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.

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