The Road...or whatever is ahead

Crawling out of my skin everyday gets better at home. A nice pour over and a bumpy writing session. Waiting for the finished screenplay to go around and most likely end up nowhere if we’re looking at the statistics (or my writing). Still, the urge to be self righterious continues to itch. I want to go somewhere. 

In my dreams I’m always somewhere foreign. A hotel. A street. A city. Places I was. Faces that I remember but fades the moment I turn to them. 

The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics…

The escaped youth. 

Years of traveling taught me nothing but to keep on going and ask questions. Anything at all: How are you? How’s your family? What do you think of this country and tell me about the war — there usually was one. 

Where are you from? I’m not sure. Same time last year I was in Beijing and Basque, Two years ago in Paris. Both of the cities are different now. Everything’s changed. 

Life is good but I know I have more places to be until I can stop. The burning desire to tell a story has not yet fade, not even my awful writing can stop it. I’d read a ton of random stuff and try to make sense of it all. The journey is the point right? Not sure where I’m going though. But that’s ok. 

Reread Caryl Churchill, Sarah Cane, Miyuki Miyabe. Studied the Tung dynasty for the sake of the average but addictive tv show. One day out of the week I’d wake up early and pray. 

God is still good. That much I know. 

No new music. Maybe that’s why the writing struggles. 

Basque Country. March. 2019.