Playing with Jackie all morning and finishing the last wine review, or rough draft of. Hard to work this morning with little Kerouac’s energy level. He plays with a little miniature condensed container of playdoh. And he keeps calling me over, disabling my concentration and ability to even paginate a single sentence. Should have risen earlier from bed, the life story of late, and now I frustrate– in another tasting room this morning and afternoon then home to prep for the next day, the week, further counting days till Emm’a here. So much to do for the writer– I have to wake earlier, now my career if any depends on it. Certainly my life as a writer.
Jackie now more contained, sitting in his wee “Jack” sofa cushion for one, shaping and reshaping the playdoh. “Tah dah!” he says, turning to show me the shape he made. With my second cup, I hear him say it again, showing me a different shape. Listing what I want done today– poetry collection, flash fiction piece I started the other day, then map of my business(es)– Writing everything down in the Comp Book for semester in a minute, so I see everything, and I won’t put a tag or post-it on the plan page, but I’ll know what it is, where it is, I’ll force myself to remember– thinking of my realization the other night that I’m in control. Of everything. Everything I want and need and envision is right here already. All just needs an impelling, a proper jostle.
I’ll be on a plane early next year, to New York, to discuss publishing a collection of writings of mine, mostly nonfiction, and about wine, life in wine’s world and what be. The perfect world Dad and I discussed has landed, and it took that hell-hated flap-dragon CHP interaction to see what I’m seeing and tasting this morning with my coffee. Guess I owe that badge-sewn brute a ‘thanks’. Or not. I thank the Story. The people around me. My son, most distinctly. Now I write on, and listen to Jack and his lecture on Playdoh– “Now I make it like a circle, okay Daddy?…And Daddy, DADDY! Now I make a Playdoh ball for you!”
“Cool! How did you do that?” I ask, earnestly.
“Um…I don’t know,” he surmises.
9:07. Huh… Guess it’s not that late. Don’t have to be behind the bar till 12..
Interrupted but now on couch closer to the little sculptor (this morning), and I can’t hold in any laughter as he’s saying things that make all the sense in the world to me but then no sense at all, at all.
Closer to the time when I get ready for work, but I’m not in much mood to do anything but stay home and study my most favorite of characters. He smiles as he takes some kind of paper out from– “What is that?” I think. Doesn’t matter. He matters. His exploration is what’s most relevant to page. -9:41AM