Woken by Smoke

The man downstairs is smoking. Perhaps it’s a women. Doesn’t really matter – so on edge from the city these days and could really use some type of insane asylum but in a nice way. I don’t think that exists. There isn’t much room anymore for deciding. Pushing forward on the book at such a slow pace it’s maddening. The first one was much easier. The city is asleep but not enough people are. Moving? What would it do? Decay? It must be going on everywhere. Somewhere on every continent there is another who can’t sleep so those sagging eyes will have some company now. My wife wishes I will come back to bed but I can’t. There is no peace in doing anything other than this. There is no stopping until the next one is done. And then the next. I have learned very little I think. I still mark my success with the notion of accomplishment. It would be nice if the weekend would just start and I could turn on a football game for relaxing and not think of the rest.

Writing is the only thing now. It’s getting worse – worse because I tasted it and now it’s a horrible drug that drags me out of bed – Why? It makes other people happy to read all of this – providing escapes it’s just something so wrong and out of the ordinary.

There is a pigeon perched on top of the building across the street with a full moon over it. What they hell is the moon doing out? What the hell am I doing up? Why did that man or woman or whatever with the cigarette wake me up. The vision of that pick up truck is haunting me like no other. I can’t much take it. How is it affecting me right now? I shouldn’t have put those job titles in the descriptions on those banner ads. Shouldn’t have sent that last email out to the publisher. Surely they are growing weary of my insanity. I am. I know inside it’s all caving in and the only way to fill it is with more but more of what? The digital age promised so much so perhaps we are collapsing on ourselves trying to fill the promise? It’s all working and none of it is working as well which is the really hollow thing. Maybe that’s what TS Eliott was talking about. Made of straw. I only get poetry in these moments. These hours and this time when I remember San Francisco and this time in the morning but there was so much fog then. I keep saying it’s too small to live there but I don’t know. Maybe I could move back and we’ll live that life there together. It’s an option. Would have to drive back up the coast and out over the coast and through the coast. Would have to change to whole bio on the back of the book because it’s clear now that I’m getting associated with Harlem.

It’s tough. I get so excited and then I have very little left. I feel like that now that I have very little left and am just hanging on. Keep going back and trying to erase everything and start it up again but that’s of no use because you can only go forward. I’m just so tired now and everyone keeps lighting up cigarettes and shooting off those damn alarm clocks. I have to be there for everyone and then nobody returns the calls. It’s all jumbled up and I’m finding it harder to take. Perhaps I should put on that pot of coffee and just get to it. Feels good to put it down – I should be spending these moments trying to put it down but I’ve been hustling my whole life and fear that if I stop, if I don’t knock on every door, what will happen?

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