...The Right to Write - Exercise...

Initiation Tool - create "Morning Pages", writing 3 pages longhand every morning (90 days straight)

Tues. Sept. 7, 2010 - "Morning Pages" - Day #28 - Columbia Park, Borough Hall, Brooklyn, steps...

I'm making moves, not on your girlfriend, already got one, making moves past, by, out of my comfort zones. I was walking along Court Street in Brooklyn, after a slice of tomato pizza from My Little Pizzeria, passing the comfort zone of Barnes and Noble, a frequent writing spot...and, passing Dunkin' Donuts, ignoring the voice, one of them, whispering, Ice Coffee, Ice Coffee, Ice Coffee...I haven't had a Joe-cup all day, hence, I'm making moves, one of which was a spin move passed another douchbag wearing sunglasses with a suit...that's not ridiculous, it is?...Ok, I'm convinced...and now I find myself writing in Columbia Park, located in Borough Hall of Brooklyn...

...Today was the first official day that I consciously decided to not do my "Morning Pages" in the morning. It's not always procrastination, sometimes a decision to do something later...and, here I am making those moves, landing myself on these steps, doing my thang, writing today's "Morning Pages"...yeah, it's 3:41 PM, but I guess I needed some time away from the page, still ingesting that meet-up with that Jamaican Prophet. Again, this brings me back to how we get to certain places in our lives, and why I'm sitting on these steps writing. Why did that total stranger walk up to me the day after jokingly putting in Moleskine a warning sign to fellow train riders that one day they'd become characters in my novels, novels I haven't begun writing, or even planned to...and then, he said goodbye and that he looked forward to reading my book, soon, emphasizing soon like I had a publisher, or even mentioned I was writing a book...maybe I am...and he's one of those characters...

...Imagine book browsing in Barnes and Noble, and you come across some guy talking about the Middle Urinal Metaphor, you'd keep reading, you wouldn't?...or at least laugh, can I compromise a smirk?...I look at these people walking through the park after a days work, with their kids that are back to school, or acquaintances sharing their day's stories over coffee and cigarettes, all of which seems so normal, their lives so organized. The Jamaican Prophet, or so I labeled him, could have been sipping caffeine here yesterday, seemingly so normal, and as organized as the rest, but the next day he talks to a stranger about writing, mixing into the conversation something about Michael Jackson and Ricky Martin, don't ask...and now he's considered a freak, a weirdo. Me, one day I'm substitute teaching, or coaching basketball, seemingly normal and organized...the next day I'm caught writing about how taking a dump on a public toilet is a leap of faith, and people should use that as inspiration to take more leaps of faith in life...now I'm the freak, the weirdo...and I haven't even mentioned my orange hair yet, it can get weirder...Why am I writing, I don't know, exactly. People ask what I'd like to write, I don't know, exactly...Maybe it's a way of organizing my life, but...who knows, who knows?...

...Am I supposed to think yesterday was just another day turned somewhat weird because that Jamaican prophet came into my life and gave me one of those New York stories you'll tell your friends, "You wouldn't believe what happened"?...Or, I could actually just take his advice, keep writing simple, maybe he isn't a weirdo...or is one, but has occasional good advice, weirdos are capable of this at times, especially with writing, maybe...Or, maybe I'll play the weirdo, and believe in the other possibility. I could see him as a sign...I'm headed in the right direction...and should continue to listen to myself...just write...

...I continue watching these people walking through the park, racing, racing, racing. The guy to my left was reading, now just sitting, watching, and then sees me and gives me a "what the hell you doing" look...I'm writing, but other than that I have no clue...

...I sold out, I'm now writing at Starbucks, got that ice coffee, but I did this to write, to complete today's "Morning Pages". The coffee, it's my vice, it's my reassurance, my rationalization...it's just coffee, it's not like I'm an alcoholic rationalizing one drink, I am?...Yes, I'm drinking, but I'm writing, it's ok...coffee is often the first thing I ingest every morning, except today, and unless you count some toothpaste I swallowed...so, it's like my first taste of coffee is a psychological (yes, psycho) cue that I'm beginning my day, back on my path, back on a road, my road...maybe?...

Jotted in margin: college, insomnia, where's the job I was supposed to get?...not organized, etc....

...All those passing people I was watching earlier aren't as normal and organized as they appear. I know this because it has to be true if the same goes for me. First of all...among all the possible things that could go first, this is first of all...I am white, it doesn't get more conventional, or normal, than that, right?. My girlfriend is Asian, she's so weird...I mean interesting and unique (insert observation of old white guy observing black people at a later date)...Or, at least, it's been my perception that I've had a conventional life, no white picket-fence, but whatever...I'm thinking all these people (except that guy, he sucks) has a hidden talent, or at least something they'd like to pursue...it could be something as simple as searching for ones lost glow stick...it could be...however, that something they'd like to pursue may not fit their persona of what they appear to be - so they are scarred to try it...and it seems, the older you get, often, the harder it is to sway off path, deny your persona. Kids live freely and try things on the spot...that might be the reason so many of them try drugs (or Theater!), and get hooked early, grow up, and we label them alcoholics, call them adults, they're human, and they can't escape their persona...(insert what I wrote, vision for writing here, but was scarred to post)...

The following writing I wrote during "Morning Pages" Day #27...like the above said, I was too scared to post it then...but, apparently a day after, I made the decision to insert it into Day #28...in the margins next to this writing I jotted: Insert into Day #28 - take leap and insert, damn it!)...here it is:

Back home. Brooklyn. Bob's hanging out. Jack White's yelping out the Ipod speaker...you can't beat time, no matter how fast I race this pen...you can't escape being human, no matter how hard I'd like to just be completely present and not think too far ahead...We all have immediate visions for our life, or an immediate vision for what we write. My immediate vision, or idea, or goal, was to simply write 3 pages everyday, just that, be in the moment with that and not plan ahead what I wanted to write...And, well, me not being able to escape being human, my mind wanders, it wonders what this will become...And, well, my immediate vision was to write, but we all have a faraway vision for what we'd like our life, or work, or writing to be, because...I'm swaying away from my comfort zone here, but telling myself it's ok this time...my faraway vision is to humanize art...who knows, who knows...

...

...Humanize art...Like I said, I'm white, so as normal as they come, and by they, this time, I don't mean black people, I mean normal people, I think?...Anyways, my point is, and I'm still working it out in my head as I write, people's perception of writers is that they aren't normal or don't have organized lives...It's been my perception my whole life that I've had a conventional life, that I am normal. I still believe this, but wasn't aware vices like coffee, inventing metaphors using toilets, and being an insomniac was part of a normal life, now seemingly very unorganized, especially in my racing mind, I just wrote novel #52 in between lines, but couldn't get it down fast enough...Anyways, I think I'm getting somewhere, and think I should continue to believe, or think this way, remember, I once won an Award for thinking...And, I'll sign off for today with -- Am I insane, or do I finally have the balls to do what I want to? Or, am I so scarred to end up doing something else that it'll actually force my hand and I'll end up doing what I want to...questions...all mixed in with years of sleep deprivation...I'm on my train ride home, acknowledging it's Brooklyn, now...And, I've realized I've forgotten to read that self-assigned novel assigned during "Morning Pages" Day #1, busy writing my own? (Insert "Cliche" lyrics about wanting to be like writers)...

...And for those lyrics I'm supposed to insert, again...in my song (my song, ha!) "Cliche" I wrote: ...You should have learned patience, but didn't/ and now all you feel is the constant act of being on the run/ you want to be like those writers that make your mind run/ but don't know/ "they are always in the constant act of becoming"...that last line is in quotes because Kurt Vonnegut wrote something like that...it was him or Bob Dylan...add another thing for a later date, looking quote up...todaboconoma...

...And, I end the day, perceivably normal, waiting for a phone call, remembering the train as a reassurance, and comparing it to the reassurance of knowing someone's going to call at night... telling you she's on her way home...and as I wrote that I honestly just heard a text message...pause to check phone...says she's on her way, I can breathe...another day.

...The Right to Write - Exercise...

Initiation Tool - create "Morning Pages", writing 3 pages longhand every morning (90 days straight)

Mon. Sept. 6, 2010 - "Morning Pages" - Day #27 - Off West 4th St./Washington Sq. stop...walking around trying to find bathroom...still walking...finding a park without a care to find out its name, after talking to Jamaican Prophet...

...The Jamaican Prophet reminded me of many things, two worth mentioning: One, when writing, keep it simple, and, two, prophets are Yankee fans...On my way to nowhere, for today's "Morning Pages'" journey, I decided, but feels like someone else really made the decision, to get off West 4th Street/Washington Square, thinking the park would be a good place to write. During my train ride, on the D, I was reading Ms. Cameron's The Right to Write. I've talked about seeing signs, that I'm heading in the right direction, my right direction, get your own. I think back to Cat Stevens (almost wrote, Williams...crossed it out) singing in Starbucks(land), "Do what you want", thinking about this while reading Cameron's chapter about ESP. Signs are everywhere, it may be hard for you to read them...but that's because YOU can't read...and purchased this writing on tape (that's where this writing is heading, it's not?)...But, the signs are out there, in many different forms - - a song, a book, Paulo Coelho's?, or another being, a Jamaican Prophet. I ran into him today on my train ride...ran into him, yes, because I enjoy a pleasant train ride, and jog on it from time to time, and this time, he got in the way, maybe trying to take "the charge", but no whistle was blown, I must have beaten him to the spot, he didn't have proper position, etc. Let me move my seat from this bench to possibly a coffee shoppe chair. ESP just told me to do that, maybe this bench isn't the right place to tell this story, to see the signs, or maybe my ass just needs a different cushion for comfort, to story tell. I don't know, but I'll listen to this sign, for now. I wonder where Ace of Base (their song, "I Saw the Sign") are? I'll sign back on to today's pages when I find that seat, and tell you more about the Jamaican Prophet...and, a yes, to your question...I am insane...walking down a street, trying to find that seat...

...And so, I have found that seat, a more familiar one, on the floor of a Park Slope Barnes and Noble, Paulo Coelho's book Warrior of the Light piled atop The Right to Write. The signs are there, or at least I'm letting Cat Stevens, Paulo Coelho and Ms. Cameron, trick my insomniac mind into believing so. This bookstore is a familiar place I've often come to just to get away, remember, to hide my selves in the aisles of bookshelves. It's a familiar place, like home, but away from home. Home was always Connecticut, now it's NYC, but as an insomniac, I feel like my mind will never get all the way back home, home being a state of mind, who I used to be, not just a physical place, feeling there is no direction home, a forced metaphor to convince, or self-trick, into believing I am like Dylan, a reference to Martin Scorsese's documentary about Dylan, No Direction Home (when I get my computer files back, I will add lyrics I wrote about me inserting Dylan's name so much to the point people will be tricked into comparing me to him, they won't?)...Here's some useless information, but it does relate...Ms. Cameron, the author of The Right to Write, is Scorsese's ex-wife...a sign?...eh, there are too many to comprehend which ones are useful...keep it simple, said the Jamaican Prophet...and yes, believing in a prophet is keeping it simple, it certainly is...

...I want to go home, I'll accept the physical one now, but, think, "only if" I could just get back there mentally, etc. and, for now, whatever...I've got a story to tell now, it's about me following the signs, and finding that seat for my ass, presently a sweaty one, from walking so much...maybe I should have listened to myself and slowed down while walking, having a possible cooling effect, maybe...story time, children...

...I'll go into detail about the Jamaican Prophet later, but before I listen to his advice about keeping writing simple, I'm going to make it complicated...I said Paulo Coelho's Warrior of the Light is next to me, a book I read last year sometime, and also read The Alchemist, his most famous book. I'm inclined to buy this book, even though I've already read it...and now I've realized Coelho's agenda here...Warrior has many of those signs, and talks about how the universe will conspire to help you, you just have to recognize the signs...let's take a look at my day, and how it lead me here, realizing his agenda...I do recall him mentioning how I'll doubt myself while the universe does this, all the while, being sleep deprived?...so, that does intrigue me to read it over again, at a later date...

Jotted in Moleskine after chatting with Jamaican prophet: Everyday seems so normal, so uneventful, it's not easy to make everyday exciting, adventurous, but sometimes it just takes a train ride for a story to happen - insert Dylan/walkin in rain lyric -...

...That's what I jotted, word for word - dash mark for dash mark...here's that lyric I'm supposed to insert, which also had been jotted down in Moleskine: Listen to "Like A Rolling Stone" so much it's become my "Groundhog Day" song that I wake up to everyday/ everyday's the same/ so why not take your time/and walk in the rain...

...See, I didn't need Cat Stevens to tell me to do what I want, I've wanted to slow life down, thought maybe if I walk slower, it's hard to keep up with New Yorkers, life would slow down, less anxiety, and maybe more sleep. After writing that, I tell myself to listen to the sign from the Jamaican Prophet, keep writing simple, ok , so I'll simplify...if I walk slower, listening to my own advice, I wouldn't have a sweaty ass right now, a lesson for all the kids out there, or is it for adults?...

...I rub my eyes, trying to reach my brain, the part that really needs the massage, and is begging for a happy-ending - to this nightmare...nightmare of never falling asleep, that makes no sense (possibly at a later date relate to - All is well when we sink to hell lyrics I wrote)...I'm listening to myself, I like today's writing so far, it's unorganized, but it's getting, somewhere...and, I didn't like the journey to this part of the day, but I'm getting somewhere with this day -- but I'm telling myself, reminded of Cameron's chapter on ESP, to take a break, go lift some iron at that expensive gym, and sign back on later...later...

...

Jotted on pad: So attached to cell phone, I hear its ringtone, to later realize it didn't ring...and realize all of the insanity life's gonna bring...

...

...And so, I'm signing back on, with Coelho, Cat Stevens, and Ms. Cameron having me believing in signs, the universe will conspire to work for you Coelho says, he's got me hooked...and so, what seemed like an ordinary day gone bad, was just someone, was it God?...am I writing my version of The Shack, or The Alchemist?...and, well, as written in my song The Book of Just The In-Between Lines, "Oh geez...we're all bound to go crazy, searching for our great discovery...like John Nash...oh where, oh where, can such be found in this Hocus Pocus land?"...

...Insomniac Thought-Dreams Gone Wild!...apparently, infomericals in the works...but, I'm ESPing...and, so on...The first "sign" was in the form of that Jamaican Prophet I keep mentioning, but won't explain to you what he's about, get your own sign, playa...but, there's no need to worry, I'll tell you about him in due time, we're walking through this writing this time, we aren't?...I had met this guy coming off the D-train, a train I rarely ride, but got off West 4th Street, like I said, thinking Washington Square Park would be a good place to write. I didn't hear or understand much of what he said, but what I did, I'll tell you about later. We went our different ways, after he blabbered (yes, that's my word choice) for a real 10 minute count, believe me, I counted...aloud while he was talking, he seemed unfazed though, not swayed off his path, so whys he getting in the way of mine?. We parted, I walked up the stairs with a urination sensation, was in good spirits otherwise, tired, but ready as I'll ever be to write, I wasn't?...The search for the bathroom was on. I've ranted about Starbucks, call me a hypocrite, you'll soon be the accused too, but I assumed there would be 1 or 11 to 15 nearby, so I walked, walked, threw in a skip, not or two, because that would be Sally-esque, everything my essence, snot ("snot", short for "is not", but now it's longer because of me having to provide an explanation)...I'd like to get to the point of this story, would like to take the easy way out, and say, "To make a long story short"...But, I fear when someone's inclined to say that, they must be sensing the story isn't going that well, that it isn't very good, and to save the audience, they say, "To make a long story short", and so on...but I'm channeling here, and listening to myself, thinking that this is a good story, and anyways, the whole spiel about a long story short has made this story long enough...so...

...So, hence, to make this long story, not short, but to get to its point -- well, Coelho had me hooked into believing this ordinary day gone bad, bad because I proceeded to look for a bathroom for like an hour, finally finding a Starbucks, had found one earlier, but there was a long line for the bathroom...I finally relieved myself, but the day already seemed ruined, my head hurt so I got pizza, pizza worse than the Bay Ridge's pizza that's so generic it's unique....and that made me nauseous, and so is this story, and this writing...it's an exercise though, it happens...also, just a bad day, we all have them...so, I headed to the Barnes and Noble without writing much...I've said before that at times I don't feel like I'm conducting this pen, well, today I didn't feel like I was conducting any of myself...on my way home, somebody decided to pull me off the train, stopping at 9th Street, leading me to this Barnes and Noble...none of today was going as I planned, not that I had a plan...sometimes all it takes is a train ride for a story, or one of those signs...I guess, and forever will...

...I got to Barnes and Noble in a little better spirits, but again in the need of relieving oneself...After a bathroom trip I sat down on the floor, remember, my ass was sweating from walking too fast, having not listened to myself to walk slowly, slow down in life, as I race this pen to get it all down...signs, believing in them, I might be racing, but, at least this isn't tip-toeing or sitting anymore, right?...

...Ok, the point...I was thinking Coelho's agenda was to get me hooked on his whole signs idea, Cameron too!...make me believe I woke up, traveled an hour, to only walk around for an hour just to find a bathroom -- but me being hooked by his philosophy, I tell myself this is all a part of the signs, maybe he knows about taking leaps of faith, like taking a dump on a public bathroom, was that a sign?...He's got me believing that me walking around, bathroom shopping, is the world conspiring to help me out, this leading me back to Barnes and Noble, passing a bookshelf with his books visible for all to see, and so I recall his book The Warrior of the Light, and his agenda's revealed, me thinking about buying his book, he's basically a drug dealer, getting me hooked on his product which is essentially believing in oneself, leading me back to a bookstore to buy his book...that's either the case or maybe these two writers, Coelho and Cameron, throw Cat Stevens a bone too, know what they're talking about...all I'm saying is what the hell was that today with that Jamaican guy, a sign?...I called him a prophet, jokingly, but he really was just some dude, yes, a Jamaican, and yes, was wearing a Yankee hat, remember, prophets are Yankee fans too?...

...This is a true story, a long-story, gone short, gone long, again...I unconsciously saw him peeping my way, during look-ups, look-sides, from reading Cameron's book...I think he noticed and was interested...we got off the train and he asked me what I was studying, I said writing...and, he went off...again, I couldn't understand much...but, he honestly mentioned Michael Jackson and Ricky Martin a couple of times...but in the end, I took a couple of things from the conversation, in which I didn't participate much in, shakes of the head in agreements mostly...He said, keep your writing simple, don't make it complicated...We said our goodbyes, and he said he looked forward to reading my book soon???....Ha, I gotta laugh...I never mentioned I was writing a book...I know I scream novelist, but, um, what?...Should I brush this guy off like he's just some nut, or have more sympathy, and think he's just a good guy, maybe needing a friend, and liked giving a youngster some advice?...Or, was he a sign?...Let's not go too far and call him that prophet, but who knows, who knows...I'm gonna go write that novel now...

...Sign?, just saying...I jotted the following down in Moleskine on Sat. Sept. 4, 2010, before meeting that Jamaican Prophet: T-shirt - Warning train riders, you will one day become characters in my novels.

...whateva man...

...Something tells me that one day someone will call me a genius...
...and I'll be so offended by the sarcasm...
...that I'll actually become one...
...I wont?...

..."need a dump truck, baby, to unload my head"...

...My computer recently went kurplunk...so out of fear of losing a life's work of writing, I'm going to start posting stuff I've written...from memory...

...this one...from the archives of my thought-dreams, back when I was a kid?, written as a freshman in college, and then as a senior in college I attached this to the end of my senior thesis...when my insomnia began, I think...


Every Time I Write...

I want to write
And I want to write like there is no end
But because I know there is an end
I want to write so I can lend my friend - some knowledge
And in return he can lend me some of his
I want to write so we can live this
And the result is our kids being better off
I want to write so we respect the musician
And their music we bought
I want to write to ignite an original thought
Maybe something I have never contemplated before
I want to write so I can write more
Along the way there will be some more wants and maybes
And I know this music is not going to save me
Yet I savor the time I spend to write a rhyme
Maybe it will teach me
I want to write so the subject matter matters
I want to write for emotions like sad, happy, pissed off or cause laughter
I want to write another chapter and predict my future
I want to write not to preach
But tutor to stop the stagnation of neutered minds
I want to write not to undermine those who lived the life of crimes
But to stop future crimes
I want to write the sign of the times
And make them brighter
I write not to find her
Because it will come naturally
I write to capture the meaning of life
My life, my future
I choose to write
I want to write to paint a bright picture
Worth more than a thousand words but actions
Sent into your heart instead of your eyes
I write with no disguise
This is how I feel
I write to deal with the frustrations of growing up
I write what’s up, what brings us down, and what keeps evolution
I want to write to stop pollution of environment and soul
I want to write without races to see everyone as a whole
I want to write so much
But I have to pace
Because my heart feels like it’s in a race
I know you feel it in the base of my voice
I love writing
And it was completely my choice to take time and write this rhyme
I’ll write to climb the hill to the mountain of my potential
Wanting to write these is the writing credential
Write for a reason
Call your writing the age of reason
Write to escape the treason of yourself
For yourself and your family
I write
Not to impress
But to leave impressions
Writing might be an obsession
But with an objective to learn a lesson and testing my skills
While too many others gain thrills from materialistic things and drugs like pills
So their future never reaches the mountain of their potential
At the blink of an eye self-esteem falls down hills
I don’t want to write the tales about those who fail
Who go to jail
And the only bail out of this misery
Is suicide dead or alive
You in the past like history
Instead, I want to write and make history
Yet I know this generation isn’t going to read me
And even if played they still won’t listen or understand me
But I’ll keep writing and make sure my friends and family feel me
Because I do feel them
Every time I write.


...(eh, maybe my generation would understand me)...

...Moleskine Reward!...

On the first page of "Moleskine" it says, followed by lines, "In case of loss, please return to:"...and I wrote, Garrett Kennedy, and my email address, kennedyg@mville.edu

Below that, it says, "As a reward:", and then a dollar sign, $...this led me to write, "Ha!" with an arrow pointing to that dollar sign...but, then I listed 10 realistic rewards you could receive if one day you happened upon my lost Moleskine...here they are:

1. PRIDE
2. Chocolate Milkshake...that brings all the boys to the yard (Boston accent)
3. High-five
4. A Big Salad
5. A reading of a list of rewards that you will never truly receive
6. One delicious chicken wing with your choice of sauce (he's pro-choice when it comes to sauce, people, but not for women's rights!)
7. A couple of laughs that'll give you gas...lady in front of you already found one of these, apparently!
8. Skin of ones mole (ladies and gentlemen, Skin of Ones Mole!...a band coming to perform near you!
9. Live living room performance of Andy Sandberg playing Mark Wahlberg talking to animals
10. Lists don't need ten!

...The Right to Write - Exercise...

Initiation Tool - create "Morning Pages", writing 3 pages longhand every morning (90 days straight)

Sun. Sept. 5, 2010 - "Morning Pages" - Day #26 - Girlfriend's apartment @ 12:43 AM...another bad one...ranting...

I wish I could stay awake to write all of this down, I wish I could tell everyone how I feel, like that guy, fuck him, I wish I could tell my girlfriend that I love her, I have, but I don't think she completely believes me, and I don't know if I completely believe anything I say until I'm completely well rested, when will that day come, I look to the ceiling, a few flies chilling, but answers to these fucking questions that I never asked, but then keep creeping in and coming back, make it impossible to comprehend my life, where it was, how it got here, and forget thinking about tomorrow, especially when you didn't even fall asleep last night, which means tomorrow is almost 24 hours away, for it's now 12:48 AM, and somebody else is conducting this pen...I'll organize these ideas tomorrow, or I mean later today, hopefully during sane hours...we'll see, who knows, no, seriously, who knows?

...

...I'm making Ramen noodles right now, another sign everything's going according to plan...the detail and insaneness of this dude's plan for life, to foresee he'd be making Ramen's on Sept. 5, 2010 at @ 2:50 AM, unbelievable, but true, isn't not?...I'm that dude, self-marveling...

...

...I had fallen asleep for, I'm guessing, 4 minutes and 26 seconds...my theory is that my empty stomach disrupted this attempt, another failed one, at sleeping...that's why I'm cooking (" ") Ramen's...it's like my mind is a TV that's on, the channels are flipping, no shows truly seen, just flipping, the off button's been pressed, pressed harder, but won't shut off, if only, if only...my body itches, I'm not sure if sleep deprivation makes a body more prone to the itch, but that's what's happening, making me constantly shift, involuntary gesture after gesture...gesture sounds like such a nice word, an action word that, say, a grandmother might do, but if that's true, fuck a grandma, because these involuntary "gestures" are keeping me up...and postponing me from growing up...yeah, whatever...who cares about growing up when all you want is to not wake up again in the same day...like today, or is it considered yesterday now?...Insomnia, a never ending song that tells you about all the cliches and metaphors of life, like the worst - "Life's a rollercoaster", it's got twists and turns, ups and downs, well yeah...life has diseases, and genocide, and drug abuse, spouse abuse, and now, metaphor abuse, and I don't want to have these conversations at 3:03 AM...but the song continues, and it's refrain is just more bullshit lyrics that makes life harder than it has to be - but it does convey the images of today turning into tomorrow because you physically see them every fucking morning when the clock hits 12, and later, when the sun awakes and rises...it's tomorrow, no, it's today...the song plays, bringing you down, again, that familiar hallway, walking from your girlfriend's place to yours, the walls pumping like they're your temples when you've got a migraine...

In the margins I jotted: Go into Inception...Beautiful Mind...John Nash, etc...

...Will I ever get the Ramen's out of the strainer holes...who strains Ramen's?...well, that was my decision, made at 3 in the morning...It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia is on and they're putting cats in walls...I'm not in the mood for an explanation, if you've seen the show, it makes complete sense...if you haven't, then remain confused and consider yourself normal - for life is confusing...but then, consider yourself not normal and borderline - loser - for not watching Sunny...just another reflection we're all insane...except Charlie, of course...signing off, and hopefully will sign back on during sane hours..."hopefully", again..."if only"...

...

...I meant to sign off, but I'm still awake...and so...and so, we are told not to live in "only ifs", but we all catch ourselves saying this to ourselves...and you can say it, "if only", or "only if", and which way you say it has no correlation to your sexuality, in case you were worrying, or wondering, or both...Of course, my "only if" is - only if I could fall asleep and get proper rest on a daily basis, and well, I'd be unstoppable, referring, of course, to on a basketball court, and off, on the streets, I wouldn't?...I've also said to myself - "as long as", and lately I added, "keep writing"...as long as I keep writing, etc....I'll get where I want to in life, writing will keep me going...but, at whatever insane hour I'm presently writing during, I walk over to change the Ipod, now playing AA Bondy...and, on my way back to the computer, to keep writing, I look at the bed, see someone in it, and realize it's the people in my life that'll, and do, keep me going...they will keep the writing going, keep it alive, me alive...

...

I eventually fell asleep, it must have been 5ish AM, and now I've signed back onto today's "Morning Pages" that I almost completed last night, well, earlier this morning, insane, it feels like a different day, hungover from last night's, earlier this morning's, writing, dreaming, writing...

...but, I feel good because today's pages are almost completed, and although I don't like the reality of what I wrote, it feels good to get these feelings off my chest, very hairy chest, remember?...with the freckled soul underneath...and again, these stories, my writing, dreaming, etc. and whatever, they're my self-torturing stories, and I'm glad to keep entertaining you with them...I hope you are enjoying them...and, I sign off for today with...and...go fuck yourself...I'm tired...and not quite yet sober with my insanity, "only if" and "as long as I".

Other margin jotts: keeping a pad on floor for when I can't fall asleep, well, I quickly write ideas down, while you're sleeping, and later, during sane hours, you can be entertained...I'm not a kid anymore...so I'm not afraid of the dark...more, now, it's like I'm afraid of the night.

...The Right to Write - Exercise...

Initiation Tool - create "Morning Pages", writing 3 pages longhand every morning (90 days straight)

Sat. Sept. 4 - "Morning Pages" - Day #25 - Think Coffee, Bowery, Manhattan

On the train ride to nowhere, but ending up at Think Coffee, a coffee place on the corner of Bowery/Bleecker, I jotted down in my Moleskine, a bunch:

- relate Moleskine to Bible, etc. and what's more insane; imagine me reciting these, like the middle urinal metaphor, like some recite prayers on subways...

- because I've wanted, wished, and stared at too many walls not to pursue...

On this train ride, I'm writing, and again, listening to Bob Dylan. His music makes me feel like I'm traveling somewhere, there's nothing like it. It feels good when you feel like you're heading somewhere. The only thing that's better is those moments with family and friends when you can forget about going anywhere, satisfied, without knowing, that you are where you are, present...and that's the most important thing...the Asian guy across from me on this train is present, presently watching me write...while I listen to Dylan list what he saw, I list what I see...and the man in gray tight jeans, Cons, and a black button-down, flipped his Ipod, searching, aren't we all momma!...

I think about writing, and staring at that blank legal pad I write on most of the time these days...plans of creating something, whatever it is, or will be, it didn't exist yesterday...or seconds before I placed this pen to paper...it's a cool feeling, somewhat insane idea, but solacing to look back at what I've created...It's too hard to plan everything, that's just not the way life is, so why should writing be...while others plan, I want to be busy writing...I already spent years planning, nothing, planning, dreaming, wishing about days I'd sit and write...others are busy accepting lives and careers that already exist...and I realize, it's time to do the writing, wishing is essentially forever window shopping...in ones mind...it's time to do the work...

- streets connecting to Broadway...broadway to success...what people do to get there...(I had gotten off the train, and jotted that down in Moleskine, on my way to Think Coffee...

I race to my table to write this down, I came up with some good stuff while relieving myself in Think Coffee's bathroom...and you'll know it's good stuff once you've finished reading, you won't?

Thought: You would think a coffee place on the Bowery of Manhattan, CBGB's around here?, no it deceased...would think this place, where people wear t-shirts saying, "Protect me from what I want", and a place where people purchase over priced coffee, 3.25?, would be more environmental, but, no...it takes two covers to cover this ice coffee, another customer informed me after seeing my failed attempts with the usual, and more environmental, one cover...and I say, you would think, because I've been to the crossroads, the ones blues singers talk about, the place where they sell their soul, and I've seen the hypocrisies, but can't spell the word, of man...no...this I haven't done, but it sounded good in my head, leading me to think...and you should notice the start of this paragraph, look back, it says "thought:", and I just said "leading me to think"...this equals "a think" within "a thought", and I just blew your mind, I didn't?...but back to the, leading me to think -- what sounds good in your head, doesn't, when you write it down, and it's read...it's been entertaining though, right?...nevertheless...alwaysthemore...is there an opposite of "the" so that can be complete?...

...I tell myself to change to writing on that legal pad and develop further...go into how, maybe, being a hypocrite is human, and you, again, claiming to be so humane, but calls out hypocrisy, well, apparently isn't so humane...people shall be hypocrites to a certain degree...not to the degree that they receive a diploma, an actual degree in hypocrisy, but allowing us to talk about things without reservation, and down the road being able to change our minds without humility, or being called hypocrites by others...of course I'm a hypocrite because I said, like a political belief, that I'd switch to the legal pad, but haven't yet, I guess I'm human after all...despite all the blogs saying and campaigning otherwise...ok, switch time...and take a sip of my $3.25 coffee...that I've slammed other people for buying before, etc. whatever, switch to legal pad...for real this time...this wavering about switching writing palettes makes me think about all the days I thought about writing, staring at walls, oh the novels, novellas, I wrote in my head staring at "that" wall, it's a good wall...when I do finally decide to switch to the legal pad, I tell myself to go into...pause...take another sip...it really is better than that deli coffee, it's not?...again, I've ranted about coffee like this one, and then am hypocritical for buying it -- or maybe, people rant before they become...eh, let's do that switch now, I feel claustrophobic writing in this Moleskine, still impressed?...maybe claustrophobic like how people would feel if they couldn't change their opinions about anything and were called hypocrites every time they said they were going to do something, but didn't, etc. whatever...change to legal pad...the problem is, I keep wanting to change, but then think I thought of another good idea, too good to possibly forget on my way to grabbing the pad out of my bag...it's too hard to organize all these ideas in such little lines -- so really, switch to legal pad...(check legal pad for rest, I wrote)...

Again, jotted in Moleskine: T-shirt - Warning train riders, you will one day become characters in my novels...

...the rest, from legal pad, continued from Moleskine...

...I think about how this writing isn't organized, a steady flow of ideas, beginning, middle and the other part...it will have those parts, but not in the conventional school paper way, not conventional, and I'm shining with pride that I'm so original now...or, I just don't have the ability to slow my mind down, forever, possibly?...sleep deprived...you take a look at what I've done today...wrote on a train ride in a Moleskine about, well, whatever (yeah, whatever, maybe the name of this soon to be book, it's not?)...whatever...I wrote in the Moleskine, whatever came to mind, got to this cafe before passing other ones, for some reason too scared to try, they looked unconventional, and now I'm writing, continuing today's "Morning Pages", on that legal pad...When I was writing in the Moleskine I didn't even think of it as "today's pages", but that's what they've turned into...

...I see two other guys writing in this cafe...I'm so much like them...they are nothing like me...

...I will eventually explain that I do have a point to this writing, that being, I guess now - you can't plan everything in life, and as I jotted in my Moleskine, there are many different roads to success...inspirational, I agree, I don't?...I wrote in "Moleskine" on my way to this cafe: streets connecting to Broadway...broadway to success...what people do to get there...and, right now I just wrote: I wrote in "Moleskine", not my, or a, Moleskine, because we've become friends now, he's a person now, and I chat with him almost everyday...we think so much alike...what he says, you can read it if you open it up, is so similar to what's written in Daily Nuggets...ok...and so...a point?...

...I wrote the above, reread it, and laughed at myself, and Moleskine...sometimes you've just got to...

...I walked out my building in Bay Ridge Brooklyn, heading out to find a place to write earlier today. This was after "Not Yoko", by now you should know is my girlfriend, and I had breakfast at a diner, the waitress asking if we were ready, me saying, and never didn't mean something more in my life, "I was born ready"...we ate, and on our way back to our apartments, she suggested places to write, topics to write about...all were good ideas that I said I'll use, but who knows, who knows...My idea of these "Morning Pages" is to not have topics, or a destination place to write at, ahead of time. So, good ideas for a later date, "Not Yoko"...but, I got on the train with no idea of where I'd get off to write...I got on the train, put on my headphones, some ideas came to my mind, and I thought, maybe I'll get out at Atlantic Avenue, in Brooklyn, to write at the library just outside that stop...but as I approached Atlantic, I was writing in "Moleskine", and didn't want to stop, so kept going...I crossed Brooklyn to Manhattan, eventually getting to Broadway, and got off after thinking of what I wrote in a paper in college; wrote: There's not a Broadway to everybody's success...so inspirational, again, I agree...This was specifically referring to the idea that everyone isn't a star on Broadway, etc. whatever...that's the direct and literal interpretation...but of course, I've thought of another metaphor, and have switched my mind -- maybe, yes, there is a broadway to success, I'm learning that more everyday...well, I'll skip the learning for a few days, but then the lessons creep in, later, down a road...thinking about all my friends and what they're doing with their lives, it's funny what people become, I mean, I met that guy Nate when we were 9, and he couldn't make a sandwich if his life depended on it...but, then you think about that, if you're life depended on whether you could make a good sandwich...that would make making (almost the double make, it that possible?...anything is, it's not?) a sandwich quite difficult...many say, referring to a basketball player, "Man, that guy couldn't make a free throw if his life depended on it"...imagine the piss running down your shaking legs when you attempt a free throw that determines whether you continue living or not (Imagine!)...But, back to Nate and his sandwiches...another take is that if you realize your life depends on your ability to make a sandwich, well, that's disheartening, and another reflection, adding more questions to how'd life get to this place, how'd I get to this road, am I on the road to success?...well, Nate got that promotion, he's becoming pro, maybe announcing it soon on ESPN, but who knows...he's got his path, or so he thinks, I've got mine...Later, I will look up streets connecting to Broadway and it will inspire that metaphor that there is a broadway to success, it won't?...there isn't?...

What else I wrote in Moleskine on that train ride: relate Moleskine to Bible, etc. and what's more insane; imagine me reciting these, like middle urinal metaphor, like some recite prayers on subways...

...The middle urinal metaphor is a reference from a previous "Morning Pages". I won't go into it that much now, just imagine what that could possibly mean if you missed that post (Imagine!), or check back here...I'm going to sign off for today's "Morning Pages", and leave you with what else I wrote in my Moleskine during that train ride...I'm not getting lazy, I just like what I'm getting at, again, in this writing...I will organize these ideas at a later date...but I do like what I'm getting at...and at the top of one of the legal pad pages, that I did eventually switch to, I jotted: writing more - but less organized - but guessing in end it'll be better writing...how to slow down mind, or do I want to...

...This is a reference to me jumping from Moleskine to legal pad, and soon will be dismounting today's pages with something I jotted in the back of Ms. Cameron's book The Right to Write -- seemingly unorganized -- all a metaphor for what seems to be unorganized, or unconventional, way to success, actually is conventional, humane, etc. whatever. My train's coming, metaphorically, right?...signs are there....listening to, really listening to, not just a writer's bullshit attempt to inspire...I'm listening to The Velvet Underground's Train Coming Round Bend, and I think - for now on I'm going to list the songs I'm listening to while writing, these songs really do become the soundtracks to our lives...

Jotted again: writing insomnia Inception Beautiful Mind, etc. what yvette said yesterday, wondering if she knows the real me, etc...

Band -- Organized Chaos, or, Intelligent Chaos...

Jotted, in back of Ms. Cameron's The Right to Write: I'll care when the song stops...but I'm in the zone the second the needle drops...I'll care when the casket locks.

...And I'll say, I've learned, but don't really know, that hard work rarely goes unrewarded...I guess it's something we eventually have to believe...

...Is this a book, a screenplay in the works, a song crying out to momma, asking can you please spare another couple hundred because I'm short on rent again???...who knows...

...Also jotted in the back of that book: ...she said I was a writer, a free spirit...my instinct told me, that's the last thing I am -- but maybe what I'm becoming...maybe I'm the last to be knowing...I hope I get this knowledge for Christmas...put it on my wish list.

...The Right to Write - Exercise...

Initiation Tool - create "Morning Pages", writing 3 pages longhand every morning (90 days straight)

Fri. Sept. 3, 2010 - "Morning Pages" - Day #24 - Presently walking to apartment at 3:30 AM...

Walking, not sleeping, it's 3:30 AM, yes walking, impressive, a dedication to staying in shape, yes, but not quite on the level of the woman that just jogged passed me. She was jogging, or running from the police, but she was (probably still is) white, and we, as in pasty people, holding the fist high, wouldn't run, we'd tell the cops to talk to our lawyers...That is here, and it's over there, but also it's beside my point. Jogging at 3:30 AM is another example of, how insane we all are, and the lengths we'll go to figure life out. I have to believe that woman is not just jogging at this hour for endurance and health reasons. For me, writing at 3:30 AM seems to be quite a dedication to the craft, I know. But, as many losers will tell you, like you've never heard or thought before, "everything's not the way it seems"...and well, I didn't choose to write at this hour. Another bad night sleep; however, I am writing...and let the unnrested mind keep jogging, yet it's throbbing. People often tell me I've got tired eyes, well, they should see my mind. I'm going to try to get in some rest, a cap-nap can I at least get?...and I will pick up today's "Morning Pages" later, hopefully at sane hours.

It's later...I'm back and editing a previous "Morning Pages" before posting, and think about a day this could really be published, I tear, smile, get lost in the moment...then come down to reality, and think, well, I'm still traveling back, but maybe don't want to...

It's later, again...but this time, I'm up high, feeling good after editing some writing that for some reason reminds me of a writing I did before I started any of these "Morning Pages". I wrote something about writing a novel, a statement, kind of. I will find it later and attach it to a future "Morning Pages". Presently, I'm not writing neatly, or in-between these lines on the yellow legal pad, thinking it's a good thing, writing more freely, taking notes, sketching -- like Mos Def, of course, "On loose-leaf sheets, I sketched the big plan" (check quote later)...Mos Definetely heading somewhere, I'm not?...

I jotted down on the pad: relate getting somewhere with writing to getting somewhere in a relationship...can't get there fast enough...but will, with both, if I keep writing, I have to believe... Crusty Chest Hair...nobody's noticed I'm insane yet...text to Tom (sideways along this writing, I wrote, write out!)...

It's later, again...and time to write the above out, I guess...and so...

...I think of this writing and relate it to a relationship, can't get there fast enough, when thinking of what both could become...but also think, with both, that I will get there, as long as I keep writing, I have to believe...then my insomniac mind switches topics, suddenly thinking up a band named Crusty Chest Hair...ladies and gentlemen, Crusty Chest Hair (applause)...And then, I think, yes, at least nobody's noticed I'm insane yet. My friend Tom had text me yesterday, asking essentially, "What's up?", and it's time to get back to him, the text traveling from New York City to wherever he's landed these days, in Virginia...all part of the plans, our plans, I'm sure...I text Tom: Hey. i'm unemployed. first time ive wanted school to start. but writing everyday. i think im insane. check out www.garrettk.blogspot.com/...

I'm still at my girlfriend's, editing...somewhere after the 3:30 AM walking, attempts at cat-naps, and writing, I landed here. I pass her cat, Bumble, on the way to the bathroom, he says, "Get a job"...I say, "Same to you"...and plus, school starts soon and I've a got a gig set up, and anyways, I will be looking for work, again, after this bathroom break, and I could use some help with the search - so make your paws useful...I'm listening to Rickie Lee Jones telling someone to come into town on their donkey tonight...metaphorically we are all coming into town on our donkeys, some tonight, others tomorrow, others years down a road, dirt road of life, right?...well, the Kennedy family used to have rocks in our driveway...how we've long traveled from that road...todaboconoma...

...I'm texting Tom again...I haven't talked to him in awhile, I think I've forgotten what his voice sounds like, my generation, I guess, texting, not phone chatting...but I know his texting voice though, he's got his style, I've got mine, you desperately need to get your own...Tom asked about our mutual friend, Nate. I'm having trouble spelling promotion, maybe because I've never received one...I try premotion, permotion, oh, promotion...the motion of becoming pro...Nate got a promotion, fuck him...he's everything...but professional, and...congratulations!...And so, I'm thinking, every blog post, a foot closer to becoming pro, in writing, and more like Nate, the average, not great...I text Tom about Nate's promotion at Subway, dude can really make a sandwich...I guess...and forever will...

I jotted down on the pad, trying to get it all down: talking w/ Loren about writing/ about Dylan/ we're so much like them, he can be Ginsberg though...what did they do for money?...(write out on next page)...

It's later, again, I'm "writing out" on that next page...All this writing makes me think of a few conversations I had with another friend, Loren, from college, and also an aspiring writer. I mentioned Can the Man briefly, well, that's his creation...We talked about writing, suggesting books and other readings, etc. for one another. Actually, he did most of the talking, often at The Red Lion, a Greenich Village bar with Live Music, check it out. He talked and talked, inspiring my lyric, "He talked about books like some talk about wine and I just ain't got the time"...no disrepect to him, and I'm sure none taken by him, but in case he becomes a pansy, and is offended, sorry man...The conversations were cool though, and in retrospect, are probably another reason I'm finally writing on a regular basis...yes, bars, cafes in Greenwich Village, making like Dylan and Ginsberg in the 60s, he can be Ginsberg though - "Not that there's anything wrong it" (Seinfeld)...what did they do for money?...well, before the millions of records sold, etc....And, yes, I'm aware in order to be Dylan one must at least play guitar...well, I've got my No-String Walmart Acoustic my parents gave me like 8 years ago for Christmas - that my brother keeps taking out of the closet, Jammin', did I mention it has no strings, that's how much soul the guitar has, it just plays...man...First, get guitar, let it sit there for 4 years, collecting dust...move to NYC (like Dylan, so much), let guitar collect more dust, "Brooklyn Dust", there's nothing like it, and is another band playing soon near you!...every few weeks take guitar out of the closet, play it, but make sure you do so while loud music's on, it drowns out the missed notes, which is every note, but boy it sounds so sweat, like music!, when there's other music playing...bang and bang on it, every new jam session it losing another string (metaphorin' again?) until you get to that point, no strings left, but it's got so much soul, remember?, it doesn't need strings, and you're the next Dylan?, you're not?...you're right, I am...because I mixed in some songwriting along the way too, I didn't?...

...Yeah, but those conversations with Loren...they also consisted of those cliche questions of what we're doing with our lives, etc. and whatever, and who knows? as well...he told me he started writing a novel, I think it's called Journey of a Man, check name later...so much to do later, right?...but I do recall it sounding like it'd be something like an On the Road, Jack Keroauc-type thing, check my post about that book, here, scroll down to find, something good is worth searching for...he's working on his...I'm telling you about that...and realizing, maybe I'm working on mine, aren't we all momma!?...my ice coffee melts, more ice coffee, a little watery though, another metaphor for life...sometimes life just gets a little watery...New Orleans knows what I'm talking about here...stare at another wall and dissect that one...or start your own novel, whatever floats your...life boat...

...We're all working on something, sleeping problems, drinking problems, sandwich construction problems, novels, Loren's writing and selling them now...dusting guitars with no strings off, getting in fights over who's going to be Dylan or Ginsberg, read his poem Howl, the band Black Rebel Motorcycle Club named their 3rd album after it, a great album, listen to that as well...All working in different forms, I guess, trying to get that "promotion", and also an invitation into adulthood, vomit, hopefully not on today's "Morning Pages", pages which are becoming less morning-ish more often, whatever...

Jotted on pad: Finding oneself, like, what to call this writing/ call it something and live with it...I've finally called it something, "Morning Pages"...and, on, I'm living, feeling like I'm, and this writing's, heading somewhere...somehow it has to, it doesnt'?...

...My train's coming and I just have to figure out where to catch it...Life's a long train ride...a roller coaster too!, remember?...and...life's also a long song, putting the needle to the record, and mine's gonna keep playing...I text my cat, Bob Dylan...tell him to put the air conditioning on, I'm coming home.

...The Right to Write - Exercise...

Initiation Tool - create "Morning Pages", writing 3 pages longhand every morning (90 days straight)

Thurs. Sept. 2, 2010 - "Morning Pages" - Day #23 - Again, house I'm sitting at, stealin' time...

Another late night jam session, another sub-par sleeping performance, I see each night sleeping as a separate performance now; however, "I feel good, and I [didn't] know that I would, now" (James Brown)...Yesterday's lows have vanished - seemingly so quickly. Sometimes it just takes a cat-nap to overcome ones fears and doubts about tomorrow's promises - imagine a cat with insomnia. I like that line, it makes me feel like a real writer, and I'm back on my path, or a train, toward the future I want. It's funny, it's not?...funny how yesterday could seem so devastating, we've had feelings like this before, and we know time will pass most doubts/feelings, but we still let them creep in and aggravate us off our path. It's like that John Butler lyric about how we know these feelings will pass...I'll look up that lyric later...and for the dude in my creative writing class that critiqued my short story Garbage (check it out!), and said, after reading the Bob Marley lyric I quoted, "You shouldn't use or rely on lyrics or quotes to better your writing"...well, fuck that guy and the horse he didn't ride in on...fuck that guy and the SUV he rode in on...Lyrics are a language that speak to me, it's like the Romance novels speaking to the lonely gal - except rational on my part, right?...Maybe I shall quote Romance novels for now on...maybe not...(consider looking up Romance novel to quote; also consider not doing this)...

I'm writing at this home again, watching the kids, and not as scared to get caught writing as I was before...at some point in life you've just got to stop caring, I guess...the kids keeping joking that I'm a terrorist. I'm not sure how that makes me feel...maybe I really am like President Obama, he's Muslim, he's not?...

I'm not sure what I'm getting at here, and don't care...I do know that I'm getting at something though, and will "fax' you when I find out exactly what it is...Let's assume I wrote this 20 years ago, and just dated each date in the future, and now that this "is" (it's not? just in case it's not yet, or ever?) a book, I have to explain it was written 20 years ago, and that's why I said "fax", not email...I must have written this when I was 8. Let's assume all of this...let's sit and stare at a damn wall, and assume everything...Let's assume this writing will lead somewhere so I can freakin' breathe and just write without, again, apologizing for who I am, or am not, who, also, again, nobody is directly asking for an apology from. Imagine that. Again, I ask my readers to imagine instead of them catching themselves in the imagining state. It's not lazy writing, it just cuts out all the bullshit about what the weather's like outside, and how the chair feels under my ass, useless detail/description that makes everything metaphoric, bullshit...and now imagine - somebody walks up to you and asks, "I would please like to receive an apology"..."An apology for what?"..."You know"..."No...no, I don't...I think I'm gonna walk away now...cause it's a dog-eat world out there, and I ain't got the time"..."Would you please apologize for who you are?"...I walked away before I could answer...but somehow still heard what the...cocksucker...requested...

I like what I'm getting at here, again, not in life, but with this writing -- one day the writing and life will converge - into, maybe, a writing life, etc, but also whatever for now...My mind's still on yesterday's writing, but it was more note taking, and those feelings, whatever it was, haven't developed yet, so I'm still organizing what happened yesterday. Again, when this is edited for book form, this may seem/get "repetitive", but again, I will claim that that (the double that) was intentional and another metaphor for life...

I jotted down in the margin: relate this to removing self from a place, like New York, and all the questions, yes, that others impose, but more so your own questions, for a million sprint through your head, but it's also like a marathon, constant and never ending, for an insomniac's mind...sometimes you just need to get away...

...I think about how to bring all of today's writing home, think about rereading what's already written, get some clarity and some sort of storyline -- but that's not the point of these "Morning Pages" - it's supposed to be first draft, and as much as possible, first-thought...it is a first draft (and still will be by publishing time because, a cracker don't edit)...this is a first draft and come to think of it, I thought of it like 4 sentences ago, but my mind's still racing and other thoughts crept ahead...come to think of it, life is a first draft...go vomit if you must because of another metaphor, I know I just did...but hey, it's true, life's a first draft, it's not?...

(Pause to take kids to the Y and Subway, etc.)...

...

This whole idea of anxiousness comes from us, or maybe it's just me, trying to fastfoward life too fast, and wanting to get to the future. This can relate to these "Morning Pages", and what I believe is being created. I don't want to get into specifics, and get ahead of myself, but it's like, whether we like it or not, that's what our mind does - in writing or any other of life's daily tasks, looking to the finish line instead of enjoying the ride. For example: I begin to write, but then think of the next line, so I forget the exact phrasing of the first line, man it was so good inside my head too...like I've said before, my pen will never catch up to my racing mind...and I wonder if my life will ever catch up...It's like what I was thinking about on a train ride from Grand Central to New Haven, on a trip back home...that journey is a train from my present to past, where I live now, where I grew up...and my thought-dreams of my future are nowhere between, keeping my mind everywhere except for where I am...again, yearning to be fully present...it's like I'm not even here...was I there the first time we met?...or the last time we met up?...

I guess that's a reason to write. It's a way to be fully present, or at least evidence you were, in a way, once upon a time. The idea of not knowing where life's going is scary for all of us, and so some choose to write as a way to deal with it, maybe it's even a way to direct where life's going, create a path...Again, this is very similar to the writing process, it's an uneasy feeling while writing because you don't always know where it's going, and if you care, then you want it to be good...but you keep punching, those keys, and writing, until your hand hurts...and that's life, I guess, a writing one, at least...

I said to my cat, Bob Dylan, "Man, Bob, my hand hurts from so much writing...for you, it's your paw"...He responded, "Whateva man...eventually you keep writing and get used to it, and move on...it's called the blues"...he's such a poet...

...

I jotted down for later use: Ms. Cameron's chapter "Driving" / exercise p. 196 / relate to your lyric - " Write a lyric on a train, just to stay sane, do so solo in a cab, like the passing street images is your writing lab" / thinking, every line, a step in my right direction...

After writing today, I'm thinking that stealing time to write like this might be better than setting aside huge blocks of time to write...it allows thinking, too much, to get out of the way, there's not enough time to do that...

I'm stealing more time to write, in between terrorist jokes by the kids, and me being scared again to get caught writing...in fact, all this anxiousness may have lead me to being scared of getting caught eating pudding...in this family's fridge there is pudding, the mother had said help yourself, and so I did, but for some reason I'm scared of getting caught eating it...how stupid...but the feelings there...and more than likely will be there for days, years to come...it won't?...

This makes me think back to a previous "Morning Pages" when my confidence wavered. One second I'm singing to myself This Train is Bound for Glory, the next I feel I'm a failure. I know I'm not, so why does that feeling creep in? What the fuck, what...the fuck?...I often sit with constant shifts, and I guess I do the same with confidence...

I stole another (like it's stolen, oh ok) pudding just to stay awake, keep busy. I'll take this risk, which is better than getting caught sleeping on the job...(at a later date relate this to Cameron's p. 205, and being on the right track...and also relate to Paulo Coelho, Zodiac signs, etc...I'm a Leo, of course)...

The toots outside their house wake me up from writing. I had been channeling, forgetting to care, in this moment, I guess, and these toots are almost like a reminder to be scarred, in case I forgot to be...I did for a little bit...

...

It's now 5:47 AM, the next day, and I haven't gone to sleep...I'm trying to make sense of Thursday's "Morning Pages", but I can't organize these thoughts now. My mind just won't work...will it ever again, the way it used to.

...The Right to Write - Exercise...

Initiation Tool - create "Morning Pages", writing 3 pages longhand every morning (90 days straight)

Wed. Sept. 1, 2010 - "Morning Pages" - Day #22 - Barnes and Noble, Court St., Brooklyn

My chest just caved in...and almost crushed my freckled soul. It's a good thing I wear diapers. On my way to the train, I just dropped this notepad out of my backpack, but didn't realize it for about a block. The backpack felt light and awkward, I looked down, it was unzipped, no yellow pad in there! I almost freaked. I really recently thought about what if I lost this. I already lost my mind, I can't lose this! If I lost this the only thing left to lose would be my virginity - my comedic virginity...imagine that, not once has someone laughed at one of my jokes, whatever...I retraced my steps and there it was, on the ground, in front of my building, face down, ready to be taken by any passerby...then read by them, posted on their blog, and Idea-Awards would start to overflow their dresser. I hope one of them falls off the dresser and hits them on the foot, hard. I've dropped an Idea (award) before, they hurt...

...I honestly would rather have lost my wallet. That's got 3 bucks, crispy ones though, some receipts, a monthly metro card, that would have sucked huge Coronas to lose that, a debit card, whatever, I'd cancel it, get another...but my chest still hurts at the thought of losing this pad. We've discussed this, it's got future Idea-Awards prescribed on it, I know it! Who else can create a metaphor out of the middle urinal, rhetorical. And yes, I believe, you create a couple middle urinal jokes and you become an artist. Todaboconoma! I'm so glad I didn't lose this.

In the margin I jotted: Consider, when this is really a book, obviously on it's way, calling it "Todaboconoma" - explain it's meaning at a later date, and, of course, with my brother's permission, he came up with it...about a decade ago...man I was unstoppable a decade ago. Todaboconoma...

...

I'm stealing time to write before I have to go to a school and clean out a closet, a breakthrough in my career, preparing for school to start up again -- Back to School Kids! Oh, I used to hate that, seeing posters, at stores like Staples, with the "Back to School" signs. There I am just a youngster enjoying the summer hunnies, drinking ice tea, in the hot sun, and you gotta go and put out that sign...I'm sorry, I just blacked out, what'd I just write?...Anyways, times have changed, haven't you heard? I'm looking forward to going back to school, I need money, badly...But, back to closets for now. I'm about to go clean one, and makes me think about metaphorically cleaning out our closets, and well, what if we lost most everything in it. What would we keep if we could truly keep a few, or just one thing in there? This is getting so deep that it's the deep-end and those under 5 feet shall not be reading in these waters -- what?...

Yesterday I jotted down in my Moleskine, I know, impressive, motherfucker's got a Moleskine...I jotted: I think if I had, had! to take just one thing out of this computer, bottle of water, cell phone, book or notepad with all my "Morning Pages", I would choose the pad...

That's exactly what I jotted, 3 dots at the end and all, even more impressive, I don't know...and to think I almost just lost the pad...

Pause and pick up later. I truly have to go clean a closet now. I foreshadow writing overflowing with inspiration afterwards...cleaning gets a man going, it doesn't?...

...

It's later, and that inspiration is anything but flowing, nevermind overflowing. It's like I can't control my mind...when first writing that sentence I wrote: controlling mind my...check the first draft on the legal pad, that's what I wrote then crossed it out, you can still somewhat read it - as proof that I can't control my mind...and that's why...

...I felt a little blue after the closet cleaning at the school - so, I jotted down on the pad: go into seeing all these teachers coming back for another year, already established in their careers, admittance of jealousy...see, I do get jealous, "Not Yoko"...

...This jealousy happened while cleaning out the closet, chatting it up with teachers after not seeing them over the summer, going over the cliche how was your summers, good, good, etc. and whatever...and then them asking my plans...well, I'm subbing again with the hopes to one day make "that" Hall of Fame, and I'll be doing playgroup, some afterschool program, yeah, exciting stuff...Was up high with thoughts of this becoming a book, remember, and then almost immediately thrown to the ground like all my convictions for the future have vanished, and are not possible anymore...

This is why I should write in the morning! - Less distractions, and more time left with the rest of the day to keep my self-esteem up, saying to myself that, yes, I have no career, etc. and whatever, but at least I wrote today...and that's more important than teaching, it's not? I hope Hunter College, the school I'm trying to get into to get my Masters in Education, doesn't read this. But in the end, Daily Nuggets alone should get someone into a place of higher learning, it shouldn't?...

Today's "Morning Pages" was more of a note taking day...I recall Ms. Cameron quoting some dude, later to be found out, saying that taking great notes is the most important thing in writing...I'll look the dude's name up at a later date, he didn't say remembering his name was most important...And, I'll get a career then as well, or the next day...the following day I'm busy, but then maybe the next day I could get one...but...but I did write today, just more so in note form...Todaboconoma, maybe, who knows...forever apologizing for who I am while nobody is asking for apologies.

Jotted in Moleskine after riding home after writing the above: Securities important, ask that lock on that closet...that's why...I'm always clean haven...because acceptance is a haven...

...Although, at the moment, I do have a beard, so maybe I'm straying...and, maybe I should read my own writing more often...it can keep the spirits up...it usually does...whatever for now...until tomorrow.

...The Right to Write - Exercise...

Initiation Tool - create "Morning Pages", writing 3 pages longhand every morning (90 days straight)

Tues. Aug. 31, 2001 - "Morning Pages" - Day #21 - Some park, name later to be found out, but it's got a waterfountain...

The park's name will be found out later, but I just sat down on this bench after walking 13 blocks, yes I actually counted, I have a block counter I keep latched on my belt next to the wallet chain...so I'm going take a rest before I write with detail. You walk off the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, take a left, pass Pace University, ignore the Starbucks that's calling your name, Ice Coffee, Ice Coffee, Ice Coffee, and ignore the people passing out flyers, oh how I get pulled in somehow...In a similar situation, I was waiting in line for a comedy show, a black guy that claimed he was a magician pulled out cards, asking for donations for a trick...and I just pulled out my wallet...and that was done without thinking of the obvious question, black magician?...Anyways, you pass all that "stuff" and shortly on your right there is the park I'm in. The park to be named later, remember?...The park with a waterfountain that people pass daily, throw coins in and make wishes, wishes and hopes for the future. These people believe a thrown penny (what happened to a penny saved, a penny earned?) in a waterfountain, a.k.a. a beautiful portal potty, can create something special for their future, but don't believe in themselves. On the other hand, there is me. No, I don't believe the penny/waterfountain deal, but I'm thinking this whole writing thing is very similar. I often end these "Morning Pages" with "who knows, yeah, who knows?" I'm still skeptical about the penny/waterfountain belief, but I also have no clue about this writing and where it will lead -- and neither does that dude, presently bathing in the waterfountain, red shorts, no shirt, lying down, with his hands throwing water through his hair. He truly believes in this waterfountain, and more than likely will steal your penny on his way out. If he didn't steal your penny, more than likely, your wish would have come true. Damn him. The funny thing is, he doesn't even look like a homeless person. He got out and put on his t-shirt that in due time, because he was still wet it took longer than usual, it was revealed as an Obama t-shirt. I wrote that previous sentence then looked back at him and he also has a tote bag with the Obamas on it. Obama took the word "hope" to another level. This guy took it so seriously, he bathes in a public waterfountain (opposed to those private ones with rich people's pennies thrown in), steals your pennies, your hopes, and dries off with an Obama t-shirt. And, I sit here and write about him, in what you may think is in a mocking way, but I think this writing is going to lead me somewhere, give me hope, etc. Who's more insane? Like I said in one of my lyrics - "One day I'll be sober with my insanity"...and I'm thinking this writing is helping me get there?...that guy has a different way of dealing with his insanity, and you've got yours, throwing pennies in a glorified toilet...who's more insane?...

I need another break, a break from this heat, and talk of insanity. Starbucks is still calling my name, so I'm going to pause to seek some cold, seek some caffeine...In Starbucks(land?) Cat Stevens is playing, as he does so often there, and says, "You can do what you want"...Let's not read too much into that...let's not...but I will, I think?...These 3 pages are get easier to write...feels like less work, and more just the simple act of writing, it seems...

Insanity - everybody's insane though, they're not? Look at that guy! In fact, look out for my new infomercial about raising your self-esteem - "Feeling down? Feeling blue? Well, who ain't got the blue(s)? But, we can help raise that self-esteem! Walk down the street. You're walking, and you feel those blues creeping in. They creep in when you don't see them coming, don't they? Yeah they do. Well, I want you to take a look to your left, and look at that guy. If that doesn't work, take a look to your right, and look at that woman. No matter how blue you get, you can always find a more pathetic motherfucker, and you'll think, 'At least I'm not that guy'"...We are working on the pitch...and by we, I mean the voices inside my head...but, the point is...

...Everyone's insane to a certain degree. Why else would people wait in a line that could last 20 plus minutes to get a damn "special" drink called - coffee? And, the word "special" is supposed to be designated for select students that are part of that type of "education", hidden in the corner classroom of a school. Or, why would people do yoga or meditate? I've started reading up on meditation. I raced to the library to get my mediation book. A life can't be picture perfect (nothing's perfect, remember? But, I practiced?) if you're meditating or yoga-ing, etc. We're all insane, we just have different ways of dealing with it.

Yesterday, actually, I just realized it was this morning, hours ago...on my way back from another fruit stand trip, walking back to my apartment in my newly perfected walk, I felt sleep deprived again. I had a good night sleep though, but I think this is deprivation leftovers from the previous years. My mind was racing, still is, and I looked up at the buildings, other apartments, and felt, and said to myself while smirking, but in a scared kind of way, "They don't even look real." You're an insomniac and movies like Shelter's Island and Inception hit you in a different way, maybe a real way - damn Leo Dicaprio!...

I said in another lyric...everything's a lyric...everything's a damn metaphor...I said, "We're all actin', it feels like life is pretend"...So, I'm going to continue pretending, and maybe acting like a writer. I am writing, aren't I, I'm not? I mean, people, like that guy, carry around cameras all day taking pictures of something that already exists, and call it art -- but, I get it. Here I am writing my sob-story, insomniac dreams, etc. and my visions of writing, they've been heard before too, but it's something humane that makes us want to tell it again...

...I write as fast as I can with a petrified look, scared I won't get it all down...

...And, so here's the dismount for today's "Morning Pages"...everyone's insane, I mean, that guy bathes in a fountain, gets out and wears an Obama t-shirt. I think his ass touched your hope, a penny you threw into a fountain, praying for a little something to come your way that might make life a little easier. It's like that train we're waiting for, the train that acts as reassurance for what's coming, or what we want to be coming in our lives. You think, if only that train could come, I would go on with my day - as planned. I think, if only I could sleep, I could go on with my day - as planned. So, the train doesn't come, but you go on with your day and maybe use yoga later to cope, etc. Maybe I don't sleep great tonight, but I must start to go on with my life. Use whatever, wait in that damn Starbucks line for hours if you think it'll help. I mean, I listen to Bob Dylan like he's actually talking to me, he's not? Listen to his Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie and tell me he isn't...and that's what I think, but he's really talking to everyone, himself too. He created a universal feeling, thoughts, in that spoken word...and I guess that's what I'm after with this, and all the writing I do. I'm explaining myself, to myself, with hopes that it leads somewhere, somehow, isn't that a lyric?...Everything's a lyric...everything's a metaphor...everything's a train ride...and everybody's insane...except that guy in the mirror.