That has been my day. Woke up with the energy and clarity of a slug. Drove to McDonald’s and picked up coffee, picked up food. Did not go to church. Did not feel sorry about it. Did not rest or relax, but started typing and thinking and writing and working and doing and fixing and fiddling and rewriting and fiddling and fixing and writing and working and stretching a little and smoking a little and eating a little and watching TV a little and writing some more and rewriting some more and fiddling and googling and fixing and figuring and writing and rewriting and more and more and more.
I did a lot.
At some point I drank a beer.
I wrote this:
“Three things have formed my writing more than anything else--
Church, Reading, TV, The Luck of the Draw
There's nothing more lucky than an inborn fear and a big huge awful God with wings and claws to cook you and roast you and haunt you and forge you into a poet.
There's nothing so lucky as having a mother who reads to you every night, who buys you books. Nothing so magic as the bookmobile driving up the driveway, as walking up its steps and breathing in that particular smell of a tiny library that travels about on wheels.
Is there anything so marvelous as Captain Kangaroo reading "Make Way for the Ducklings," or a real live witch making magic when she wiggles her lips? Anything more exciting than sliding down the long waxed hall and into the living room, plopping down to watch The Ten Commandments again, every year, again again? Anything more powerful than staying up till eleven o'clock on Saturday nights to watch Star Trek? I can never thank you enough, Captain Kirk. Nor you, Mr. Spock. And Bones, where would any of us be without you, Bones?
The accident of my birth. To have a Southern Gothic childhood. To know the exact moment when your brain turned on and you became self-aware. To be talented. To have a teacher who knew you as a real honest to god poet.
To know that there is genius inside you. To know absolutely that you are the very best most amazing incredible terrific poet who has ever written a poem in the history of the world. To know that all your poems are perfect.
And to be lucky so lucky so lucky enough to know that none of this is true at all.”
I wrote it and I found that it was good. And I smoothed out wrinkles and knots in a couple of stories. And I kissed Dale. And I spoke to Alex. And I spoke to James. And I rolled my ankles round and round and up and down just like I’m supposed to. And I didn’t put on the medicine like I’m supposed to. And I haven’t taken any pain medicine since six am. And now I am going to post this and close this machine and put it down in its place and not look at it until morning.