just write.” Now here I am in my fucking mid-40s jabbing at myself to follow my own fervor.  Generate a random work – RISK.

How fitting.

Of course.

Take on more.  If you don’t, no reward should be anticipated, right?  Isn’t that what they say?