After the day’s length and intensity, I’m drained and very much surrendered. The mood has landed on my shoulder and has its tail around my neck, vengeful little tail around my neck. But then gone after a glass of port, then another. Never, and I mean NEVER, do I drink port. But I feel like Kerouac sitting in that chair looking out the window, having his friends visit. Won’t reach 3000 words today, or by 12AM tonight and I’m more than eased with that. The barrels, just sitting there, seeming to do nothing but so much doing internally— makes the writer think about, well, everything.
Alice telling me she wanted it quiet in the room upstairs while feeding Emma after I asked her if she wanted me to look for the remote. So downstairs, here with this port, me the same— quiet and thinking, reading and envisioning, and making sure this is my last glass of this Dutcher port. The writer need wake early, 4AM, or 5, for the 3000. What if I hit my number before the Dry Creek drive? MY book nears, I know, and I feel the first flight, my first travel to a show, a talk or booked lecture on writing and blogging, SELF-PUBLISHING.. budgeting for pages and publication of Self… I have to thank the port for this. But I can feel the effects pattering about my shoulders, forearms and fingers, disrupting the session. So I space my sips.. think of Dad on the Road, landing a plane then going to his hotel room. Why didn’t he write? Or maybe he did. He does write, Mr. Madigan, and quite finely, but never pushing it anywhere, though he very much could like with the short story about his last flight on the 737 with the shrinking time surplus. I remember reading it years ago, when we still lived in Bayview, and thinking how believable it felt, the story imposing its feel on me the reader, like I was the pilot stressing over time.
This Autumn Walk studio is expansively different at night. No Jackie imposing his reign down here, throwing whatever and playing with his toys, demanding more time watching cartoons. And with Alice and Emma upstairs for their feeding session, leaving me down here, to write, for the first time today at actual keys, not typing on my fucking phone, which I hate, and don’t even consider real typing, more pushing, that teeny frantic thumb aerobics— so annoying. Much Capote had his comments on typing, what would he throw at these phone-addicted barnacles? I feel like the old man at Dutcher, and I hate it. Not that the others make remarks or make me feel that way, just the volatile writer has himself in such column. Need another sip of port. Hate thinking about or talking about and especially writing about my aging. How the fuck did I get this old? Port sipped, and sipped angrily. Done for night. Coffee at ready for morrow, last of the k-cups I was gifted for xmas. In the morning I’ll write a thousand, do pushups, then another 1k, then duplicate. This moment euphoric, morsel madness. I’m closer to IT.