My life's been changed from the elegance of a woman I know, whom I call wisdom. She provides a jolt for jousting and is disguised as a vibrant energy tethered away in a spiritual carriage, riding off into the sounds of pristine joy. Man's internal clock becomes a guide toward his freedom. The sun's covetous fire blinds his gape at moral conviction, used a few times aghast moments wilting time's feather from high above. Scorned in flight as it is, wringing beneath cool heatwaves blending October's red sky into a bloodshot moon over Autumn, palatable with ceremonious love spreading seasonal change in directions calling out a quantum symphony of majestic stature, leading truth's core to battle for Freedom's Cry. Stories of life made in touch with an era's time, are discovered and remembered a future ahead. Accept it and let go, conclude the story. If one's turned into a witness of another's manifestations of good, the inspiration fades because they've not chose to wield their own protection of the heart by the upholding of a shield. Yet manifestations rub off. I have learned that a single lesson is as temporal as its own message, and she's gone. A short inflection on the reason why wisdoms considered such, is that one's life becomes the story a human body wants to protect as its focus of power. Because it is those particularities one wishes he had the time capable to give belief in, when the sharing of influences across his life, are responsible for the greater success prior sought, by the individuals wishing to uphold their shield. Wisdom is protection. And knowledge solidifies the mind through perennial isolation. And because I've sustained, I ask her bosom's fire what more of the unrest? Why is it I cannot prolong into the... never mind, I have. Every word in action is beautiful in the light of its own meaning. A hardened heart is a cradling heart, subdued between submission, stability, and one's unionship to be a companion and helpmate to another. I have realized and sought the past, as my future's way home. And my cradling heart is the acceptance of its unrest.

Each day gets longer with a thought of you, and to believe in a "what if," the whole thought enables my soul to climb in thanks of having met you, because my impeccable timing in branding what's divine, is but a partial thought of time's pleasure. For the accomplishment is its own reminder and reminders are needed to focus one's targets with accuracy. "The company you keep," some'd say, is the interpretation of it. A certain unspoken wisdom you find in search for. Because wisdom is an absence away and what's considered a driving slope to nowhere, the heat's resounding agency to wipe away and start anew reminds me of the gift of responsibility. The streets I walk shed light upon a dark alleyway next a bridge's holding cell, where fire is molded into comfort. A blue sky acts more pleasant when the good of wisdom looking up, is the heart's pleasure for boasting persuasion. The hardest thing I try convincing myself is, today's here. It is thriving and alive, roiling about as a sun full of bliss and christening, that revels the dust particles flailing mid-air as if also, being struck from a broom to launch. Getting over my last failed escapade to trundle into dawn the next morning, is a peace for my soul's rest. Awaiting, is the outside again. Something abreast its calling to mandate brief counsel for life's guidance hitherto and on out. I don't know what I'm saying, if not for being a writer in the Midwest at the beginning of Winter season, striking the page at a small table in a café and peering out at endless expressions looking up. I bought a large cappuccino and brought two books: "The Writer's Chapbook" by George Plimpton and "The Sun Also Rises" by Ernest Hemingway. I'm glad though to have used more red ink in midst a quiet crowd of ambient patrons focused less on polarization and more on connecting together our vulgar existence (at times). Such breath is a puzzle that keeps the soul young and optimistic. I have not cracked either book open, as my main concern is having grabbed no napkin to rub the muffin crumbs off my index and thumb fingers. The writer wields a pen because moral foundations and reasoning themselves, are questions of basis. Or for no reason at all, thoughts can and should be released on their own validation. Even when I'm not trying either one, my failed escapades conjure the repetitious cycle. In that moment and thitherto, I remember evocation's importance: "to portray a vividly conscious image of a truth," in which we all try living out harmony's dream.

I'm eager to rid my mind of a few things in this entry. Email coming through these days regard significant adult interests: men's razor blades and casual clothing, life insurance and charity donations, free scout cookies (won't say whose) and car insurance, also, rent! Not mentioning my eviction letter being two weeks old now. I'm learning that less talk of unimportant subject matters weighs no hardship on page and bare no weight for folks outside it. I watch less news and read more consistently through my bookshelf. My last unemployment payment came yesterday, and I'd only been able to hold onto twenty dollars. My account before I filed the voucher was in a two-hundred seventy-six-dollar decline. To wait a week almost, for twenty dollars is a hardship to itself, let alone a travesty. I find funny and humorous, the question of showing to the café with a notebook and espousing mournful grumbles that somehow I "must," add into a book. Why and why? The all-day back and forth, pitter and patter, the ping-pong match between both sides of my brain. I show because I have to, whether a bit nuanced or not! But always... the work resumes. I am also here because Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises" is one-hundred ninety-eight pages for the story and I'm one-hundred forty-five pages in. As Hemingway and many other classical writers found, I too understand well the holes in my upbringing I spend time trying to affix. All to say, the story itself is a cult classic. I'll do my due diligence in my assessment. I hearken to say though, that nothing that special regards Hem from a writer's eye, my own in particular just appreciates the display of truth above anything else. The style of writers, the movement of their quills and pens when they talk, speak, exclaim, or espouse their time across blank pages I have to sit for, to capture a small portion of a life they sacrificed early. The constant warning of what's ahead seems to be an aim to commercialize it, to commercialize the life of mainstream attention. So why not give it up? It boils my blood because no one asked or ever did, for my peoples' attention.

. . .

I've left late to Kaffeine Co. scrounging around for my pick. A second official day in a row the seating areas have reopened to the public and I'm here for the "bottomless drip" coffee option, meaning I get my money's worth. A possible consensus amid patrons during this pandemic is that going outside for a square, may be unallowed if one tries coming back in. I assume smoking a square second, upon departure is best understood by those standing and talking because of how much a critic the self is when disciplining itself to sit and write. Without boasting, bragging, and chauvinism, for the art of the written word brings individuals blind to the public stage, thinking to fit in by expending energy and activity away from such, the press perchance. The pressing and central question of always being: "what's your story?" And from a gentleman of the word: "what's your story young man?" The path's never been easy for the latter. I'd think that a woman was responsible for every young, prodigal writer's death in the early eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries. Specially if not by head gunshot wounds, hangings, daggers to the stomach for betrayals of the heart, and self-sabotaging. I didn't mention the public beheadings or cracking whips in both Dostoevsky's and Laurence Dunbar's time(s). The story is an encapsulation of sacrifice for himself, in the attainment of acceptance before will and pride push away. The story is a response to eviction, as I've gotten the general advice from the public in it usually being more easy for them to listen. Accepting sacrifice is the confirmation one's burdened with, not as a weight, but as intuitive change. Enough to sit down and face the page all my own. It is not someone's decision making it my choice. I messaged an old chap whose been donning success with his old lady securing apartment approvals and in a time as this, I hate to say my phone service requires payment. All too well, the poor monetary gains of an old chap myself, at least makes me more comfortable looking at an empty Frigidaire. It never scares me anymore. I just grow tired of the same feeling day after day. The brain or one side of it, will sometimes admit, "something needs to be done now." I'm here because my brain can tell my body that and most often times the pen follows along. I am broke again literally, and this time a near eight-thousand dollar credit card debt. The student's back is broken and the system has filched their spines, to even stand up for a word to their masters. I took mines back on my abrupt exit from "The Firm."

Accepting the fact it's a new day now, is my roiling about inside. The feeling's not negative and I'm not aiming for a certain perception of these current thoughts, I'm rather joyful. I was unsure if I'd receive a deposit from unemployment this morning. I'd known my initial maximum benefit amount would run out last week, but I insisted further on following up on other options if they were available. I don't agree in full circumspect with using "benefit" as a term outside of a necessary obligation. Yet, I do feel that the upside-down pattern of our economic society now, might catch few up to the attitudes those of us have held for some time when employing the metrics of saving in a way, when one had to, stretch their last five or ten dollars. Even then, money as a construct in literature never in my opinion, truly detailed the meaning of survival in lieu of progress. Slavery pitted as a moral issue instead of an economic issue was unprecedented and certainly by those that follow along. Some of us now, even those on my side of the lane in the community, have learned the ways of entrance into the "Good Ole Boys' Club." Where secret passages are, the backstabbing looks of being calm in middle a lawsuit, the sharing of manipulative obligations for gain, and all the blackmailing, laundering, and poor handling of tossing aside or around, significant others because pleasure never gift-wrapped itself in an insuperable type of pleasure. The pleasure's luminous, making vivid the faith inside which one has, to believe something different, without the egregious and loathing stench of conviction. It isn't always a necessary tool. Something of that sort can be left and worked out irately by the pope. Confirmation is as a casual filching of an issue being the passageway to the pondering of choices, choices I hope aren't regrettable in the future. But I'm here because I'm a writer, an exceptional, classic avant-garde, master prodigy. Oh, the craftsman pauses. My boasting's ahead of itself and I see writing as my act of patience in line with the page. The page only waits for another corrected word the writer needs in order to understand what boastful, and "boastful bashing" means to him or herself at the time, in their shoes and individual standpoint. These days I appreciate more and more of Steinbeck's quiet life than the stories that've made him, while he sat at the kitchen table waiting for coffee from his wife and sometimes clinching, holding, or massaging over his hands after six hours off into a notepad. That, the work. Is the must of what gets done. Reassurance in that effort upholds the strenuous plagues it brings but having a spot in God's honor for sharing with people the joys of and in creation, is for the soul. And to keep mines I continue raging along at night into the day, on the ground and in travels across the sky.

It'd seem now more than ever Ayn Rand's conjectures might once again flourish, yet being a reader of the world also, the writer's always ahead of time. The conjectures and forethoughts matter not for what looms ahead. So, back to the book or another. And some of the words of guidance in which also can be considered wisdom if one decides to follow-up, are and have always been streaking paths of choice I hold in consideration. I only hate, and not really hate, writing because the damned voice is wretched and half-the-time asking myself if I'm spinning in circles confusing the truth for my own pillaging insight. I'm sure Foster Wallace had this issue, but he at least produced some incredible work and engagement abound the surface he inhabited. Walking in the shoes of others is never a recommendation for the individual glow to be seen amongst the stars at night and into the day thereafter, it engages my light at the moment. A trip here with ole' girl whose been heavy on my mind, is my downfall for many reasons, as is any woman he accepts for some reason. She is a form of wisdom he accepts, as his final admittance to a warring rage against the vulnerable self, the frugal demeanor he's built as a character to protect against his own. His protection then sheds. For the day's items: my phone's paid, groceries are stocked in the Frigidaire, check-ins are made, my affirmation is the work I put behind the words I profess in the time I inhabit. The most consistent saying I've gotten yet in keeping me high at the helm of the masthead, is "continue and keep going." This is a simple supposition made by anyone, and the aspiring devils that don't yet know their demons, the good "ones" always being wrung to dry, and the inspirers of change who never can live the impact of what they achieved til their soul witnesses its own dust and ashes underground; is filch.

Last week I came across the term. It means a subtle taking or the snatching of one's ability to stand up to their master. It's a removal of the spine. If that's accepted, Vonnegut's notion of human beings can be more understood. Rather than mush and bones, I'm fine with dust and ash. Dirt or anything associated with trees and the Earth. While alive, I'll contend my voice though because it speaks life into the rubbish, as archaic as our bodies would seem. Our brains and consciousness remain fresh. And the story remains fresh, because long as I disagree with another. I'll worry not for survival. I reflected a moment on my prior couple days and If I'm being honest on the page once more, then I'd be wrong to say a writer's best thoughts are down somewhere cradled between either margins or the unused spacing of printed words void of life and essence. The writer's task is finding those words in a hope of orating something, or... giving life to it, whatever the hell! Give me some credit for at least making a slight overdue entrance to what's been bothersome and what I haven't yet shared, for one should have his notebook on occasion. Points of this deference outweigh the number of pages based off need. The undying will and gratitude only want a piece of conversation added to life's matters, for what they're worth. I used a word last week I came across as filch. It means a subtle taking or the snatching of one's ability to stand up to their master, a removal of the spine. "Oh," I'm doing it again, sorry. I say that to say, I understand my responsibility and role in accepting the eviction that's come, yet I also understand the cost of bearing the weight for it, which is the only justification of a truth I uphold it for. Be it rent in the 1950s or smoking and loud noise in the 2020s, where's the line drawn on a person's living status. Writing is a mockery to the human soul because the heart's constantly trying to convince the mind of what its thinking. So you tell me, what do you see when you look up? I see, a story I'm writing without a pen. I see, moral conviction boasting pleasure in our age. I see the heavy mood, just as the translation of it. I see my own love and its translation of what is. My love of what is, is an awning for the things I love.

Assail, assail. Assail away, into the esoteric of a grandeur foray. As if a hidden lunch menu stood behind the crippling effects of diabetes. I'm not claiming the lunch line to be responsible. I think of Hemingway's ending off to "The Sun Also Rises" and the scene of Mr. Barnes having dinner with Brett or Lady Ashley, in which she tells Jake he doesn't need to get drunk while they're together at the table. The serving of the product is a lewd skepticism because no control resides over the appearance of what is presented or as a replication of what's thought of. The story doesn't reflect so much the agreeance upon a preferred bottle of wine and three-course meal. The setting displays in my opinion between the two, a sort of comfort that seems to be made from the maddening time spent in amassing trust. What is the what if, is the cradling of the heart. She makes you work harder at expanding your capacity to love; that is the heart of a woman. The heart is a "constant" cradling between stability and unionship. They should never be unbalanced. They are both simultaneous and hold together the relationship between a man and a woman, who both represent such in their capacity together. Mr. Barnes and Ms. Lady Brett Ashley exemplify that idea of uncertainty to no end of the story. Their possible connection makes love an ongoing, life need, in which one person's devotion is enough to sustain an existence for the other, while alive.

. . .

We are one day from Thanksgiving now and all I feel to do is write in this notebook, at this hour. "I've never had a writer before," I hear her saying. And "you writers," which is often said. Not the best of beaten paths to follow along with or in supporting another, though I can say the life's enriching. To have a certain eye for candor is what writing produces. I remember some early days trying to figure it out. And the question of what fate lies ahead is that time's been a maddening partner. Divorce is essential between understanding and reality and today we've moved in closer, to the Thanksgiving parade of smiles. I think I elevated a notch from a stir of the consternated thoughts that fly me high and bring me unbearably low. To understand reality is knowing what humbleness means. Fasting is an example of such and sometimes that of others which I cannot live, is the life of characters created. My characters' lives are theirs and mines is my own. I usher stories in from it as an active participant of life. When my voice is bleak, what strains out my head are notes of music. My music involves journal entries written at cafés and under beaming city lights downtown. Music is a Cohiba cigar over conversation and red wine, or a poem accompanied by jazz tunes. This music for me creates internal optimism for my love of what if, as though I'm chasing a longing for temporary passions exhuming stability in a unionship that hasn't quite developed. This is the what if story: obtaining what I love under the turmoil I have roiling about, which offers the contentment of peace and comfort I fight and battle my soul against. Faith is an anchor for the hope I have in "believing" I am... even within my spiritual guidance. The spiritual guidance is an instinct or sense, a sense of stability in the peace and comfort one asks for. To ensure that that sense is felt, both family and education are pivotal factors. Family and education are two things which I love. Family is required to stabilize the contentment within the values and principals professed by those individual members and education, increases the ability to travel and provide access to wealth. The pivotal reasoning behind the sense-making of these two factors deal with passing on information and transmitting new ideas. The ideas of marriage and raising children are both in essence the same, in terms of creating boundaries and setting in motion the few ideas the family lives to survive on. In transmitting these new ideas to the former, the heart cradles in a spiritual security that stabilizes increase and growth, under which family and education can have an adverse effect depending on how each are balanced amongst the other. A strong amount of unreserved love will counteract any known feat of man and beyond with such factors in place.

To love at least, in the security of another's arms who is a stable presence, should echo that same duration of one's capacity to love throughout life, no matter how it presents a look. Looks are non-existent when character is the most important attribute. What do you know that you can share when the actions of one who does, are only those whereabouts befalling himself. Why write? Especially when one is going through the turmoil and cannot explain in fluent details a perfect presence. The consciousness of the livid moments captured in a voice, that voice. I ponder the survey my former English professor sent out a couple years ago, asking if the literary canon is dried, filled complete with treasures no longer forlorn by the mind. How can youth take up the mantle before the light fades? The famous question of complexity some agree never end at some point. Lest my thought shudders I can only be myself and find out. I keep my boots to the ground. If there's nothing to fear, another direction's yet uncovered. The mind will always be curious for more. So what does the expanse of knowledge and access mean if a story can't be told from it. Elderly folk will say nothing changes on the other side of art, as in wise words given to me before... "from the time you're twenty-six now, to the time you're seventy-four like me, whatever happens will happen; whether you stay at your job or not." My grandmother would say "just keep on living." Til' then, everyone sits waiting to be noticed. Movement is an act of consecration.

Who am I writing to? I should know by now. Stepping outside to smoke a square I was, and a loud thrumming cicada rings an alarm in surprise when I'm back at night, from the café's early entrance. My coffee cup shakes, rocking waves beyond their bounds, and a splash to the pavement sent my smoke and I to find a section. You can imagine my trip back was a detour. For some starters, I babysat my niece, which is according to the unwritten contract of names between myself and her Mother. Pause a second, Lou Rawls is at the door. I remember once his lament or outcry rather, for the taking of his woman down to the St. James Infirmary. A term for the word profound should be considered, because of an impact never having the capacity to explain in full detail what action in another means. We're relaxed though, little Ms. Lady whose comfortable in her Mother's hotel suite and myself, slouched sideways, onto a number of pillows and bug-eyed beneath a seventy-five inch television screen. I told someone earlier in the day, baby-sitting my niece could be practice I'm gaining for my own future seed. The notion's hard to overlook when concerning the little ones, but the precious time that never comes back, is only accounted by those who were there. That is validation that doesn't need to be known. My influence or effect and yes, the word I share with myself being as pertinent as it is, gives my word in a way to the conscious light, an update in seeing the joys of developing language. I have to make a dent somewhere right? A Fatherhood's capabilities come to mind, alongside the stone tablet's distinctive "reign" of choice pitted against a fiery lake of eternal anguish. To try and be capable of something, one must indeed try. Besides the persuading to a child your best interest as an adult, witnessing their discovery of independence however they see it, is too priceless to not purchase the available time he'd have to do so, as a man. A learned, sometimes mistaken, yet bold and confident, unwavering and protective man. I am a version of that controversial man, to a small curly head Sue. I'm home after those twenty-four hours in a day and then some, as it felt. I call my apartment sometimes, the "House of Rome" or, "Heartbreak Hotel," because of the woman I miss right now.

As I've saw her earlier in the day and wishing I'd been a bit more aggressive. I'm not sure why my instinct and gut say I've done right. I've respected the boundary and space she's called for. Not long ago she'd be okay with coming for dinner and catching up, while I accompanied my American Spirit aside her Virginia Slim. Smoking amid conversation seemed to conjoin our similar struggle of naiveté, for just a second. I wouldn't say anyone was naïve at the least juncture, but a possible fear of what could be I think existed. She is the sparkle in my diamond's eye. A steward of caregiving, a particular detail in a vivid scene. She is a keen observationist, a beautiful long-haired gentle and soft-lipped woman. A smile replicating the moon's light. A beautiful woman from Ipanema. As of late, I'd surmise my thought being heavy because I've been crushed in a literal sense where being the active participant in life has just sacrificed my own fragile self in a time's need. And this time instead of an observational viewpoint writing holds in a picture frame, my utmost concern is a square and coffee out front by 9a. I look across the street and a woman lets go of her baby cart helping another small child to her side. I watch the cart and the baby inside. I watch to make sure the wheels don't swivel too far to the left and into the street from the curb. Fortunately though, it runs into the curb without assistance, staving off the wide gap between. The mother notices in shock and after my own standing there waiting amid a thought of saving the day, I'd almost been called as a witness to the scene. The heart transforms to be resilient in the face of reality. A want, an urge, a reason to help, because loving someone else is a chance at redemption. To make it again, another; a cradling heart becomes love.

Wisdom could be a lonesome housewife on the verge of temptation, breathing just as I am, closer into a body glowing beneath dim light. Our physical connections are vaunted in an abode of pleasure, ripe with grist for adhering to the call a sensation implores. They're going to leave you and you'll be alone again. Learning how to command this page in absence of the "awe" in moments you miss, it is a power ...when I can come to it alone and espouse the problem without having to stop. Mulling over later whether it made sense, because your feelings in early stages are put in a test. Not an exam, but a proper test of willpower, because your feelings are being subjected to change each new face you examine on your path. Some will take a time to unfold, as the walls of trust fall down and crack in the seams. I'll be a witness behind the curtains, displaying an image of bodies cast as one connected shadow tied to the wall. Maybe even inside the wall, to wherever they go. For my perspective to be challenged, action is necessary. Which is also necessary to understand why wisdom is a loyal friend that comes to find you, only to leave after you've once again, found yourself. And wherever she is, I'll work til' she comes, and remains to stay til I'm withered. Her liminal guidance uplifts my eye to the sky. And higher above, what I thought I knew to invoke or endure. The heart is my eternal peace, cradling forever.