Working in nook. More ideas for the first floor office. Or, what was the first floor office. And the Archive in the master bedroom. I’m fascinated by this condo, lately. Nearly 3 years of residence here. And I only want to write book after fucking book, and more books here. And photog. AND…. MUSIC.
Why not. Why not do everything I want. No oddity, no explanation, no trying to solicit acceptance.
Tempted to call in tomorrow. And I don’t give a fuck who’s reading this. There was a grip expressed about my schedule— You know what, never mind. I’m writing this new.
Found an old poetry collection on the first floor. I remember this, and when I got it. I think as a bday present, or xmas. Something… but still, Kerouac in it. Joyce. Hughes. Want jazz in the room with me.
More poetry. No more of this formalist paragraphs-have-to-be-this-way-shit like they stress at SRJC and other communicated college catacombs. Yeah, I feel like speaking out tonight. I feel like expressing some shit.
Need a glass of something, what. Chard? The one opened last night? I don’t know, maybe not yet but not too far off. This coming week is going to determine more than I ever thought it would. Not that I’ve thought about this week prior to this type but from this morning, waking up and thinking about testing SELF to show more strength and staunchness, more conviction and frankly aggression, and invite those synaptic cotton ball-consciouses to say something.
Remark in some way, PLEASE.
Learned something today… interesting. But oh, don’t write it here. And I won’t. Following Dad’s counsel and writing in the journal. Let the book be a fucking Tsar Bomb. Let them all fry. And why not… one of the bloggers I follow, always with the positives, and I’m in that lane same. BUT… there are times when responses are necessary.
Indeed they are. Reading the Alchemist, A-FUCKING-GAIN, and establishing my Legend. My Story of Stories, especially after finding this book.
Poetrics… music. Fuck all this template hullabaloo. Deciding now, that I will die for these stanzas. This mind, this practice of journal scribbles— SHIT, haven’t touched the EVERYDAY yet. I will tonight. In the suite office. Now the name, now the code and practice and acceptance, tandem with minimalist manuscript and modality.
No overcluttered drawers in this domicile, no mess, not much actually of anything. The simple is the promise and the most musical of staircases. And cutting distractions off wherever they step. I’m now newly adept in this Stoic notice.
New subscription to the person on the page
Regardless of balance or age
Talking my talent, a sage—
Stop thinking so much, what’s the nerve of work
Nothing to rush, their words just blurbs
Blather, so to me no longer a meaning or matter
Turn the page randomly to Whitman where he sites his contradictions, his multitudes. Just what I needed to read and feel, especially today with the rain and little wind randomness, us in the condo like fugitives. Sip of something, now new tone. Substation of antithetical messages. Done.