This morning is lovely, no rush in time and just time for Jack and I.  Alice went to the doctor for her blood test and Jackie now shows off how he knows every line of this cartoon ep’, and I expect him to having watched it a couple dozen handfuls of occasions.  Coffee now, and standalone pieces on this standalone Saturday morning.  If I were on the Road I’d miss this stream of flashes and winks of Time with my son, so I appreciate it and sip it fully, but I do need to sip the Road as well– so all’s to be tempered and even, balanced like the Merlot last night, and even more of its own equilibrium and story like the Merlot I’m to produce next year.  But let’s see.. to write next.. papers to grade this Sunday.. move quicker with Week 7.  And the end of the week, next week, I’ll be two weeks ahead of schedule with grading and related teaching tentacles.  And yes that’s how I see it, them, the adjunct life.

On the other side of the front window, but the front door, right, I see grayed sky, so temperature… weather… feel to day….. not sure.  I’m just starting, drinking this cup then the next.  A thought.. no more dates on standalone pieces.  I’m giving Time too  much power in doing so.  Only mention time and/or date in the piece’s prose.. no at end, and only if I want.

No Jack, my little Kerouac, lines up a few cars.  The rest will follow and this entire downstairs province will be occupied, controlled by his steadfast collection.  But I’m wrong, as those five he set down he pushed as to order them into a layered race across the wooden floor territory.  Interesting, his interests…  He does it again, pushing them backwards and only having his eyes on the car next up–  “You see that, Dada?” I smile and confirm my observation then he again lines them up.  And a symbol in this, a theme, and idea.. for me to go faster with my work and my writing and client work; the novel the poems the small writings, the startup.  Everything. 

Second cup.  The one that will begin the written day.  And the day’s chapter, contributing to the novel– et Mes études françaises!  I have to get back to them.  Downloading a set of podcasts strung together, et tout en français.  Want Jack speaking French with me, in a café, when I get back to my city and can share the streets and food with him.  And our first class of red by the Seine.  Or white.  Doesn’t matter, long as he, his sister, and Ms. Alice are there with the writer.

Jack plays with my nametag from last night’s even at Glenn’s house, the weather for which still taunts me in memory and I wish I were having this coffee in that garden, now, with little Kerouac.  OR no.  Here’s perfect.  In OUR home, our base, the Autumn Walk hold for us both.