St. Patrick’s Day

Not sure what it means to me, the significance. If there is any. But I’m enjoying the day. Brewery up the street from the Autumn Walk Studio that I’ve been wanting to visit for months. And here I am. Finally. Back to work tomorrow and I return more composed and confident than recent weeks. Why…. I focus on the idea of sound, speed, efficiency, story. Kindness. The pillar and principle that should determine business momentum. Playing now, as I about to pick up the pint+ of Red Ale, Born On A Bayou, CCR. I’m taken somewhere. Somewhere. Some mood elevated and renewed. My day off but not. Not at all. This, this tap room if you’d call it that, present now in my pages. This is all significant. That I know.

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Going to

finish a book.

Soon.

Not worried about what genre, what form. Just write and collect and it will for something, some voice, some scripture.

In a bar up the street from home, just after work. One guy playing pool, others talking about something that happened either at this bar one night, one wild night, or at some party. Lady tending at trying to push this one beer, her heart to be blessed, that has all proceeds and monies made supporting the Camp Fire.

Me at a tall table, by self, stressing over writing, my writing, what I wrote this morning at Stony Point Starbucks and in Field, and now, Now.

The morning, more than these later hours.

So much more.

These hours, this time of day, night, could never parallel the A.M. value, gift to me and the page– me on the page.

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06:09

Starting day earlier than you have in a while. Coffee cold, just as you knew it would be.

Time for shower.

Budget money for day.

Start the day.

Let it get you closer to IT.

There.

Bring There, here.

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Day’s end, and

Pinot is there to ease me, sing and educate, provoke meditation and new sight, exploration of prior hours. She instructs the writer to not work as hard, not feel so obligated to fill a page. See the room you’re in, she says. Walls sing alongside her and the floral scape of her animated way.

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