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 …
