A hot cup of tea to get you moving in the morning, to get you out of bed on these dreary Autumn days especially, & you begin working again, the empty slate. Which reminds me, I've been making notes to myself on my walks to the grocery store—which has been the passed 4 or 5 evenings straight, now—on what I need to improve in my writing, that in-media-res is a powerful device, I've not yet toyed with, in the middle of things.
And a dreary day it certainly is, gray & rain & cold. Or, it's not even so cold really, I've become used to these cooler temperatures, my body has hardened, but cold still. Summer is my love, the warmth right from the Earth, you don't even have to do anything, the vitality surrounds you. But though I often think of moving to a milder climate,—Oregon was somewhat of an attempt—I think I need these yearly cold spells. Which, however, I think is a lot of shit, a rationalization only. Certainty needs no justification.
But damnit, I knew I should have got some milk last night, I was running low, I don't know why I didn't, having become accustomed to these daily walks to the store, I figured I'll just get it to-morrow. But damnit, I'm not going out there in this rain, it's supposed to all day. So I'll ration what I got & sip tea & water, besides, the rest of the time. Plus I got over half the bottle of this wine remaining, like a dirty, old priest, for breakfast, the farting friar, the grapes are so good for his digestion, it's the colors, purple, that deep purple, & blueberries too, that deep blue. You know how difficult it is for nature to make such condensed color like that? Or, I always feel like that anyway, that these deeper, more matte colors are more precious than the bright yellows & oranges, & even the brighter blues & purples, of flowers, for example. The anti-oxident qualities they have, they cleanse the system, just by their dark dyes, a sign of medicine, & also like the tops of blueberries, that 5-pointed star—or 7 too. I'll get round to reading Pliny, here, his tract on medicine eventually, he goes much more into it than Burton, it appears.
Though I've been feeling like a criminal even at the thought of sitting down to read. Like hey buddy, you're not so comfortable as you think, to be kicking-up the feet, enjoying a read, you got work to do, some money to make. So the books I've began sit in limbo. Though I know, this is that hot, new trend,—from Naval—to drop what you can't finish. But it's not the case with this, I've a strong interest in these books. It's all books I can't bring myself to read at the moment, I don't have the luxury, the sickle swinging at my neck.
Though I got some Miller beside me, which I'll read a chapter here or there no problem, his pen is the only other I can stand,—& really, barely that, I'm constantly correcting here & there, I find when I read—besides my own, his "Big Sur," & "Cancer." Which I didn't realize about his "Big Sur" before, that he's kind of showing you how it's done there, handing you the blueprint. Though I'm only on chapter 4, I think—of the 15 or so. I'm in no rush, taking it slowly. How I've been doing everything the passed few weeks, this was a change in me, to ignore the urgency—a practice of duality applied: to best face urgency, go easily about everything. To fool yourself into it, however, now that's the trick. But the benefits you see bit by bit help you maintain the illusion.
Anyway, I was just stopping in. I've still not made the tea, lost writing this in one swift sitting. I'm signing-off now, till again.