Didn’t want to write. Still bitter about the session I typed on my phone, on the WordPress app, and it just fucking disappeared. I know better. That’s not writing. Why did I do that. But I did it. Got laptop out and am typing here in living room. No more wine. Sipping sparkling lemon water. Told self I’d run in morning but I think I’d much prefer write. In office tomorrow. No field— Goddamn my phone, me writing on the those non-buttons, those virtual touch squares when I should have been scribbling. And I had TWO journals right there on the passenger seat, pen in pocket. That would have been more writer of me, assured more romantic, more Kerouac, more beat. But no. I had to be one of those, people with a phone— those poor people I captured, not captured appropriately. The runners, the cyclists and walkers, people with kids, people who brought their dogs and frisbees, balls to throw dogs. Young couples. Kids. Teenagers with their phones taking selfies and pictures of each other in I’m not sure if it’s silly or just stupid poses. All on a phone. Avowed, last time I do that.
Now here in house, laundry going, me supposed to run. No TV on, no wine, no music. I need music. Jazz. That café or coffee house jazz station on Spotify. Driving to SF today, and back, all I thought of was jazz and jazz musicians, the ones I admire, how they just compose and don’t think and if they do think it’s not to detriment. No distractions, just all in the music, the notes of the moment and the measures they don’t measure to compose but just compose and offer to the world, the room they’re in.
Letting go of what I typed on phone. I’m typing now. On laptop which is on the table we bought at Ashely in Rohnert Park with my Aunt Denise accompanying wife to shop and later calling me down for an opinion. The couch I sit on, bought on that visit additionally. Nearly didn’t write this evening, was going to watch some foolish ass’ show and just stare, maybe check that goddamn phone here and there for messages or photos or something. Need to make coffee for morning if I’m to write. I will. I’ll make coffee. Put in fridge. It’ll be cold. That’ll wake me up quicker.
2019, year I turn 40. Trying to ignore it but still pay more attention to it than anything else. Acknowledge time. End my war with it. Work with it. Study it. And if not understand it then sing with it, celebrate the time I have, right now on this couch writing when the house is alas of more melodic volume.
Still not in much place to write, in head, thoughts, what I see and feel in this room. But I make self do what it needs. End day with some production, page, me here, with water, music, momentary animation.