I run to writing.
My morning thousand…. eventuated. Body wanting to not move as fast as I request, nor mind, but I force both. Elevating volume, Mr. Davis speaking to me, people in the Starbucks in their usual routines and pattern, and me here trying to break one somehow but remain in same creative vein. Writing, everything to this page, to this screen, keeping self more than “productive” but fervent and chasing my travels, learning from days long like this at the winery, with event following usual day and sure to be there well over ten, eleven hours. I stick to my written mode and onus. People continuing to file in, me just finding out I don’t have to be at other property till 9am to help move three pallets of wine from one place to another. Not looking forward to such, I’ll concede, but that’s my workout, or part of it since not waking early this AM as I’d hoped but… onward. Break the loop, sever the pattern, keep self in a newly notes cognitive block walk, right here at the corner table. Writing… more than wine, more than usual topic addresses of me, or the babies, work or some project I’m working on but tuning my mentality and scope, perspective and the psychology accompanying my character and abetting it paragraphs to paragraph… why. Why do I write. It keeps me alive. It keeps me ME, this me here early in the café which is hardly a café like Hemingway wrote in but more a corporate coffee castle… even still I imagine me there, with Papa talking about Craft, when we make our jots and how many pages we yesterday wrote…. I not only run to writing but dance to it, I know what’s waiting for me, the feel of the meditation and the unknown to it which injects an elevated enthrallment and forces the write to jig from car to seat, but coffee first. This morning, not exactly unexpected… 4-shot mocha, still feeling the tremors of that blend last night, what Sophie gave her writing friend as a sort of ‘merci’ for buying three of the blush and three Grenache.
Before I know it I’m far with my words this morning, this meditation and the jazz… a long day, but all written… need a new notebook to have on person but … have to stay entrenched, situated and based in this footing… coffee and composition. Not much a coffee as it is a milk and whip cream-whipped caffeine bomb. Stories fly to my head and I’m convinced they’ll keep me hurried, moving, mobile — “Don’t stop.” I tell Self, more frantic and fanatic in types, typing, some would say not writing but not giving that perspective any glow, any throw. Just flocculating paragraphs and musings as they to me speed. Rubbing eyes and thinking how I’m tired but then shaking self with another story idea, one of old character on which I used to write, Kelly, and the tireless-me to a line bleeds. Keep self writing with this imaginary character, calling in sick after going to a paint and wine part last night with her friend, Emily…. I’ll return to this, I swear. Mom always tells me to write short stories, and in my thinning I reject but not so harshly as I’m so deep into these essay and wandering paragraph upsurges. I think of this character and her friend Emily and start scribbling in semester journal. This is why I don’t just walk or even skip, or strut to writing. I run. I dance. I hurry with a lion’s intensity and eagerness. I don’t mind knowing I have such a day extended in front of me. These days won’t for much longer be, as I’ll be on the Road, traveling with my talks and notes about the act of writing and what writing does — not only its therapeutic association, which anymore I’m so exhausted mentioning and hearing about, but it’s self-educating instrumentation, it’s inner-discovery percussion and rhythm.
I play with the keys as the drummer on his high-hat, like whomever this is on the trumpet. I play, I run, I dance, and bob my head and I don’t care who in this caffeine den can see me, what they’re thinking. I need my morning thousand, I need shift gears for sakes of characters, Kelly and Emily… all.
Run to writing. It keeps you searching, productive yes, but knowing more about you and what you’re meant to do. Huh.. ‘meant’, as if something had it already written. Yeah, that fate thing. I don’t know. I don’t think so. By writing, writing it down, being a bit emphatic and reiterating, and who cares perhaps exactly redundant, you affirm. You affirm YOU. Yes, how known that an English Instructor would urge you to write. So. SO? I do, I am… I’m writing, now, too start my day with a thousand words so I can pull self from that wine fog and that exhaustion from the past week, closing the semester and knowing self better at the end of term, for students and family, my babies……. Jazz. My soul brother, Mr. Coltrane, telling me about his “Blue Train”, how he feels and how I should go into this mass moving of cases, in just over 40 minutes. Pairs with the 4 shots, I’m a writer, writing, like Hemingway when he saw the dark haired woman, like me with Kelly, like Kelly with her friend at the wine and paint gathering. Running to writing, running to self, to coffee and work today, the party later watching all the attended sip and dance, laugh with each other and celebrate week’s end. Je suis content, tres content. Have to practice more French.. speak only French. Running now to French, any word I can think of … I’m straying, I know, but that’s a Beatnik, that’s one of the characters in Sun Also Rises. That’s this me, in the corporate coffee block, presently, cognitively and coherently. How stay in my jazzy productivity. Still in sprint, for my ever of evers.