Written Before Stone

I can't sleep at all tonight

Not a wink. I'm not even sleepy and it's after three O'clock in the morning. I am steady writing emails. I am hunched over my laptop until the wee hours of the morning. I don't know where this inhuman energy is coming from, but it's a crank in my back and a charge in my pants. I can't slow down...until I hit the wall. BOOM!

Shit, it was just that fast. I grew massively tired in seconds. I couldn't turn off the laptop fast enough and crawled into bed. I was out like a light. I could barely remember my head touching the pillow. And slept soundly...for TWO HOURS!! WTF?? I woke at Five Thirty, stark and straight up. Not even a yawn. Something is definitely the matter. I've got to either talk to Nurse G or Dr. A this week about this shit. But the fucked up thing about this week is that this interview with the Social Worker is going to bump around my therapy appointments with my medical appointments. Friday might have to be a marathon day, unless I can finish up with that quack at Social Services in enough time to get to one of my appointments.

It should be easy. Go in, get told off, leave. Straightforward. Damn, it's at Nine O'clock in the Morning, it shouldn't take all fucking day.

In the evening I find myself at the Madison Starbucks with my brother and surfing, but strangely enough, I did not blog. What the fuck could be preventing me from getting busy with my SHIT?? It's been awhile. I find it hard staying awake at Starbucks, maybe that's it. Maybe just being plain tired is the reason for my reluctance to blog? I dunno. I don't try to think. I just inform my brother that it's time to go beddy bye. We split along the way, and I head uptown, riding the rocking train, thinking of distant thoughts, not really focusing on anything, and I realize that that's just how my life has been going since I left the shelter system. Rambling on in no general direction, like a quote from one of my recent poems:

I can't see the end
I have no destination of my own
Whichever way it winds
I have no care of the direction

Is that really me? I get off the Way and head uptown to The Spot and once inside of the mantrap I ask for my mail. I'm handed a box. Hmmm, could it be. I can't wait to get upstairs to open it, and once I am, I make certain that it's the last thing that I do. I don't know. I'm weird that way. But when I could wait no longer, I jump up and tear into the box, liberating my softcover book. Yes, MY softcover book: A MIND GONE TO WASTE by Hobobob.

I did it. I made it from scratch, formed and shaped it, and now printed it and I'm proud of the work. Alright, so what, I'm self published, I said what it was that I was going to do, and did it. And this will not be my only fucking book either. Probably the first limited edition, but definitely not the last. I've never been so proud. It feels like a real book, looks like a real book, flips like a real book, the print of a real book, the photographs of a real book. IT'S A REAL FUCKING BOOK. I thought I'd never see the day.

A friend of mine once quoted someone who said "Soon, we'll all be in a band," or something like that...so what??? I fuck up quotes sometimes!! I fucked up the Martin Luther King one earlier so what if I do another one?? Whatever the case, what I'm trying to say is that soon, everyone will be published, will be in a band, will be on television, will be on Broadway, so on and so forth. Technology is leveling the playing field. But in doing so, will not the markets get flooded? Will not there be a flood of the very bad with the very good? Will not your work float like some flotsam in the sea?

WHO GIVES A FUCK!??!! I've got my boooook!

Yes, I'm so happy.

Hobobob