Sometimes you just have to plop on the floor, take off heavy bag, sit down on the curb of your busy intersection, feet away from cars, pull out that pen, and write.
This, as I just walked the better part of Northern Tokyo, looking for, willing still-closed cafes to open. Up before iron gates have come apart. Out before hot crusty cakes and poppy- ensconced buns were pulled from the oven.
My recommendation to you, O writer, O mother on overdrive, you, girl with the thousand thoughts, is to just lock yourself somewhere, pull a Rapunzel.
But lock yourself somewhere your feet and breath widen, the rock like a dock where you can toss breadcrumbs, lacquer your nails, which are tapping, and breathe.
Either that, or find the cafe that allows laundry-baskets chock-a-block with your family’s garments to fold, new ways to not really leave, you newly resolved in efficacious efficiency.
Mostly, let it be somewhere with a French press and extra pens
signed with love,