Here are the things that I let distract me from writing: family, obligation, friends, internet, books, TV, chores. If I sit in a coffee shop, I can write for as long as my bladder holds out — unless someone came with me.

Where does one go to find a small room with a door, without a television, internet connection, telephone, family, or friends? I am going to go Away a day or four each month, not over night, just get up in the morning, leave, hide, write for a day, come home for dinner.

But where?

The library here is all open spaces, not even any study carrels. Maybe a church library — no one goes to those. Where does one find a small room to sit in and write? Is a coffee shop the best I’ll find? I’d just as soon not add “lots of drinks & pastries” to the distraction list; I’ll be jittery and fat.

EDIT: I am trying to overcome to many of my issues (by exertion of will) at one time, and am trying to resolve some of my issues by temporary relocation. Once I have the immediate writing issues resolved, I’ll work on the avoidance behaviors and prioritization problems.

Potter Potter is not the best music to have sex by. No matter what anyone tells you.

Rhythm is not enough.

This entry will have been written under the influence of cheerfully suppressant drugs. Should I stray from the paths of grammar, sense, or decency, allowances are to be made. The avocado compells due access to all liverwort in this, the season of bloom.

So. The neck bit. My neck hurts. Ah! if only ‘t’were so simple. Some few days ago I had opportunity to lift leaden weights, to move through all the ranges of all my motions with the resistance of gravity and (that Newtonian thing that escapes me just this moment), and I did just that. I lifted and, in response to my will and effort, my blood vessels expanded to supply my cravant (if there is such a word outside this, my cheerful delerium) muscles with that which seemed needful. I left the place of strenuous efforts (those less prolix would term it a ‘gym’, but let us scorn the lack of ambition that would permit us to rest there, at one syllable) somewhat over-worked. Very over-worked. In fact, I seem to have overworked just enough to let a muscle group (rhomboid, I think, if anyone cares and keeps score) clench into a striated-flesh knuckle. Having achieved its Gordian state, my body has chosen to rest; nor stretching nor rest, nor anything has given it the motivation needed to release the hold it has on pain, there just under my shoulder blade.

Today Othello (bollocks to pseudonymery!) Michael and his Imaginery Friend wished to go off to do teen-aged things with others of like temperment, and we took them off to do just that. Climbing into the car, I entirely failed to duck my head in the normal fashion, and boffed it on the side ofthe car. Damage to skull and chassis were minimal, but the sudden demonstration of leverage was crippling. As the poet has said, ouch. I leaned, wracked by dry sobs, waiting for the world to become its customary mnarra-loving place, and waited some more. Finally Bridgette — no, Shannon — had to drive, and I held myself as still as I could and fought the claustrophobic need to stretch my neck to relieve the discomfort.

The boys were dropped, and we went to the hardware store for, oh, I don’t remember. We didn’t get it, I know that. It was out of stock. So let’s say it was wax burritos, since I wouldn’t want them if they were in stock, and having them out of my reach should, therefore, please me. There were no wax burritos, and we wandered without, pining. I was careful to not move my head overmuch, and so missed the Horrible Fate that lay before me.

Peeps.

Hundreds of Peeps, fresh-cracked from their shells, cheeping and hopping and shitting and being just as fluffy and cute and smelly as they knew how to be. Yes, these were not the bland but harmless peeps of the marshmallow variety, but the flesh-and-blood sort, all poof and shiny eyes. It turns out they are free, ten of them, with purchase of a 25 pound bag of feed. Somehow, that seemed a deal that couldn’t be passed by, and we now have ten birds and feed enough for nearly a month. Fresh eggs, it appears, are in my future.

I can’t explain the need for chickens. I asked Shannon (you know her — used to be Bridgette) why we needed chickens, and she couldn’t answer, either. But, there they are. Chickens.

Peep. The cats are fascinated.

I have taken drugs. I have taken Flexeril and Darvocet, which combination has turned the world into a place filled with warm hues and sudden fits of laughter. The air is clarified molassasssasasssas, and I move through it only with effort, and slowly. I weave slightly when I walk, undoubtedly because of currents in the molas — thick brown sweet stuff.

I am cheerful and incompetent, and deeply moved to show that before the world; hence, I post. I go now, to

I don’t remember. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it, though.

Tonight I arrived home, collected my business partner (that would be the wife) and we drove off to discuss gardening needs with a lovely pair of men recently moved to the Rogue Valley. And sold them a package of landscaping for $3,500, should take us about three days to do.

*jaw drops*

That was properly estimated, with hourly wages paid each of us and a moderate profit (17%) to the business.

Three of those a month and we don’t have to have jobs. Six a month and we don’t have to have jobs in the winter, either.

*jaw drops some more*

Of course, that supposes that we actually find and get more jobs, but the first one is necessary to have before one has the fortieth one.

Wow.

Bridgette was fired from her job yesterday.

Today she’s gathering up a list of places to apply and updating her resume. She’s planning to apply to nurseries and landscaping firms across the board.

She instructed me that, if I wanted my ass kicked for me, all I had to say was, “Maybe we should skip Writer’s Weekend this year.” I had just been thinking, “I’m still going to WW, even if I have to sleep in the car.” So, good on both of us, I feel.

I don’t seem terribly worried, maybe because she already has a plan for moving on to better things. This might even be a good thing; she generally dreaded going to work. If she can find something less toxic to her, that’s all to the good.

Nearly 25 years ago, a friend of mine wrote a lovely essay suggesting that people who wish to be happy are shallow and unimaginative. She stated that happiness sapped the creative potential that motivating emotions (like fear, or anger, say) possessed. To truly experience life, she felt, pick another mood. Be angry. Be frightened. Explore base depression, covet prolonged ennui, woo manic fits.

So.

What conventionally-understood-as-negative mood would you seek out, and why?