a writer: post 011

Home from gym a little over an hour ago, Jack awake and waiting for me to come home, knowing I have treats from the coffee shop, little vanilla scones he loves.  In the tasting room later, and every moment will be in words.  Written.  Recorded.  Sipping coffee brewed here in home, and I think I forgot to log last night’s writing, in the standalone list.  Oh well, crying over spilt wine won’t put it back in the glass.

The alarm did go off at 4:15, put I shut it up evilly quick.  But later, I knew I had to start running again or I may never will, with Emma on her way.  So I went, refused to leave till I had 7 miles logged.  And the number of the treadmill, 7.  Something meaningful I have no idea but I now write freely straight to blog and not logged in some grave word processor document, on this devil laptop.  And you know, as a writer, I hate that phrase, “word processor”.  Words, those worth reading and those personal, can NEVER be processed.

9:33, and on with my day I go, watching Jackie play with his cars and after we ate breakfast together, he his scones and me some dry cereal (two cups, first some honey bunches whatever and the second Special K).  Rambling I know, but it’s the mood I’m in; relaxed and determined, stubborn and open, receptive and rejectionist.

You should see my little Beat, now, playing with his cars and trying to position them in new manners and ways every minute; not at all boring or getting irritated like an adult.  He, little Jack, is real life, how life should be lived.

Easily my favorite professor.

“Dada,” he says, “look at that crack,” pointing to the part of this first floor where the wood meets the kitchen tiles.  “Somebody broke it,” he adds.

I go over there and see nothing, but agree with him as to not revoke his confidence and pride.  “I need to turn the lights on,” he says, turning on the bright one I can’t stand, too much light for this writer.  “There we go,” he says, only to nearly immediately walk over to me and state, “This is too bright, right Dada?  Right, DADA?!  We turn it off, okay?”

I smile and thank him as he does.  And I smile again, as it’s not even 10.