Well like my friend said, I can write where I’m going. I can write where they’re going. I just have to regain my focus, my words, my tongue, my ghosts that are buried somewhere inside of my vocabulary that can slow down, slow-slow-slow; slowly moving like a reporter at a drug deal, a low-down and dark get-down kinda scene that he secretly hopes will go bad, just for some spark.
Write like a machine gun. A T-Rex. An old man. A wise but curious and spontaneous old man. Describe what you see, take your time; get back to what you were onto. Sketch life, sketch tables and headphones and the strings that they are attached to. Talk about the colors and the patterns and the intersecting lines that are slouched over a chair, which really is an old Levi-shirt with lines of blue and red and white paneling going down sleeves.
Talking about what you see; get back to the basics. Practice doesn’t make perfect but it makes you a citizen of the property of thee states. It brings you back to what you see, what you love, what you read and what you feel safe doing. This is what THIS is for. THIS is just practice.
You have to get the story and the words that are always slowly bringing you back down to who you are. Better typing and more words per second. Bother not brother man. Be a Master of time. A master and a slave and a god and the nonexistent stuff that only exists in your mind. Be all of this, to not one man and woman, but to all men women and neither dead nor alive ghosts and goblins.
Be Satan. Be the space that makes up everything that could be, but even more so the space that could never be. You have to go and make that keyboard a part of you again. A long spontaneous tail to the man that you are. You have to walk in circles, in triangles, in three dimensional superstitious doodles drafted by the mental, created by the ancient demons of society that wish to be born of wild angels.
You have to wash the nicotine stains off of your cold hands. You have to wash your feet. You have to shake it up and never stop the goodness. You can’t hesitate. You can’t wait for the words.
You can close your eyes, but your fingers are moving faster and this is proactive. The keys get bigger. Your eyes are a magnifying clock, and the hands of time can’t slow you down. Every word that you ever wanted to speak and translate inside of your mind is going to possibly manifest and into technology you create wonder-full made-up-full truths, always in past tense.
Type slow and look at the tic-tac-board on the wall that is the heater and the fan that waits for the summer, just like you.
Just be them. Be American. Be an alien. Be a MOON MAN. Just be you.
Like that old hippie said, just don’t think. Just read and write and write and read. Be that crazy writer. Be that guy that went to county. Be that person. That person that believed he was onto something when he stayed up all night in a holding-cell and scribbled for seventeen straight hours on toilet paper.
Just be. Be everything. Be nothing. Be…
(C)
Adventures In American Writing 
[…] (B). The first writing I posted. Where the adventure started. ha! I mean picked up. Thats my sword, an old letter opener. I also have pens that I call knifes. ha. anyway…read where I started bleeding my art, my friend, my foe, my teacher, my eyes, my fiction and kinda fiction, dreams and mares, my words, my highs and lows to humanity. […]