I can’t find the papers I wanted to use as writing prompts today. Frustrating. I’m seeking them. They’re missing. Wanted to work on (and through) my memories. I love you, God, wanna lend a hand? (interesting to think of ineffectiveness and then looking up and feeling a little bit like a dog, begging for a bone.)
I need to sweep the hall and kitchen, straighten the living room and clean… clean. Dishes, laundry, that sort of thing. Clickety clack through the list, tirelessly.
God is bedrock under my feet says Psalm 18 today. I need to write the LiaSophia letter, Write DPA, call Karen. I need to work on my lines, work on my lines, work on my lines. I know my lines. I know abundance. I know. The dance with plenty. I know this. Above resolutions. Above resolutions. Above resolutions. Above resoluntions. Above resolutions. Above resolutions. Above resolutions. Above resolutions. Above resolutions. Above resolutions. Above resolutions. Revisit goals, 101 from 2010.
Reach goals. Publish chap books, This business can help with all of that, the funding stuff especially. The being uncomfortable, especially. Build my business and fund projects, fund education, the administration, the underpinnings, the road ways and the how-tos are built in. Learn from them. Live the question. I need to simply move my pen. I cleared the table. I need to buy groceries. Write. Sweep for cobwebs.
(Write an inverted to do list! A Ta-Da list!)
Movement. Pterodactyl. Follow the leader.
Huh? Where did the “Pterodactyl. Follow the leader.” come from, anyway? How absurd is that?! LOL! Move my writing projects forward.
2 Chapters of book, complete ebook, blog posts, newsletters, marketing campaigns… reignite the writing flame. (So cheesy, I hate stuff written like that!) Anyway.
Let me come up with other things. Other reasons. Others.
I move my pencil. I want to build this business. I am preparing maybe for Emma. I don’t know, I feel lost, somewhat. Do I feel abandoned? By whom?> Myself, perhapos. Just slightly lost. (plentiful typos). I don’t know how to say what I want, my biggest barrier, nah. My biggest cop out. It is simple, though, to move. My resistance is ever surprising. I have a brief conversation, why people can’t see I am writing so leave me be for what, ten minutes, rather than clattering inside here with your gobbledy gook, your goo your whatever the heck agenda you want to throw in front of me, leave it behind, PLEASE!
Barrel. Inflated, Rubber and empty belt loops. Tool belt. Belt loops. Address book, the goat across the street bellows. Baaaah Baaaah baaaah. Bird feasts. Drops from last night’s rain. Haiku askes to be born:
Drops from last night’s rain / turn mulberries into soup / God winks through the clouds
I haven’t written haiku in a while and OH! it feels so good! Another haiku reaches out through my throat.
He tells of his plan – all I hear is blah blah blah – when will he let me be?
Samuel talks about his “How to play the guitar” book. Layer my to-do’s. Print my to-do list. Find out how I want to invest my time. Record poetry. Post it. Sell it. Reflect. Contemplate. Act.
Simple action. Movement. Sincerity.
Last page. This is the last page of my notebook. Final chapter. It started on a just complete with the rainy day in Massachusetts and now it is ending on a rainy day in Bakersfield, a month and change later.
Final chapter
do we ever know
I got carded as the
chapter labeled Hamletmachine
ended, the chime rang for
the final time, closed the last
page of Hamletmachine
it turned, it closed, it left
the building.
The Ex is through the stage. Talk to those people and those and those and those. I’m used to that: talking to all. Sharing. Putting me out there, helping them to believe in me. Helicopter makes its way to the hospital, loudly, carrying ailing human cargo. Makes me wonder about my neighbor who has been unseen for the last few days, don’t know what of her baby. Poor thing. I release my shoulders. I prepare to write the final words.
I wrote backwards in that notebook:
Planned my final words before
offering them to you.
Plotted their spaces and
wrote into them, after
from the other side knowing
and dreading the ending.
I no longer know what I wrote
except I couldn’t continue
my monologue when dialogue
was what my heart sought.
I kept writing. I found words. I
attempted to communicate. I didn’t
stay silent. I moved my pen.
It found its message.
The message found its footing.
I breathed it into existence.
I put this notebook on the shelf,
next to all the others. Write DPA
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