The next morning I wake to Jackie

charging me as he always does and sending a draft, of one paragraph, to client 2, by email.  Why IMG_7313am I using so many commas?  Coffee– drinking it.. run today, easy night with students, just going to meet one-on-one with them then dismiss, whomever shows.  I find with optional attendance sessions it’s usually 50/50, or closer to 60/40, favoring the absent.  But no matter as I’m committed to my day’s 3 pages, now making up for yesterday’s deficit which means the writer has more to today write but again, no matter.  I’ll start and end with wine, my wine story, just writing about it and following it around the planet eventually.  Tonight I do have written to open the Cab Blair’s friend gifted me.  No brokering, just writing, writing my perfect world of novels and wine and small pieces about wine and being transparent as a writer, just releasing everything– have to finish that Paris poem I started already, type and print and share with the students tonight, or Monday, or take to the Redwood Café for recital– oh!  I could hold class there, next Thursday, if there’s a reading!  Have to read my work, more– or at all.  The cubist thoughts in me spinning and the day painted in my head, each scene.  In the adjunct cell I have to make more a dent in the novel, re-arrange and assemble it, starting with those 100 days of 3 pages.  How did let that manuscript go to waste?  What’s wrong with me?  Just calm down, I tell myself.  Right now I figure I’m batting around .301, need to be up around .377 today, so divide by– nope, can’t tell.  Just know I’m writing, reader and I have my own formula and soon I’ll be sipping some wine in my hotel room noting my day after talking to Alice and Jackie back home, on hotel’s phone, and taking more notes and walking around the grounds knowing I’m finally on the road. 

The coffee tells me to write faster but it’s difficult as Jackie stands too close to the TV, I tell him “too close” he grunts and reverses, then jumps with silly sounds, hops like a rabbit expelling a vocal each time his mini-paws hit the wood floor in this new house, now he talks to me in that tongue, that slang or coded and muffled twang of his.  What did he say? I ask myself repeatedly but get no answer form my Self and my ability to analyze anything this morning has been chilled and frozen.  But I break the glacier around me, thinking of the students and how I need to look to them, yes there is a concern with image, I want them to see me more a writer and less a teacher; more a handler of words and phrases and reflection and less the lecturer.  I want them to see me with finished books; I want them to see my books on whatever store shelves they frequent.  And the wishlist goes goes and goes…..