I feel like writing. This is the first time in a long time that the feeling, nay, the need to write has descended upon my shoulders. I feel the need to write, maybe its the weather-- that has been wonderful the last couple days. Its the middle of August and I'm running around in a sweatshirt. Beautiful, beautiful. I feel like drinking, not fall down-drag-out-puke-my-brains-out-in-the-morning drinking, but silent sustained drinking, tipping back a cold one and letting the cool liquid slowly go down my throat and enjoy the sounds of the night around me. A cooler full of ice and packed tight with bottles of suds and conversation that's what I want right now, I need it; I crave it. I feel like drinking and talking about writing under the stars. Laying on a blanket and just talking about it all. Everything. Sadly, though, it would be a one sided monologue. I get tired of hearing myself talk. I don't have much to say. I say it, though. Badly.

I've been listening to Kerouac's On the Road as read by Matt Dillon. How unbeat is that? Driving home from work late at night, the windows up to keep the wind noise down and the cd player on playing an audio book. I wonder what Kerouac would think, probably not much. I feel like such a traitor, I do, I tried to read On the Road a couple times, but it never worked. I got a third, maybe halfway through, and then stopped. I didn't not like the book, I just didn't "feel it," know what I mean. I"ve become such a snob. Such a literary snob. Reading fiction, any kind of fiction is tough. So I listen to it and imagine it a teleplay or a radio dramatic monologue. Some how it seems to work. Maybe travelogues are best read aloud onto a cd.

I feel writing great works. Poetry, essays, stories, something... the need to write is almost painful. Great stones of ideas roll around in my head, but I am unable to find the opening, I can't find the hole to jump down and start the descent. That' s what writing is to me. A slide. A slippery slope. It has to be the weather. Its so nice. So, dare I say it... clean. Its light. This dark night is clean and light. Its condusive to writing. I need to write. This feeling will go away. It always does.

It will flitter away like a spring bird.