Rut
You ever think, I’m in a rut, so I’m going to do something against type to challenge myself, only to discover, yeah, I’m in a rut, and I like it there.
No, no, no, not me. Never.
Right.
How It Works
Car appointment today, 12:30, in Medford, down the asphalt river seventeen miles. Wife asks, “Are you going to go do your writing first?” Because this is the standard, this is the norm, this is the way it works. Whatever else, go write. Michael must write. Not writing makes Michael a cranky man.
“Yes,” I answer, “but I need to have some coffee first.” Because this is the standard, the norm, this is the way it works. I must have a cup of coffee to go have my coffee and write.
What were once indulgences are now habits. But come on, that first cup, black and hot, French roast, untainted by milk, cream, sugar or anything else, is awesome. Yeah, it would seem like there’s a chasm between drinking strong, unadulterated black coffee and then indulging in a mocha with four shots of espresso. But I believe – and belief is important – that the coffee pleases my muse, and that helps my writing. Gotta keep the muse happy.
That’s the way it works.
The Usual
He wakes up
the usual time, after a usual night of sleep
with the usual shifts and movements
falling asleep to the usual thoughts
He does
the usual things,
feeds the cats the usual foods
in the usual order
He checks
the usual items,
the temperature outside and in
the forecast
the stock market
the news
the blogs
And he eats
the usual breakfast
drinks the usual coffee
shaves his usual face
dresses in his usual clothes
and embraces his usual self
on a usual day.