Here the pencil drops.
Like flat emotion across the River of Doubt. I am writing a novel finally. Actually two, one alone, and the other collaborative. My writing is less whimsical and poetic the long I leave poetry in the cupboard. I enjoy coffee and long spread out sunsets across the city scape. Here is San Miguel de Allende. I inhabit a room on the 5th and last story. My troubles are Stockwerk. Stocking the shelves of my life, and my fictions. When will this end some moment in freedom.
It has begun. With a wordpress: freist.wordpress.com
It is time to eat. Here are my dreams: to reenter the middle way, to finish the novels, to roam and work in europe, to cross the land mass to asia, to then fly to Australia and work, to be near friends.
But Gaby has not appeared yet. I bought tortillas integrals and queso oaxaca to make quesadillas, and veggies as a side. I have no friends here in SMA. Though I am content as long as I am writing.
So many things to pay for today. Rent, Internet and cable, herb, groceries, and.
There is nothing left for me now. Time drifts like a spindle down into an imaginary eye.
And I was free once, liberated & libertine, and I am free now, yet it is quite different running up wards willing through gutters of chance, and sitting quietly afront a screen, glancing at sunlight bathing tiny cactuses on a windowsill.