…all I want is coffee… COFFEE.
Went up to help Alice, now off for the most colossal cup I’ve ever had. And no mocha, just a violent dose of medium roast.— Got it. Now back to life. Alice leaving with Jack and his out-of-town cousins for museum, the Schultz, and me here with Emma. Still sleeping but that could at any any ANY time change. So the writer types like a flood approaches, or something. Little bit of coffee left, attacked it quicker than quick. The writer with so much more life than this morning, and I’m trying to stay confined to this morning and the first sensed theme or consistency of day. And that’d be what…? Consolidation, the coffee, more concentration than I’ve ever exhibited in a sitting.. no music, even. Usually Hutcherson is with me and other such Artists but the writerfatheradjunct only moves forward in the moment, aiming for a day’s 3000. Should focus on the Larry story, but I need freedom, and these books, the life of this adjunct full of electric reminders. Little notebooks, pens, all around me reminding me to keep it simple. I haven’t for years, new projects and new ideas, new blogs and even when I was younger all those files, each one a new poem/song. Which could be looked at as a boon, as it’s punctuation of value for the standalone work, but still I’d rather see a completed book, which I should have by now as it’s Week 10 in the semester. Me here just gawking at clutter, committing myself to a collection of smithereens. Into what. A book. Now I’m realizing I need music, hearing the train in the distance, behind the houses across the street. Not sure what the connection is between the train and music in my deconstructive cognition, but there’s something there.. traveling as musician? Different shows in different states. What? […] Checking on Emma upstairs and she squirms but has no interest in waking, and good for her. She deserves this day off just as much as her writerfatheradjunct, if not expansively more.
Had a memory just pass, a thought, image: man playing guitar on the Healdsburg Square, in the park area, people passing and only a couple tossing money into his jar (not overused story consistency of the guitar case as deposit collector). Not sure why I’m replaying this, but his string pullings, no vocals, just picking, plucking, quickly.. what was that song? Sounded familiar but I remember having the hardest time placing it, thinking about it even after I opened Glenn’s tasting room. That day, I wanted to pour for not a soul. Just wanted to have a morning like I am now; writing, reading, sipping what remains of the large coffee, and have a time for me where I could fantasize about my office downtown, just having to reach my word count; freewrite; sell pieces and travel, talk about them, encourage others to write and read more intimately, with more attractive privy. Not sure if the coffee’s helping or handicapping. As now I want more, and I sip what’s left in the cup slow like it’s wine, like I’m at someone’s counter.. think of writing a poem or some odd verse for recital but not a tock before the 3000 is touched. My first day of a more radicalized me. Think I just sipped too much. Now probably only two sips left. Goddamnit why didn’t I get some little k-cups from the store? The writerfatheradjunct needs coffee.. yes, NEEDS. Addiction, yes, and so what. “Damnit,” I just thought, “what was that song the guitar guy was playing?” I can’t belabor over that, the song, just hold to the guy playing, for everyone passing, not caring how he sounded or allowing the time to rehearse and perfect, how he was dressed.. he just played. And well. And free. Somewhat like my babies, just enjoying in their momentary delights and not compounded in any worry or planning. Why do I do that as a writerfatheradjunct. I cite the ‘adjunct’ appellation of my Personhood.
Fullest of full uses of the day. A day off. To me. Singing to myself through and between the pushings of these keys, day cloudy and with sleeping 3-monther upstairs, no coffee now, gone, and just a ramble. But maybe a fine ramble’s just what’s necessitated by day, this day, my day, “off”. But I’m very much ON, one and one with my story and sights of travel and seeing how tables look in restaurants in other countries I otherwise would have never visited— but I will for self-assigned assignment.. imagine that if you’re a writer or writerfather/mother: self-publishing, independent, telling yourself where to go, you go, compose, return and release your work and you travel as a fruitful ripple of the travel.
I know where I am, surely. I evermore know where the writerfather’s going. Where? Everywhere. In this Autumn Walk Studio, second day of Spring (season, not semester), I think. Speaking of semesters, I have to email students, a couple of them as there’s a draft due the day we get back, for workshopping and— Don’t want to think about it, but do, and the ‘professor’ role is inimitably an ingredient in my character, story. This Autumn Walk Studio this morning serves with so much, and reason over reason, telling atop telling. Nothing squalid about this Studio, the room I’m in (home office, right, just as you walk through door front). Sure it gets cluttered, but that’s its centering charm, or much of it. Not filthy, though, thank goodness.. would never let my babies live in filth. The right amount of clutter, yes, but not filth or crud, visible foulness. This is a house occupied by parents, two young children, so of course there’s going to be scatter, toys, noise, straying articles. I know entirely and joyfully where I am, reader. My Studio, home to little Kerouac, Ms. Austen. Could make a stageplay from this house…