“If you’re an artist and you perform on this stage, you must think, I’ve made it.”

What’s after you make it?

The kids in front of us draw and smoke American Spirits. She has a pen behind her ear, bobs her head slowly, cool like.

“Shit’s right.”

Dialogue from the TV show last night resonates.

“We should eat the rest of the mushrooms.”

Okay.

Robots can’t write this.

Can’t feel the sun coming through the clouds. Hear the subtleties in the performer’s voice that sound like she knows, like the experience she had growing up in Baltimore and going to church. One of those churches where people get filled with the spirit and fall down. That stuck with her.

It feels right right now.

I used to always have to write whenever I did drugs. I felt like I had to take field notes and bring them back to my sober life.

My spiritual progress can be measured by the decrease in my will to write.

It’s right here.

I can leave the flower in the soil.

I write like I pick flowers from the garden to bring back to my lover.

Be there in the garden.

Let them grow.

Be the flowers. Or the soil. Or the sun. Or the gardener.

Be there.

It is what it is.

And it’s right right now.