Archive | December, 2017

Sometimes you

31 Dec

only have what you have.

And that’s what you have to work with.

That’s what should inspire you.

Love what you have, never long for what you don’t.

Your thoughts are yours.

30 Dec

Show onus and ownership in all beats.

2018 Lit

30 Dec

Early to write, but in another room.  Collecting thoughts and musings, dreams and plans for the year new approaching.  Giving self a different spiel.  I deserve it.  We all deserve something new for the new year but we have to be the gifters if we’re to receive anything, if we’re to go anywhere.  In this room, quiet before business opens, I just sit and write, but more so see.  See what’s in front of me, what’s at the 12, but still studying what’s at 6.  In this new year, we ought live more madly, more creatively… more of our own song and rhythm.

While frustrated this morning, waiting for the ice slab on windshield to just bloody go away, my inner-math started to talk to me, in some unknown tongue.  It ordered that all math, all calculations need remain simple.  There’s no need or reason or reasoning to complicate.  Ever.  What we need to get to where we desire be, is already present, and immediately.  Proximally.  Two days left in 2017, and I plan.  I see, envision, don’t make some trite and expected banality cascade.  Rester amoureux du moment. (Stay in love with the moment.)  And always.  Just be in every blink and breath, second and step.

The building makes odd noises, the fruit flies fly all around me, asking me to join, “Don’t wait for the new year, take flight now!” This one says.  I will… I’m off, aloft.  Just soaring and singing around the la pièce like I have no cares.  And I don’t.  Only aims that aren’t even really aims, just destinations on a more aggrandized road.  I’m … at a loss, with this breath set.  So I rest, and then am again off.  The fruit flies antagonize me more, landing on left ear and ping-ponging back and forth across this lit surface.  Type type type—  I go with more BPM and RPM, elevating my EKG, I’m sure.  Coltrane for me plays and I play for these little buzzers as they entertain me, motivate me to ignore them then make integral in story at same.  A numerical and beneficial, pedagogical intersection.

This is early to write, but as well late.  08:52.  Should have been up at 4-something, like that former student, waking every day at something cosmic like 03:45.  Something.  And here I am, early to work but late to keys.  Late to this morning that only wishes to contribute to my education.  The flies bother now, tell me to move, tell me to go to the office…. “Why?” I demand.  They offer nothing.  Do I fight and ground stand or relocate?  Gifting myself resolution.  I’m not going anywhere.  PAS MAINTENANT! (NOT NOW!). Keep with my moment before a workday… gifting self that.  We need gift ourselves more, spoil ourselves more… be bigger fans of our own self, our own work.  Why not.  Regularity and settling in predictability is debilitating.  Maybe this is an hortative inward jot, that if we settle, if I settle—with, in, on, or for anything—I’m doomed.  Yes.  That’s it.  As exaggerative as it intones, it’s prophetic in truth.

Sitting and writing.  I gift self this.  This mocha that ran a writer $6.05.  Steep, and certainly not a necessary expense, but it was a regalo to moi.  Sip, and more thoughts… more thoughts of this new year—  And not just what I want, what I’m going to bloody DO.  Blog more, record everything, be with my little beats more, write more, submit more, sell more, build my story and business and smile everyday at the once-cynicism-storm of a Beatnik.  No… only now, at this age—But what does age matter? It intensely does NOT.—am I seeing.  A seer.  A poet of poets, in my paginated reverberation of self… reciting to and with the fruit flies who now stand back as if to listen to my verses, this morning’s track that I recite over a Davis tune.  Now they fly with more nearness and Newness, wanting to embrace the writer and cheer “Merci!” For my early arrival and manuscript clock-in.  MY own folktale… written for my kids and me and anyone seeing something at their 12’s periphery.

09:04.  Impulse… impulse.  Impulsive.  Be more of that, I tell myself.  And so does Coltrane, Hutchinson, Jazz itself… me in my time, us in ours.  For your new year, don’t see it as a new year, but a leap to intensification.  All efforts.  And your “There” need not be a There.  It’s already in your story.  If you see yourself somewhere, you’re already partially there.  Now, in ’18, complete the manuscript.  Your story.  Your book.  And keep writing.

Needing to focus more on my typing I wave arm, tell the flies to sit down, let me recite, let me walk up and down the vineyard rows in my head and sip Cabernet in a Paris café with my notebook.  There’s too much going on, and then not enough.  Notable scuttle from me, this A.M., withy backpack on the chair next to me, like it’s listening to.  Just DO.  No more wishing, wishlisting, dreaming or envisioning, or hoping or grieving for some element’s absence.  Now, we light wicks.  We recite.  We live in poem assemblage.  Picture I took this morning of the ice with more more thesis, more narration.  It won’t just melt, you have to be meditative, use the time and don’t just wait.  Log thoughts… be dire and diarist… write… don’t wish.  Be fire.  Melt anxiety’s ice and the putrid kettle of normalcy.

Blaze, blaze.  Impulse’s gems and stanzas tell us that this new year is the front door.  Welcome in.  What you’ve seen for self.  Inside.  But, mindful.  Be more than mindful and know you have to maintain this new palatial page.  Wonder how you arrived… you.  From tireless treks.  You’re the gifter, recipient, and now keeper.  I collect again.  Solving equations I thought just over and past me, crazily.  More than a meditation, but appreciation.  For this.  This new year, for us, for me, for the flies and the quiet room.  I’m springing and sprinting, singing into ’18.  Why not.  I have the opportunity to so DO.

And it’s deserved.

Feel a cold or something

30 Dec

approaching, but I write and sniffle through it. I’m not so “sick” that I can’t write, that I can’t brainstorm and plan and just act. I’ll do everything I want to, today. And finish everything. Today will be overwhelmed by me and what I do– my voice and movement, my song and creative strut.

06:53, have to get ready. Hop in shower and start day. Don’t slow, don’t stop, don’t allow obstruction.

Education…

30 Dec

Lifelong.

You’re always being educated, if you allow.

To be “educated” implies that the process is done.

Don’t desire that.

Aim for more education, not to BE educated.

thought

29 Dec

If you’re alive and living and observing, you’re writing.

You can put to page, later.

29 Dec