I create a mental instance of my mother, saying “Don’t you think it would be a nice idea to help your neighbor ..?” I create an mental instance of myself saying, “No, I'm gonna' write.” Another 'instance' of myself pleads. "No more boring old nature crap, please" I suddenly see images of people in my workshop looking at me and asking themselves .. “is he gonna write more boring old nature crap today ?” My mind drifts ..my heart warms to memories of Santa Cruz ..following the woodsy trails through Lorenzo park ..walking past the street musicians on Pacific avenue ..eating hot soup at New Leaf ..always looking for Pergolesi’s Cafe. Sometimes I feel more at home in these ‘instances’ than I do sitting on my own patio. I live in a world displaced by thoughts and images ..disconnected from things as they are ..I wrap it in an layer of concepts and ideas ..always looking for the right words to replace what’s in front of me ..carrying them around ..hoping others will understand and validate me. Seems like such a waste of time. Thoughts shoot by ..faint recollections of things I’ve read ..warnings of things to come ..not one worth stopping to explore. I woke up this morning to the same chaos that began with the big bang. I’m sitting on a coastal plain ..slouching towards the sea ..listening to the echoes of dinosaurs in the songs of birds singing in the trees –writing more boring crap in obscure metaphors and tortured syntax .
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