i am quite certain these past 6 days my subconscious made possible. of mostly lying around sick with headaches and sore throats and cough and cold symptoms and fatigue and a little asthma. coming out of it now, slowly. i was full of worry and fear beforehand, an impoverished mentality to which i was bound, i must confess, most of which has now fallen under and been buried by the malaise of the body. i believe that without the opportunity of ill health, i may have remained indefinitely in that inextricable place i had gotten myself into unwittingly through my routine. a non-creative place. a linear establishment. a far cry from freedom and flexibility. of course my WIP fell to the wayside. i still have not settled back into Book Three. but this time i am no longer so worried about it nor fearful. part of the trap i fell into was reading contemporaries in my genre and comparing myself against them. this is only a part of the story of my missteps of late. sacrificing momentarily the appeal of my style which not only draws me but has drawn me some onlookers from faraway places. my style which must be enough on its own. the fullness. the fulfillment. all of that is there, waiting for me still, calling me back like sirens, like songs, like dreams, like love.
We all came together and sang songs terribly, and had a blast, smoking and drinking and singing awfully, i swear, the fingers fumbling around the keys, too, and everytime the foot dropped there was a pause for a breath and the snow was fallin heavy outside and icicles off the eaves, and we rolled up our sleeves the laughter was work and you could feel the stretch of your smile, and smoke was rushin up the flu and water rushin down the hill, not a goddam thing kept still and fuck it all, we sure were havin the best times of our lives and no one was gonna stop us