Always reach for new knowledge and stories, life and sight.
Freeing self of angst.
You know the Now more when with family.
I’m definitively into my zen tilt and happiness takeover and project. Sipping Rose in a plastic cup I found in Mike’s cupboard I think about wine and what I want with it. Again. Kids unaffected by this, this evacuation. To them it’s a getaway, a vacation, something that has no flames, or threats, evacuations or dangers. It’s fun. They make it fun. Actually, no, they don’t MAKE it anything. They just see opportunity for enjoyment, to relax and play on that slide and those swings.
Not going into Sonic tomorrow, and I feel guilty, but then don’t. I want to and need to be here with the babies. Write. Get out of my comfort zone as much as I hate that phrase, but that’s just what I need do. Saw a bench at the park or rather just in the not-too-distant distance in front of and on the side of a large grass field that you might think is used for polo but I think it’s just a grand and nearly overwhelming grass field for kids to play on. Soccer, chase, tag, what be.
This house I could see as an office, or some property I’d own for either a rental or just an office. Rather big for just an office but it’s what’s smattered in my inner sigh sense, blogging in here for weeks, just locked in and forcing self to produce a book from the blog. The blog has to come first, and the realizer and readier for whenever I’m stuck or feel I’m recycling the same sentences, is the Now. Write the Now. Where you are and what you’re doing.
Jack and Emma watch the Grinch, one of the dozens or hundreds of versions, and eat some Cheerios from a red cup, the kind you’d see at a frat party. Jack spills some and I tell him to pick it up and he tells me he will after he comes back from China. I laugh a little but try to be serious and then tell self fuck that. Have fun with them. Be one on and of the playground.
I need to play more. Not think so much. Not work, but only create, write, stay up late and pepper the manuscript’s streets with verse, pages, my phylum of music. Keep pushing these keys and refuse to let self stop, the wine tells me. Don’t allow distractions, obstructions. Poetry is the vein, the blood, the beat, the blog, the Now ME.
Playing with the wine, the pink puddle in the plastic cannikin. Turning left, seeing Broncos play Raiders. Thinking more of my office.. what I want in there. Anything that antagonizes, promotes, encourages creativity, bringing something to life. This bought with Sonoma County wildfires plates a dose of déjà vu that I wasn’t expecting, to just live and write wildly and edit nothing. Kids getting restless, and me too. To finish this fucking book, and light MY story on fire. Several fires. And be so lovingly monstrous that it can never be extinguished.
Cuz F This S …
With Quarterly done, and me tired, having sent out two re-term contracts and nearly one for new business. Just an updated version of contract, with an added stipulation, or condition, not sure what you’d call it. Can’t send it out yet, wait for contact in office to be there, so put off till Monday.
Still full, and sluggish from lunch. Will call this other prospect Monday as well. He’s trying to dodge one part of what I’m going to offer him, but as someone earlier urged I do, show what he’s gaining rather than what he wants to take out. Don’t fight him, or argue with him, just SHOW benefits, value.
Everyday in this creative corner is education beyond anything I’m used to. Written that or something similar a dozen, hundred, times.
People around where I sit talking, ready for weekend. I’m indifferent but not. Tomorrow off, have to get dry cleaning, promised Jackie I’d do something fun with him, but what. Bowling, batting cages… something creative. Couldn’t get him a hot chocolate this morning, or actually I could have but didn’t ‘cause I thought he and Emma would have been off to school by time I’d be back.
Not in the mood to do anything else. Should leave early, and I can with my autonomy here. I’ll think about it. Hmmmm……
if you call yourself a writer.
You let no ideas escape, you scribble everything.
There’s no such thing as a nothing, as something can can’t be penned.
Your sentences should convey your obsession with your story.
project. Have to write tonight…. Begging the story, my story, to make me write tonight.
Soon leaving for Corte Madera. Opportunity for new business and speaking Sonic, and have people be aware of me and my words.
Latte at home, fans still going drying out the ceiling from upstairs leak. Surprised how that happened, a bother, but teaching me more into homes and real estate, how homes are built and properties and their value… someone’s home, the beaming gravity of such.
I’m not too old for new interests and pursuits, no?
of time’s tenacity.
I need its speed exceed.
We all do.
It’s the world you put into the world.
And scenes narrate the sense and its placement and decided setting.