a  writer:  019

Get ready for work, tend to almost-4 year old, then make self a sandwich shave shower dress somehow, get coffee down street in new tumbler which endows to free coffee (which I have to seize with budgets as they are), then maybe out door.  Article due tonight, I’ll make deadline eternizing this new journalist I’ve become, or writer, or speaker of certain things.. I’ll address the Napa/Sonoma matter, if it’s even a matter that deserves anything matter of fact from me, the adjunct war of course, parenting and how so many overthink it (which will surprise people I use that language as parenting’s something serious, so those some will say “you can’t overthink it, to which I reply “just be quiet and let me finish my idea.”)

This morning I look out and can see the clouds.  Rain, somewhere out there, still writing its story and the chapters it wants us to read.  And I just wait, I love writing to it, listening to its words as they with airy audibility slap cement, like tapping phantasmic syncopations for my betterment.

Using a little notepad today, one that’s basically full, but I’ll find whatever space I can, and look through all those notes I haven’t used, that just lay there emaciated in ignorance from their scribbler.