being a “daddy blogger”. Ever. But with Emma’s arrival I only want to better know, or as well as I can, and study the characters of my children. She sleeps behind me, by the xmas tree, and in a peace that I don’t think I’m able to acquire at this old age. I’m cynical one moment then aflutter the next. Didn’t sleep that well last night but I keep drinking coffee so I’m quite sure I’ll be alright. Haven’t written my poem yet. I will, soon. I hope. Drove out to Solano to pick up those goddamn papers and then back feeling my mood slip and sink away from me. But then I thought, I have her to go home to, Ms. Emma.
Think she’s waking, making those little squeak sounds she does. I turn around and see her moving— this writing’s sure to be interrupted but I don’t mind that much, she stretches and yawns, moves around and raises her eyebrows as she does— This is a piece I should sell but of course I’m going to post it on the goddamn blog. Once the blogs pay, then I can print.
Peace, what I feel now. With my daughter in the office with her writer-father, Alice upstairs enjoying a shower, this page and the end of, the DEATH of, the semester. Should celebrate with another cup of coffee, take some of this clutter off the desktop, throw some old papers away, be more free, and that’s just what I’ve always targeted as a penner, freedom, in my stories and prose and character studies— wine, my wine story, bringing my family with me as Glenn did, does.. tonight I’m opening that Chardonnay in the fridge, or at least right now I plan to— write something about it, get back more into my wine-riled writings. Just right now, I can’t take my eyes from little Emma, her by the tree under those lights smiling while she stretches and squeaks.