1 day into 34.  Working at unusually speeded pace.  So fast in fact that I’m ignoring each typo this device sites, with its disgusting red underlining.  Cup ready, at new coffee station, here in house.  Not sure I have much need to go over with that corporate coffee brothel.. well, I do a bit, I guess, with the $70 in gift cards I was generously gifted.

By July, with the “by-July project,” I’ll be collecting bet3ween 80 & 90 pages of work.  And the first book, this one I never seen to finish, today making progress.. taking out a couple pieces that are just too long, don’t really capture how I create.. how in-moment it is, nor how I think, and I react to those thoughts.  Was again asked yesterday, by a very gentle, sweet, fiction-worthy coworker, “What are you writing?” As if there’s one comfortable, categorical, genre-pinned response.  By asking that, people want a simple answer.  So ask me again, “What are you writing..” A book.  “ABOUT WHAT?!?” It can only have 1 subject?  Okay.. then, me.

Jack, on floor, drumming, following commands of electronic percussion article.  Now, she speaks to him in Spanish.  “Vamos a tocar la musica!” she says.  Hope he retains his lessons.  Definitely want the little Artist, or wish for him, to be bilingual.

Back from chasing him around first floor here in condo castle.  Need to get in some kind of workout today.  Why not now?  Pushups between paragraphs.. hmm.  That could work.  Now, Jack reads a book, break from racing, his laps around kitchen.  Should be hot today, so my later grading’ll be done in cool café..  OR, I could go to campus, couldn’t I?  Will it be open?  Has to be, and I’m sure there’ll be other instructors there, grading as well.

First set, done, followed by an extended plank.  Jackie, coming over to investigate what I was doing on ground, stretched as I was.

8:21am.  The little Artist, done with his breakfast.. his usual– a waffle, blueberries.  We listened to Thievery Radio, everySoOften me breaking into impromptu verse.  Think he enjoyed.  Not sure.  “…reciting to people I don’t know, disclosing what inside a writer glows…” Need my writing to reflect EXACTLY how I think.  Poetically.  Quick.  Always.. meaning all seconds on clock I’m thinking as a writer– more specifically poet, verse scribbler.

Grading.  Only a few hours away, when Alice comes home from her half-day teaching assignment.  I’ll do what I have projected: quick reads, holistic grading.  WOULD do more, but I’m under deadline.  The college didn’t give us enough time to grade.  They could say a week is enough time.  Well, it is, if you’re fulltimer, enjoying a stationary position, having an office to camp out in.  don’t get me started.  They, the administration, board of flunkies–I mean “trusties”–and whomever is to blame for the students deprivation, our rushing their final grades.  Makes me sick.

Time for Comp Book.  This present instrumental has me more musically situated, mentally, anyway.  Yesterday, at that winery “mixer,” the songs they had rotating had me yearning for stage, to recite.  Yes, to people I don’t know.  That’s what I love about it, really: sharing mySelf, artistically with people I’ve never met.. introducing mySelf through rhyme, page, music.  Interesting to think of it that way.  No handshake, possible not even a sharing of name– only thought, verse, acuity, insight, reaction & reflection.