Less than 30 minutes left of my 2 hours to self to write. Listening to different music now. No more Hutcherson. Not now.. Eating a bagel after taking a break. No I didn’t nap, though so tempted. Looking left, receipts from yesterday. Stressing me out… Loose change on right. There has to be some symbol in that I’m just too goddamn tired to figure it out.
Need coffee. HOT coffee. No more of this cold nonsense from the tumbler. It’s lost its allure, its life and flavor anyway.
24 minutes left. What if I called in today’s classes? What difference would it make?
Turned heater on. Writer’s freezing. Little toast and peanut butter— I know, exhilarating prose. I know.
Have to email a prospective client, then think about getting in shower. Will only keep both classes for about an hour. Wish I could take that nap, but then nothing would get done. Can’t afford this, just days before the year I turn 38. Can’t believe that. Just writing that number associated with my name and character sickens me. Looking at this desk and everything on it, no stress, just possibility— the writer forces himself to think in only optimistic chords and rhythms, measures and keys. Music… everything is a standalone piece, something to be read as I share with my students and this writer comes even to more lively life, thank you coffee—
12 minutes left in the 2 hours I allowed self. So now what do I do? Maybe not obsess over time so much. How about that? How’s that for reasoning? Do I have a reason? Yes. To live more. Not calculate and measure so much. Want my babies’ father to be unusually composed, happy, zen.
One of the vineyard shots from yesterday, haunting me, telling me I need to move even quicker if I’m to have my own vineyard, ever. Walk it in the morning while the coffee would be in my hand rather than on this goddamn desk (what my sister did this morning, sharing her photo). And like that, this writer’s out of time. Time tells me what to do and when and sometimes how. Bastard. I won’t resist, but rather work with. IT can’t win, that way.