10/9/13– 5:45am. Writing lightly today. Reached the diamond count yesterday of 3,000 words for day. Not sure how I did so, with its pervading, preventing, flavor. Hear Kerouac upstairs. He sounds lively, not as nasal-y as he did the past couple days. Nearly time for coffee. NO– it IS time. The whole day with my little Artist. Pen2paper, preferred. Writing in newJournal as that one student writes in hers..
And post to teaching blog.
7:25am. Not even through 2nd cup, and I’m of inferno with momentum. Little Jack’s running nose, sprinting faster than I can. But still he’s with colorful mood.
7:56am. Done with breakfast for the little Artist. He sits on the floor, reading through books, sniffling, calling out to me, as if to say, “and what’s this?” His ways, ever intriguing. And we, all day together in this house, as he mends, sneezes, mucuses his way back to homeostatic altitude.
Hope I have enough of these “wipey” things for the day. Pretty sure I do, but math has never been a mind muscle of mine.
Done with 2nd cup. Think I’ll hold off for a bit.
Spouts of neediness. I can tell he doesn’t feel good. Thinking of my 3,000+ words yesterday. Should mark that on the new ’13/’14 calendar I bought at the office supply store the other day, as that rarely happens. And where do the pages go? Half to blog, half–actually more than half–to book.
Shouldn’t be writing, should be caring for my little Artist. But even as he ails, he smiles, laughs, tinkers with his toys, trinkets.
Cup3, in pipe. Not pulling trigger yet, though I’m tempted. Only 8:28am, how can that be? Need to make mySelf run tomorrow. 1hour, much as I can. And Ms. Plath, her lecture, for Thursday, need to begin composition.
For being sick, little Kerouac moves impressively quick. Nurse Mary Pat, soaring through phone lines, just 30 or so minutes past, to check on her jumpy patient. And I say “jumpy” as he hasn’t stopped since waking this morrow, since his first calls just before six.
Cup 3, very much deceased. And me– even, tranquil, enjoying this day as much as I can. Tonight, deep in Plath study. Typing it all. First observation, the comparative language.. much of steeped in simile, analogy, symbol. So much as she [Plath] wanted to write prose, she wouldn’t let herSelf escape poetry’s palm. This may have lead to, or fostered and facilitated her inner-struggles.
1:03pm. After both of us napped, we go again. Need coffee, even though this would make 4 cups today. And I don’t think I’ll be stopping there, at that count.
only time to note,
coffee, think, while he lets me,
spiraling time, which way’s up?
clouds, through screen’s singing
no the grounds crew– noisy,
can’t write here;
have to feed Jack,
cup 4 brewing–
he stares at me, makes some nasal
grunt-laugh, what does
More poems, just collect them, be your
own fan, or follower.. critic, complementer