A great start
lousy follow through.
story of my life.
no time for promises.
see if I can get back here
tomorrow.
or the next day
or the day after that
Saturday, July 15, 2017
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Prologue
I've written many, many posts, but have written none of them down.
I write them when I'm awake in bed in the morning hours before dawn. These days I frequently wake up on the couch after sleeping through who knows what on the TV and then head to bed. Where I can NOT get back to sleep. My brain wakes up and takes off. Maybe it's REM time. Sometimes I see moving patterns. Hallucinations? I don't know. But frequently I imagine that I am writing. Brilliant stuff, by the way.
I write them when I'm walking. Rant and dialogue flow freely with every step.
I write them when I'm driving. Sports commentary and political discussion of the highest order.
I've tried making notes and occasionally have sat down at a keyboard, but the inspiration does not flow and the words seem silly on the screen.
I tried to write journals, poetry and even fiction years ago as a skinny philosophy student and would be poet, sometimes by hand, sometimes on a beat up old typewriter that once lived in the bookkeeping office in the old Baker Hotel in downtown Dallas. In my mind I can be there still, on a warm Austin summer afternoon in the old house on 22nd at David that was the first Austin Women's Center and where the guy drove his car into the block party one fall evening while Ramon, Ramon and the Daddios were rockin' Bo Biddley. I am there, it feels almost as if I were there right now. But the words, the images did not flow.
So it's 3:40 am, the kitchen is dark except for the light of the screen and I am writing.
Now.
And maybe I can go to bed and get some sleep.
And maybe tomorrow the words will not seem too weird and I will write some more.
I write them when I'm awake in bed in the morning hours before dawn. These days I frequently wake up on the couch after sleeping through who knows what on the TV and then head to bed. Where I can NOT get back to sleep. My brain wakes up and takes off. Maybe it's REM time. Sometimes I see moving patterns. Hallucinations? I don't know. But frequently I imagine that I am writing. Brilliant stuff, by the way.
I write them when I'm walking. Rant and dialogue flow freely with every step.
I write them when I'm driving. Sports commentary and political discussion of the highest order.
I've tried making notes and occasionally have sat down at a keyboard, but the inspiration does not flow and the words seem silly on the screen.
I tried to write journals, poetry and even fiction years ago as a skinny philosophy student and would be poet, sometimes by hand, sometimes on a beat up old typewriter that once lived in the bookkeeping office in the old Baker Hotel in downtown Dallas. In my mind I can be there still, on a warm Austin summer afternoon in the old house on 22nd at David that was the first Austin Women's Center and where the guy drove his car into the block party one fall evening while Ramon, Ramon and the Daddios were rockin' Bo Biddley. I am there, it feels almost as if I were there right now. But the words, the images did not flow.
So it's 3:40 am, the kitchen is dark except for the light of the screen and I am writing.
Now.
And maybe I can go to bed and get some sleep.
And maybe tomorrow the words will not seem too weird and I will write some more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)