And I

wasn’t up at 5AM, but I’m on the couch with the little Artist relaxing, watching him eat his waffle and watching him watch Cars 2, one of his favorite Pixar movies.  I’ve had one cup and I grind all teeth in knowing I didn’t wake at 5, AGAIN.  There’s always tomorrow, yes, but what happens if there’s not, what if…

Jackie not in the mood for leaving, me neither.  Saw I was paid from the winery, and of course it was remnants of their budget.  I swear that’s how they determine how we get paid; how much they have left over.

8:55AM.  In the Kenwood lot, nearly called in this morning as Jackie was coughing, sniffling.  It went away quick, just what he does sometimes after waking up, but I would have loved to spend the day with.  Had a breakfast sandwich and coffee ‘stead of the burrito and Dr. Pepper.  This coffee’s amazing I have to say.  Three more minutes in this journal then to my daily 500-word piece.  So frustrated with my inability to wake early– well I was up at 4-something, but I thought I would magically by some interdimensional grace wake when I targeted.  No.  Setting alarm from now on.  Thinking about running, changing for the running, changing my character altogether.  No wine, no beer, no up past 10.  All for the running.  And that marathon in Santa Cruz, I’m registering today, so I can see something, a deadline, approaching.  That’s what will motivate me, I’m sure– motivate me the way I need to be.

Just wrote a 500-word piece.  And I quite like it, “Honey Clock”, about finding a job and looking for a job and finding one that’s sweet, just for you!  This topic of the job and what it does to the character has always fascinate me, always, for as far back as my brain will barrel.  9:16, should leave, just to get a headstart on the reSERF room.  Just have to think tips, like I did yesterday.  And for lunch, Palooza, scribble upstairs in my new writing cove, or next, or safehouse– yeah, that’s what it is.  Now a French song comes on, I want to be back in Paris, on the river, in Ste Louis (sp?!), having a coffee as I am now, but just roaming, taking notes, travel and log and log the travel.  9:19.  Goddamnit!  This always…  Time, you monster!

11PM–  Tomorrow, I restart.  Everything.

Writing in nook.  8:49.  I’ll rush out of here in ten.  Mocha this morning, when I get it, the first in days.  Need more time, for everything.  And again this morning I woke early but fell back into dormancy, I blame the rain and its overconfident terrestrial rewarping.  Today should be crazy, and I have so much to do here– novel, whoso issue, letters to write to Dav, Lila, my new friends in New Orleans.. and someone else, can’t remember– oh, yes, Amber, my poetess friend with a beaming choir of poignant critique in each of her poems’ lines.  If only I could walk away today, from the clock.  Need coffee, more coffee.  My little notebook has been seeing quite a bit of action of late, and the new pieces I’ve been writing, the 500-word bursts.. showing me something about my Self as  a writer/journalist.

My days off, the writing retreat and recovery days, approaching.  4, 6, 7…  I’ll print, print, print.  Of course I’ll write but I’ll be printing pages to push into the streets and cafés– had a dream last night about open mic, about a band and the drummer drumming so hard that he broke his set, or the snare and the band couldn’t insist in their song any longer, not even a handful of measures into their track.  What this tells me I have no idea but now I just think about it over and over, the dimension of music and jazz and how much more of the plainness can I survive, the ordered checks, pay, clock, checklist, nonsense.  My beat as a writer, journalist, what?  Like that question, what’s your novel about?  Is it foul if I say “me”?  (10/25/14)