The morning I run. And tonight no wine, just preparing and charging of the watch and the phone, yes I want measurements on both. Alice made that tortilla casserole I love, had two small-esque helpings, some waters, and here I am logging my positioning mood-wise before my run. Hear Jack coughing, thinking allergies.. and me tired from my day and the pouring and teaching. And on teaching’s note, as I now realize that everyone yes sees me as a writer, but just as much as a professor of English, of Literature, of Composition, Writing, an authority of sorts, one who has knowledge of something and makes it his own and shares his ideas.. SO….. I took a section of Comp at Mendocino. Yes, which surprises me, I guess a little. BUT, I have to center myself where I am and where I thematically belong before my daughter’s born. And the fly buzzing in this room, only minutes ago before she retired upstairs frustrating Alice to no end, she ordering me to keep the casserole covered. “Ugh,” she darted, “I hate flies. So gross.” And I agree, principally, but right now the fly has my sympathies, and acknowledgement, and my poetic appreciation. Is it the Emily Dickinson umbrage? I guess maybe a little, but I as a writer now here in this moment on the couch the night before I launch at 4-something-A.M. delight in it in the room with me. But I can’t it now hear, anywhere down here. Where did it go? Is it hiding under the shade, lamp’s, to my left? Did it follow Ms. Alice upstairs?
How much tomorrow? I’m hoping for ten, at least. If I could hit 11, I’d be the happiest you’ve seen me in weeks, or maybe even months. And I feel incrassate in my ambitions, to run and write and operate my own business.. everything. Finally finding my Beat at 36.
Why do I keep checking email and for messages? I need to learn to disconnect I know and when I do I’ll be a stronger everything. Writer, runner, father, teacher.. everything. Making a promise to myself that I will be prepared for both meetings tomorrow. Just wrote a couple sentence.. but I need to disconnect as I just said, put this laptop down, and myself down on the sheets and head to pillow. Act more like a runner. A serious runner. One training, one obsessed, one set on finishing– so much like a writer.
Still no word from the fly. Going up in 20 minutes to bed. Jackie’s toys all in front of me, the cars and the larger trucks, and again I’m reminded to just have fun with my manuscripts and have that Gore Vidal-like confidence and swagger, his grin when in pugilist mode with Buckley. I can’t wait to feel the dark air of 4AM’s hour, and the quiet, and that little fearful rush I feel and taste when on Hopper–
Jackie coughs again, poor chap. And I’m without a fly. And now without energy.