I’m writing a new book. It’s done. I wrote it. Nothing. Life is practice. Days are never to be forced. Dreams are to be had. Life is not a game. Driving and watching and talking, sleeping at rest stops and learning, trying to remember, and only through practice does it become natural. You know what to do. To flow, to be the spontaneous slow pitched lion’s roar. Cold but warmer than ever. Time and unconditioned and welcoming like a brother the repressed laughter Hearing you all. There for you all. Trying to hear your voices, alone. Classifications and dualism are erroneous illusions of the romantic drunk. Unnecessary, all of this, so easy, but without practice so hard to remember when…I stop and wait. I have some new material. A whole new book. I have to go think. I have to keep practicing. Remember, without, remembering.
Adventures In American Writing 