Outside this

morning, yes tenebrific, but not producing the rain they foreshadowed so doomingly.. just returning to keys for first time since yesterday.  And on the prior day in this project, where I now write to makeup my deficit, I had no pep, all day, I was stricken by something that slowed me and I still don’t know what it was, napping between 1A & 1B and after retrieving the little table and chairs from Mom’s, then getting a avocado club from the golf course, up street.  I then went to get little J, came home and played and I was still very much in that low lull.. what was it?  no matter, here I am on couch with the little Artist and I sip coffee and watch the clouds and the wind, and what I just saw on the news was the buffoon speaker saying ‘this won’t produce as much as we thought’, and I said aloud, getting J’s attention, “So basically what you’re telling us is that it won’t rain at all.” What a job, I then thought.  Yes, there is very much a windy culture on the other side of the glass door, moving the bush that brushes up against it even when still, every roaming and diagonal way.  Perfect day for me and Kerouac to be indoors.  Sip.. and I know this won’t be my only cup for morrow.  And I don’t think we’ll be getting bagels this morning, and I’m not sure I would even if the weather was more of smile than furrow, as the characters last time, the entire cast, had me edged, holding J close to me and surveying all sides of my standing.  So we stay here, watching cartoons, drawing, reading books, having our healthy snacks, and just talking.. books, definitely a focus today.  And me, my quality of character, as a writer.  I woke quite disgruntled this morrow that I stopped writing when I did, yesterday.  But it won’t affect me today, tilt me even slightly.  Bet they’ll be slow throughout the wine world, in all the tasting rooms.  On the Healdsburg Square to the Sonoma’s plaza, from 12 up to Lancaster.. I yawn, as my sleep last night was irregular with J next to me, in Alice’s and my bed, she fleeing to his cozy little stuffed animal tortilla of a bed, still one of the coziest most nestled cots or one-character dens I’ve viewed, or experienced (only laid in it a couple times, recently, since more animal acquisition).  But this cup of my loved-ever Verona has me astute and persistent in the day’s dashes.  Still portentous outside, light black, deep gray, and phantasmic white (only in a few plats and skytables that I can see from this end of the couch by the end-table).  What to accomplish today, write, yes, but what besides the project?  Poems, obviously, and post post post to the blog.. so many out there post meaningless kicks and glimpses into their stories which elementally contribute to nothing and make us no more aware of their progressions as characters nor lives.. and why would we want to know?  But then, why would someone want to read my story?…  True.  But I’m arranging my thoughts into prose, I guess, and if someone doesn’t want to survey my types and scribbles they don’t have to.

Keep typing, don’t be pulled from the page…  Papers, the first short reactions, graded.. but I can plan for the rough draft sessions on Thursday– I mean Tuesday.  I actually have no sessions on Thursday, for some inservice day for instructors.. where I’ll go to the library on the mainland and write and read and study and be the character quality I’ve been penning and painting since day 1 of the project.  Look right, Jackie says “I eat my crackers”, a few animal crackers, not sweetened or anything, quite good actually, that he insisted upon having.  He says, “Daddy”, rubs my shoulder, sighs and goes back to cartoons.  I look outside again and can’t believe there’s no rain headed towards us.  Maybe I should run outside tonight rather than on that goddamn belt at the gym as I’d thought– want to register for another run, in April, the month before Surfer’s Path.. see if I can find one…  FOUND ONE!  One rather tempting, and I will register for it, I’m thinking, the Silverado Half, Napa–  The wind picks up, and I think there’s finally a drop or two.  Wouldn’t be surprised if we lose power at some point.  But, back to running (sorry for the manic roll to the morning’s writing..), I’ll run for 1hr20min tonight at gym, on the belt, see how I feel.  Still have to log the last few runs (need to be better about that).  And read like I run, and writ in vein same; marathon writing, like many of the writers I admire, and I’ve told you that before so no new useful information conveyed– might as well be “tweeting”, or facebooking.  Didn’t capitalize it as I don’t think those words deserve caps, not at all.  Yes, drops agains the glass door and I suddenly want to go outside and sprint around, do intervals up and down my street but I can’t I’ll stay here, stationed inside with the little Artist and collect Self, at times not writing at all, just living and observing like I did yesterday, or that’s what I told myself throughout the day, around the naps; would tell myself that I’m talking the opp’ to actually live, not write.  Not valid, in my mind, now that I backlook.  I need be writing, always and observing everything, and what better invitation for such post-Highway 12.  Two poems in the Comp Book I have to relay to the blog, type and see what they look like on page and if I can maybe read them, but no they’re too short, would be better for actual page, printing (when I have the currency to do so).  For now, everything to blog, and so what if I “lose” a coupe poems to the blog?  I can always write more, write about the singular objects around me; remote controls, Jack’s toys, the coffee cup (emptying with every sip, begging for more content like a book), the cell phone that I wish I could kill, Jackie’s chalkboard where he draws for Alice and I, the overflow lot that I do actually miss even though it’s on the property, Their property… everything a topic, the Merlot last night, Williamson… STOP.  Another cup of coffee, would love to open a wine bar/coffee spot, not much food just bites, a place for writers and thinkers and STUDENTS to gather.. I can do that, right?  Mais, quand? (But, when?)  Listen to French lessons today, be French, be a Parisian, change identity, imagine walking with Alice and J by the Arc, just listening to that traffic knot and the tourists and locals live.

Jackie on the floor now while I cue French lessons and tutorials and other language efforts, Spanish too which I have to freshen up in, definitely…  And the day starts, we’re both busy, the little Artist and I.  The rain seems to be sincere now in its ardent thrust, with a devout striking that has me reassessing my earlier judgements.  Just thought: while Jack naps, later, I’ll write, put on more coffee, and poetry, poems for reading at Sonoma County readings.. have those two pieces so far but I want one more, one that will be more rimed and rhythmic, displaying my play and handle and exploration of language.. later, not till after 12p.  Just looked at clock, raiding head for first time since this sitting started, or raising it other than to look at rain and the sheet of moisture targeting me and this condo.. it reads 8:05AM.  And I’m over a thousand words, already.  One more cup– well, another, not JUST ‘one’ more.. I’m not letting yesterday happen again, ever.. no napping.  No stopping.  Cue cup 2.