Pat Morita lives in my head.
I visit him every day.
After I get up and have coffee and brush my teeth.
After I take the kids to school.
And after another cup of coffee,
I don my brown jacket
walk across the street
and knock on his door.
He never answers, so I just go in.
It’s a courtesy knock.
It’s dark inside. The blinds are pulled.
Time to write,
he says from out of the darkness.
So sit down at the typewriter in the center of the room.
And type.
Every day.
About an hour in, I start to get fidgety.
Keep writing,
he says.
Why?
I ask.
There’s nothing for it.
From one post to the next
a furious blender of words and ideas.
I’m tired, man.
(I’m really not.
And he knows it.)
Because this is what you are,
he says.
Finish one.
Start another.
Wax on.
Wax on.
Wax on.
So I do.
Every day.
And every day
I want to kick his ass.
But know I can’t.
***
