I keep reading about the slain blogger and writer in Bangladesh, Avijit Roy, and feel myself eager to make statements, about the wine world to adjuncts, to education and parenting, to life, life in California and make sure I convey truth, all TRUTH. Today will be different than yesterday, and I won’t allow myself to be exhausted at day’s end as I was yesterday; no stress, no pressure, I’ll do what I do and move as fast as I can and if that doesn’t suite, well.. it’s all at-will, right? I won’t be afraid, just as Mr. Roy wasn’t. And the Putin critic.. Boris Nemtsov, no longer writing. He was killed. Murdered. No doubt by Putin’s hand. And why? Why is speech and ideas view with such abhorrence by anyone and why not encourage debate and discussion and something from which to learn and grow. And if there’s opposition doesn’t that provide opportunity to explain, and perhaps convert? (I mean, if that’s your aim, and if you’re in politics, or aligned with some religious wheel.)
So many notes in my head that I haven’t written as I don’t yet know how, but I’ll be with pen and pad today, as I always am. Don’t have the chance to write and scribble like I did at the estate, but I’ll find a way, somehow, noting in the bathroom, or taking a ten minute break, here and there (I’m “allowed” two, how gracious.. how generous.).
My son vies for my concentration, and he’s right, why am I writing now? why can’t I stop? He brings his ‘little blankie’ over to the trucks atop the toy chest, and sings, now he goes to his chalkboard and kicks the little plastic pumpkin (hallow, for candy or toy storage, I think it’s been utilized for both). Now he comes back to accost me and be silly, “oh no, oh no..” he says, then laughs. What’s he doing? Sure all dads see what I see now, his head pushed to my right shoulder while I type.
I can’t wait for the Oakville, that coffee, if I decide to get one. Actually, may elect one of those sparkling waters, lime, as with the other morning. I should put this away now, as he becomes more rowdy, throwing a couple items, and I don’t want this device harmed (much I hate it, I do need it). Now he’s on the floor, pushing that yellow fire truck with the revolving water cannon. “It’s not working, my daddy,” he says. Followed by “Um, Daddy, I need to find the shoccer ball!” He makes me laugh, I nearly forget today’s a “work day”. I thank him for that, the momentary escape. Alice out on her run as I was yesterday morning, early, hitting 6.2 before 8AM. And I felt it at work, being on my soles ALL. DAY.
The picture of Emily Dickinson that shines from the upper-right corner of my desktop grabs my attention, reminds me there’s more lectures to write and that now is my time with the writing and blogging, concert it with the teaching, know the students better, rely on them for ideas and generate new ones with them. Finally, I think… Finally.