It’s time for the percolator. The sound of the crackling pot dripping and hissing its way into the vacant kitchen space at this irregular pm hour somehow soothes me. Like the robust roar of a crowd, the caffeine sizzles inspire.
I sit down and saddle up. A blank page, an open track ready for the racing, slow and steady pacing, all print points ahead.
I sip my coffee and stare my most intimidating glare down at my opponents. Resting fingers, latently strewn in front of me with mocking audacity. A couple of punks, loitering the keys like two self-assured bullies adorned in Members Only jackets, arms crossed, leaning smugly against the chain linked fence.
The bell rings, the shot gun fired. You can’t catch me…smoke and dust fills the air as the first words grace the page.
I’m out the gate.
Riding reeling writing
No finish line this time. Each word a step. Every idea a lap. Concepts on the concourse. Break out, full speed ahead. An open road trip, soak it all in and don’t look back. Snap shot snippets captured on the page, an album of 31 days.