Only now beginning to live, as I want, like a free and loving and creative mad animal. At forty-six. Am I late, or on time? Hard to know. And do I need to know? A Consumer Sales Trainer. Getting further into that story, as far as I can go, however far the Story itself will either take me or allow me to go. Will it tell me to slow down? Am I, the character, going to get into a fight with the Story? No… but that’s where this writer’s head is now, here in smoldering Vacaville after a five mile run and I lost count of how many sparkling waters….
Hydration to the point of delirium, or at least enough to see the air jitterbug in ways that make you question if your eyes can be trusted, or just write some low-budget acid flashback from the mid-90s.
Neighbor’s dog has been barking at nothing for twenty minutes, which makes him the perfect audience for these Picasso-y thoughts on sales training. The antibody and solver-eye, I decide, is to teach Reps to “sell” sans looking like predictable and eye-roll-causing sales bots—which is the same as teaching a wolf to wear a cardigan without eating the photographer.
Vacaville isn’t smoldering because it’s of high temp number—though it is—but from persisting as a place where heat is an accessory to the general psychic sight, if that even makes sense I don’t know I’m hot and freewriting as best a writer can.
It’s an assuring chord, like the faint ache you get from drinking too much sparkling water, or the mild angsty jitters of realizing your adult life has been one long improv scene with no agreed-upon ending. And why the fuck does it have to end? (Why did I write that?)
Still, a giddiness. Creative whirring in circulatory. Something wants to be seen, wants to perform and take over all stages… and it’s probably going to scare both of us.
#professormikey 