hearing the dryer upstairs, and no coughs from my little Artist. No TV on, just me here on couch like this morning and to quiet, and wine, thoughts of my winemaking and wined life– tasted today on the Sonoma Square, spitting everything but rushing to the Sonoma Cheese Factory for a quick lunch, ‘The Californian’, and a water (not Coke), and put back the chips I firstly pulled from that thin black iron rack. And here I am.. knowing that if I try to publish traditionally, I’ll still be a coin coward, chasing them and never pushing me nor my family ahead. So I need be more competitive as a writer, more a Hemingway for sakes of elevation, for doing something significant with my sentences and not just “Yeah, I had a novel published but here I am, still an adjunct..” That’s why BEING published means nothing. Publish the SELF. Do so yourSELF. This could be the Noir talking but I don’t care at all, I’m tired of waiting for anything. And tomorrow, 54 days till the wee poetess arrives.. Ms. Emma, my little little Beat. I lean my head back on this couch’s back cushion’s top, up look, see the fan, pretend I’m on the Road, building stories to bring home to my babies, how their daddy’s a writer and he saw the sea, at the hotel in Santa Barbara.. just watched the waves, wrote, thought of them, went to dinner with coworkers then went to BED– woke early to his usual coffee and wrote some more. So funny how Jackie now and probably forever will associate me with writing and coffee. I love that. And frankly I’m humbled and silenced.
I’m tired now. Want to be lazy and watch something. Not so productive. And my wine, over there, that Pinot– under the microwave by the stovetop and near the paper towel roll. The fan still going, dryer too.