Today I Am A Real Writer

This morning I feel like a REAL writer. Just like in the movies I mean… you know, where REAL life happens. (If you have already begun to take me literally, please go back to the beginning and start again. Do not pass Go or collect three French hens. I’m just poking fun at that place in the collective consciousness where we are all so covertly programmed by the malarkey that is ceaselessly fed to us in droves of illusory, gleaming spoons. Even one as free and cosmic and unconventional as yours truly still grapples with stupid shit like yearning for princess weddings and an idyllic family unit wrought with an endless stream of soft landings, romantic interludes and a fine, misty spray of happily ever afters. Shrug. Can you blame a pony riding, kiss blowing, candy apple licking, diamond lusting lady-girl?)

Anyway, I am a real writer this morning, because I woke up in a posh and spotless little apartment nestled on the hill in Sausalito (bless me… I just sneezed) and ambled and whacked through the jungle of post slumberly thickness into the living room whose bay windows provide a sweet, greedy peek through dampness and wind-tickled trees, right at the hazed over bay. Yeah, the fog is gentle today… it does not devour and conceal… but merely suggests and flirts, much like a bride’s veil. (Whoa! As I am writing this, the sun has pressed its holy face through the dense, misting shroud of earth-bound clouds and is causing the bay to glow like it did back in Avalon! Oops, now it’s gone again.) In my mind, “real” writers always have such slick little oasis to pour forth their inspired minds onto the splayed, awaiting pages. Forget noisy cafes and shlumpy bedrooms. No. That’s but a haunted urban legend fashioned for half baked wanna-bes. A cosmic secret revealed is that all writers write from elite paradises. (If you are again taking me literally, please go back to the beginning and follow the directions posted there…)

But I love it here in this expensive, pristine apartment on the hill in Sausalito. I want to be one of those writers who travels the world and finds romantic little pockets from which to spread open and pour forth my love drunk font of language. AND I want to write from ashrams in India, orphanages in Kenya, DMVs in my hometown, villas on Italian country-sides, artsy, shuttered Parisian apartments overlooking narrow cobble stoned alleys saturated by the earthy perfume of fresh baking baguettes, diners in smelly, forgotten armpits gratuitously strewn about the vast sprawling body of the United States of America. I guess in essence, I want to dive head first into this dreamscape we call home and suck in greedy gulps of mundane life and then spit it out in awe-struck strings of words for all to imbibe.

But here I am in Sausalito, sitting in a beautiful living room which to my dismay is over-crowded with furniture (I want to hurl the brunt of it out the big bay window and let it fend for its self on the elite streets of this simultaneously stiff and pristine city.), watching the fog roll and drip and gently whip at the canopy of trees… Here I am… and… now what? I feel thick. Ten hours of sleep thick. Thick like I am calling up to myself from the bottom of a deep well, or swaddled in a warm, dense blanket of sticky snow. Ask me when the last time I slept for ten hours was and I would tell you like nineteen ninety six. I would of course be exaggerating, but I am a writer and I have an up to date poetic license… you want me to whip it out and show you???

But I must have needed that sleep… Because I have been surfing some waves of intense emotion. That’s why I have not blogged for TWO ungodly days. Unheard of… I guess just pulling further apart from my relationship with Mykael and my relationship with my home and belongings and trying to recalibrate my sense of safety and self in the midst of such fundamental shifts. I meant to blog last night by the faux fire place (you know, one of those short cut, gas jobs for lazy, cardboard romance types… and environmentalists) But at shortly after eight o’clock, I nestled in a comfy chair near the dancing half-assed flames contained in their boxed-in pseudo utopia, flipped open my glowing screen and my whole being rose up in a rebellion named exhaustion and shouted, “No way, Jose,” so I took the hint, flipped the lid down and curled up in a ball of hibernation and mercy on the couch and crashed out at eight bloody thirty pm.

I guess crying for an entire day and then getting up the next morning to go out and offer poems at the farmer’s market and then meeting up for an afternoon of sauntering and X-treme bonding with one’s cosmic dad while furniture is shifting it’s brains out right inside my unseen reaches is bound to take its toll. Am I allowed to indulge in a second cup of yerba mate with fresh honey from local bee keepers this morning? Seems so indulgent. Maybe I’ll just go back to bed…


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. souldipper
    Aug 08, 2010 @ 21:50:34

    “Bravo!” shouts this Queen of Parallel. “Me too!” …from 1:00 am PDT to 11:00 am PDT with only one feline in/out/in/out episode to break the stream of rapid eye movement and the wonder of endlessly entertaining visions.

    When I rolled out of bed, slipped on my runners and hit the ‘scotch misted’ path, I was rewarded with the smell of wet animals settled invisibly in the bushes and with being able to watch a Pileated Woodpecker grub excitedly for those juicy, plump dwellers of trees.

    My muscle shirt (where the hell are those muscles?) facilitated a fantasy of a 2 mile shower walk as the fog wrapped wet lacy moisture patches over bare skin.

    Even sharing the usual dose of welcome, unpredictable humour with my two octogenarian buddies buckled in their car weapon, creeping down their wooded driveway heading for the House of Prayer, could not eradicate the bliss I feel for being alive at this moment.

    I missed you and so delighted to find you sharing my fog!

    Love, Amy


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