Woke thinking, “shorter sentences”. Poignant, observation, centered and sequenced.  Coffee today with teacher friend.  Who knows…  Writing when I can.  Have to run, just for an hour.  Somehow.  Read Wolff and … Kerouac’s ‘Underwood’.  More notes.  No wine tonight.  None.  Pas une seule goutte.  (Not a single drop.)  Aiming for Derrida-ian difference today, in everything.  Cementing my convictions and inner-declarations into the Newness I read in ‘Road’.  Have to edit the short I last night wrote, rushed.  Wrote while Emma was feeding, knew any minute I’d be interrupted, so I wrote the character’s thoughts about his first ever wine, about to sip it—  Writing the whole day.. where’s the Carpe journal—  Reasoning, firmly.  On and in what.  Books, mine, travel.. new hemispheres and heaping ebbs of observation, observational renewal for this writerfatheradjunct.

Time— 8AM.  To be at Acre Coffee in 90 minutes to meet Ed.  Teacher and career educator.  Again, who knows.  Je suis fatigué, feeling that tempting surrender.  And I anesthetize it with more thoughts, visions of my travels and scribblings.. and I realize, I type too much.  Don’t write enough, scribble those singular words and contemplative nods as I urge the students.  All this sans café.  My mood, stable but indifferent.  Words will help that, solve and bandaid it more assiduously, I hope.  Now, joie de vivre.  And just about these dreams and inner-illustrations.

Jack watches a cartoon that he ardently demanded, and I get moments of collection.  Now the need for coffee encircles and constricts.  Soon, I keep telling myself.  An addicts read, a literary life contingent upon hot depth in a cup, specific fuel-source.  What if I stopped.  What if I only depended on the growls and seismology of this engine?  Again, difference.. pugilistic diarist now, character not to play but embody and accept, subscribe to.. autonomous words, sovereign entertainments and ideas to mold and together sew:




episodic [something] … novel, broken into snapshots, anti-formalist consistency and feel, profile and pagination, something different for readers.



build [something… new character, new dreams, new tangibilities…]

Look at clock.  Then stop.  It ignored.  Hutcherson in my head with this idea of character restructuring.  Notes and chords and cubist compulsions garnish my already-existent devoutness to language…  Percussion light, sax, piano, trumpet setting… everything music.  that’s how it perpetuates.  Now more awake than if I had coffee, the skyscraper size I yesterday ordered.. still need to find the Carpe journal.  In bag, I’m quite sure.  8:15.. shit.  Why, time?  Why are you motivating and mutilating me with dire incongruence?  Pushups.. 20…  parcel of new ideation-set, more in-the-moment exercise/fitness fusillades between paragraphs (and of course the planned run or gym visit—)  The writer has to materialize into an unseen and new direction of Newness that he’s never prior postured.  20 more…

Life riles itself in episode fashion— connected scenes of realization or just simple and soon discarded understanding.  Or maybe it’s not discarded.  But filed. Or inventoried somehow.  The writerfather’s story is just now re-re-re-re-catalyzing.