a come to meeting

I had what my old pal Judge Joe Will called a “Come to Jesus meeting” with myself this morning. It occurred during a 25 minute, 25 second timed-writing session, and as the clock wound down I got more crazed, more agitated, more electric in my admonition to myself to let it all hang out, Bud, you’re lookin’ at nowhere to go.

September’s all but run out, the calendar whispered to me as I began writing, and the 30-day notice you gave – my mind chimed in – means three weeks and you’re outta here. Means no address, Bro, no where to forward mail, no where to ship the bed, get all those books and paint supplies and paintings I’ve painted back in boxes and double Trader Joe’s bags, begin to load the car again – of which, now, here in Encinitas time, some of that sacred storage space belongs to not one but two boogie boards. So I wrote and wrote and it became a frenzy and the all-in’s and the any lengths and the complete abandon’s jumped off the screen, right smack into my mind’s eye. It’s October tomorrow, kid, and I’ve promised myself a Keto-busting pizza on Halloween (idea coming from overheard San Marcos kid convo), and…….

it does not matter if it’s hard, or feels like rotten luck, or if there’s a whisper it’s all too much, twice in half a year, the big now where do I go? That don’t matter. Glue your butt to the computer seat, Holmes, staple your fingers to this keyboard, Brah, and send out 10,000 requests and replies and responses and even a bit of begging’s all over greater San Diego to find a place to live. Today. Do it today.

Judge Joe Will would have looked on all this, these last few hours here for me in Encinitas, and shook his head in approval. “Yup, that right there, that’s a fo’ sure Coming to Jesus meeting.”

He’d of been right.