It's seven a.m., Halloween morning, 2011. I was supposed to be up for work an hour ago, but plans changed and now I am just up. I took two diet pills and am on my third cup of coffee, sitting alone in my dark living room, typing furiously and deleting doubly so while I wait for Marie to wake up. I'm trying to catch the dream state before it disappears entirely. There's a cloud in my head and it's filled with all of those thoughts I swear I think, all of the perfectly articulated stories, characters, plans, plots, and places. It's bursting with life, world, and mind changing ideas, my cloud.
So I try to catch it. Hope to write some of it down. Leave behind some record of dawning eureka.
What about the diet pills? The coffee? Shouldn't I ease up on the caffeine if I am trying to catch some waking dream by the tail? Probably. But I didn't.
The original plan was to eat better, lose a little weight (starting today, of course), sip my coffee in bed next to Marie and read some Hem shorts. It wasn't until halfway through "Fifty Grand" and three cups of coffee that I realized what brilliant blur of colors and moods, faces and words were whipping through me, being sucked out of me with each passing moment. I haven't had a drink in a week. I need every chance I can get.
I spilled my fucking coffee down the front of me as I burst out of bed.
"Shut up," Marie said from under her pillow as I clamored over the bed frame and through to the door.
I had to get to the computer. This was a typing situation.
But now, here I am. Staring at the screen, eyes burning, heart beating, thinking to myself: Well, what now? It's Halloween. I should write something with a chill to it, right? Or is that too expected? Maybe I should write about what I did this week? Well, fuck. I have been doing that all year. Well, then what?
I realize I lost the Cloud. It moved on, back over the desert of my subconscious, waiting for alcohol or sleep, or a mid-day thunderstorm inconveniently exploding to life while I am driving or calling the I.R.S. or fucking. The Cloud has moved on and I read back all of the words on my screen.
"It's seven a.m., Halloween morning, 2011..."
Fuck.
So I try to catch it. Hope to write some of it down. Leave behind some record of dawning eureka.
What about the diet pills? The coffee? Shouldn't I ease up on the caffeine if I am trying to catch some waking dream by the tail? Probably. But I didn't.
The original plan was to eat better, lose a little weight (starting today, of course), sip my coffee in bed next to Marie and read some Hem shorts. It wasn't until halfway through "Fifty Grand" and three cups of coffee that I realized what brilliant blur of colors and moods, faces and words were whipping through me, being sucked out of me with each passing moment. I haven't had a drink in a week. I need every chance I can get.
I spilled my fucking coffee down the front of me as I burst out of bed.
"Shut up," Marie said from under her pillow as I clamored over the bed frame and through to the door.
I had to get to the computer. This was a typing situation.
But now, here I am. Staring at the screen, eyes burning, heart beating, thinking to myself: Well, what now? It's Halloween. I should write something with a chill to it, right? Or is that too expected? Maybe I should write about what I did this week? Well, fuck. I have been doing that all year. Well, then what?
I realize I lost the Cloud. It moved on, back over the desert of my subconscious, waiting for alcohol or sleep, or a mid-day thunderstorm inconveniently exploding to life while I am driving or calling the I.R.S. or fucking. The Cloud has moved on and I read back all of the words on my screen.
"It's seven a.m., Halloween morning, 2011..."
Fuck.
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