Day Eight

Some things I'd rather forget. My mind has a mind of its own. Cruising over the past I stop to focus on what could possibly be an unattractive moment, and my mind refuses to bring it clear. The memories are shadows standing under my glance, shapeless forms waiting to be seen, to perform once again for me. I can see them tapping their feet, "Lets get it on" impatiently one of them yells from the haze--I think its the blurred image of a boy I beat with a stick in the 6th grade.

Day Seven

I love the rain. I don't like getting wet in my clothes (hence I wander about shoeless when it pours) however, nothing sets up mood like a grey rainy day. I open the curtains, and the window just a crack. I let the cold breeze in, but I try to keep the water from puddling on the floor. My coffee is sitting on the corner of the desk, and the smoke from the incense (Frankincence.) drifts up from the holder. Paint the picture, and the words come. How could they not, they're fighting to come out, just as the rainwater fights towards the sea.

Day Six

4:30 A.M. and I'm already at it. I'm stuck on a section and its kicking my ass--in a fly swimming round my head kind of way. Kate and George are sleeping and I just fired up my first cup of coffee. I love this new instant crap. It tastes pretty good and its easy, boil water add packet.

Day Five

I lost my friend Stewart yesterday. Looks like a heart-attack. He was about four years younger than my fourty-eight. I've lost a lot of friends. His story--at least as it pertains to me, is in a chapter of this book that I havent cleaned up yet. I named him Richie, not that he wouldnt have liked the stories about him, but you never know.

"He was real, meaning I knew him--unlike most of my aquaintences that choose to remain hidden, afraid of themselves, afraid of a world that might not like the truth, so they sacrifice the vision of God in themselves for a lie."

Day Four

I was accused of drifting into the land of erotica yesterday. I'm not sure if I can help it. My pen, or my typing hands, take on their own life when I let go. Sometimes acting out angrilly, stabbing thrusts onto the page, and at other times, soft easy flourishes of the mind gently spill across the screen. I'm not going to edit, judge, or control, I'm just going to let it out.

Day Three

I finished the first chapter yesterday--0-7 the developmental years of a child. Now don't get scared thinking I have another 41 years to go before you see it, because the book is basically done, I'm just hammering out rewrites and revisions for the editor. I'm launching into the world of the pre-teen today--you know; drugs, booze, sexual experimentation, and stealing the car. ("he did say pre-teen didn't he?" "Yeah, I think he's talking about consensual sex with someone his own age and dirt weed.")

Day Two

Good morning, got my coffee and I'm getting ready to roll. I never thought I'd be as excited about writing as I was creating songs, but I catch myself thinking about sections in this book, and how I'd like to handle them. It's not an easy project for me though. I stumbled through a very emotional section the other day, it was uncomfortable, tear filled, and hard. I don't like paying a price for anything, I want my things free--including my awareness, but I came out of it with an awakening on the nature of my jealousy and mistrust. I was glad that I'm kinda 3rd personing this piece, because it gave me a bit of distance from the pain...