Tag Archives: me

#ThursdayThoughts

18 Jan

Tell yourself today that your thoughts are the most valuable in your world.

Write results.  Re-read.

Delight in your renewed sight.

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.

05:39.

27 Dec

Could go back to sleep but why, I asked myself, then I could feel my frustrations foment, ferment, forward from my core. Busy day yesterday getting resettled in home and no writing being laid to page, its place, where it and I need be. So again, why sleep. Back at winery today, work, and I wonder how many people I’ll see. Don’t have any particular hope, for many or few. What I am hoping for is time for the day to teach me and me trap those sagacious bites.

Hating what I’m writing, but as I suggested just before the semester closed, delete nothing. Keep moving. Don’t think… my story, the writing/working/teaching/whatever-else father on the couch after little Ms. Austen evicted me from sheets. I’m seeing only pictures of the vineyard, not so much wine as I do those rows, the canes on the ground and hearing the birds singing from one area of trees across a little valley to another group. And me in the middle, just recording, agape. A writer… at a winery. But I want to be more than that, today. “What do you want to be?” Maybe the day can, or will, answer that for me. ‘Cause right now I have no response.

Stay on the page…. hear myself in the classroom, advising students in their last days of composing an essay. And those papers… when will I get to those? Tomorrow, hopefully. Need always ‘wake early like this. How many times I’ve said that… my life would be different I’m sure if I had actually risen every time I said I would. Made coffee last night. On the little docking station of the keurig. Too into what I’m writing to go get it. And I think I hear Jack waking. Please just give me ten more minutes! I type faster and about everything around me… boxes and little plastic parts that latch to air vents to direct the heart or cool one way or the other. Shouldn’t the painters have reattached them? Now I am just taking up the page– page robbery. But I’m not. The morning, this cruelly early hour tells me to always relay and reiterate my reality as this writing daddy.

No shirt, cold, even with the heat. Probably the coziest most comfortable blanket I’ve ever owned around my leg and torso, keeping me somewhat composed temperature-wise but chest and shoulders a bit shiver. Heat off, and I get more uneased. Write through it, remember? Today is more than one of those ‘trap everything’ days, and more than just writing down some silly or obscure, strangely and obscurely poetic babble about wines I taste. I will capture my Now. In all its specificity, boring or intriguing, entertaining or educational. Right now, up as early as I am, there’s too much opportunity to get ahead of the day, time itself. I’m ahead of it. Now. Battle the clock by refusing to stop. Learning from this, yes, I guess, but more so enlivened, uniquely. So quiet in this house I think I can hear the cars driving up and down San Miguel, blocks away. This house, now, my studio, my creative box where I think galaxies outside any “box”. I’m educated by this sound void, the no-light sight of it principally, the cold slithering over my upper immediacy.

I’m learning that waking early not only solves and propels a day, notably for a writer hoping to be more disciplined and sell his work, but for Personhood, general enrichment and spiritual assembly. I nearly never use that word, or any form of it, denotatively or connotatively. That’s my realization, though.  And it is ‘spiritual’. There is a specific recomposition of my character’s composition in this sitting, in me forcing myself to wake, stay awake, sent my functioning what it wants. I’m forwarding. New discipline. The morning taught me, then I instructed myself.

Someone’s awake upstairs, and this collection could cut, interrupted at any minute. Keep going. No stopping. No pausing. Nothing that blocks or pauses me, and certainly not stops. So many hours left in my chapter– this day, this installation. I will write in the vineyard, no matter how cold… blow apart the regularity and pattern of just going to the office as I always do. Going over in my head things I have to do after that but why… see yourself where you want to see yourself then take yourself there. You deserve what you want, as that’s a need. Need to be there and take yourself to that There, without excess meditation, deliberation.

Someone’s up… think Jack. Or wife. Someone. But you can’t stop, don’t listen, just write. Finish that book, finish that other book (shorter one), and SELL. You don’t have to wait… What would you be waiting for, anyway? No answer ’cause there isn’t one. Typing on my phone like some high school or JC student but for different sakes. Sales. More than that but that is part of the aim… managing myself as were somewhat managed at the winery, me “training” to be a manager, learning as I progress to manage my paginated acts here, or try. The morning gives me a break in the lesson, meditative collection, but I don’t want one.

Heater about to come on again, I look at the time… 06:12. Whoa, I think. Time’s fighting back. Adorable. Well…. time to intensify my assault. Hit the day from more than just multiple approaches, or angles. Multiply my manuscripts… creative efforts. Delete nothing. NOTHING. Be as one manager said the other day, “bold and unapologetic”. Yes… you know, hearing those words from him, I knew he was speaking to me on more than one note, for more than one purpose, in a way he didn’t even fractionally intend. I’m intrepid this morning. We all are, if we just make ourselves GET UP. You have much later in life to rest, to have real reasoning behind NOT getting out of bed. Why am I just now seeing this, 2 days and 5 months before turning 39. Makes me sick, makes me motivated, a bit angry– hungrier. I will be There, soon. We all will. We have to show everyone around us how horribly we want it and that no one deserves it more than we do.

If you’re going to be

6 Sep

a dreamer, you

may as

well have

YOUR

druthers.

Avec,

Mike

Perspective…

24 Aug

Today, we explore this word.  The idea, the concept, how we develop a perspective of our own.  How do we know when our perspectives need changing?  What affects our perspective?  How much of our identity is our perspective?  Thinking this way will not only help us understand ourselves better, but as well what we read and the characters in what we read.  And, more importantly, what WE write.

note

6 Jul

Wrapping up Week 3 of Summer Term.  Thinking myself more about actuating what I advocate in terms of ideas and “advice”, if you could call it that.  This day, a theoretical day off, has tested me a bit.  But I need to be tested, in all respects.  We all do.  That’s how our stories are strengthened and how we as characters find gems in our own characters.  I wrote earlier today to hold on to an image, to dash at it.  What I meant to say was ‘a scene’, some stage with you on it— that ideal setting and circumstance set.  Think of it.. hear and see it… feel it, then sprint.  And if it’s a long ways from you now, pace yourself.  You will get there.  Again, this is something I need to tell myself over and over.  It takes practice, like anything else.  Sometimes we find ourselves in lulls, or funks, moods, kerfuffles, and it’s up to us to pull ourselves out.  Don’t wait for someone to say the right thing, or scroll through a Google search for the right inspirational quote.  Be your own inspirer and motivational speaker.  To improve You, you have to embrace you… be a fan of You.  Study YOU.

Days that test you are the real gems.  They should be seen as the most optimal of opportunities to learn, grow, see the plan to free yourself.  Days that challenge you are like inspiration and motivation buffets.  There’s so many parcels to study.  Over the weekend, have your assignment, or one of them, be noting all your stresses and anxieties, frustrations… if you’re in a funk, write it down, find out specifically why… then you have something to study, attack, grow from… you’re another step closer to flying.  Let yourself be tested.  Invite tests… challenge the elements around you, challenge yourself.  Then, enjoy the growth.  Enjoy the increase in elevation, your new climbing pace.

Be where

22 Jun

you’re the most YOU.