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.
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