Up with Emma down, upstairs. Surprised how quickly she went to sleep. Yet another victory in my declarative day of ‘difference’. Wanted 8 miles, 1 hour and 20 minutes of running, but the heat caught me.. 7 miles, 1 hour 4 minutes of actual stomping time. My Garmin professes I burned 829 calories, but who knows how accurate that is. And I really don’t care about calories— I’m out for miles, total time, even the per-mile digits are losing importance for this runningwriterfatheradjunct.
On run, thoughts I remember: my vineyard on Coffee, close to freeway; what I’ve gained since removing myself from wine drinking (much more gain than what I lose by drinking it..); how running is precisely like writing, especially writing college papers, with the intensifying heat of the sun acting like an approaching deadline, and how sometimes your writing ends where it ends, like my outing today. Again, would have loved for 1:20:00, 8 miles, but I closed my piece at seven miles, just over an hour. I ran. And the student, or any writer in any context has to assure themselves, “I. Wrote.”
This day, amazing me. In 1A tonight, another movie clip, passing back some older work, and letting them out. Want to swing by Cellars of Sonoma, see my friend Scott about possibly helping him on Weekend nights..
An idea about collaborative writing, serial blogging or contributing to other blogs— from parenting to wine to writing, teaching, whatever.. thinking more outside the box while still cementing a strong certitude and linearity. Not as scattered as I used to be, for sure (or at least that’s the writer’s assurance to himself).
That odd quiet overtakes and encompasses the house. My coffee from earlier, the one I didn’t finish during office hour, in fridge. Feeling a bit slow and fatigued, blobby and stuck— should I go get it, sip and sip strongly, or depend on this intrinsic energy in me?
Ugh.. why did I agree to these two classes this semester, so far apart in times? Still have to shower, possibly go all the way to Bennett Valley to get Jack.. I’m just talking from my wavering composure, and it’s painful. I do want that nap, and I do need to stop, just not write, but stop, live, rest, do nothing. Why is that so conundruming for me to execute?
Just going to lay down. Not sleep, but lay down. May have a beer tonight, but haven’t thought about it enough. Tomorrow morning I’m hoping to rise at 4:!5.. not to run, but write. Maybe run a little. It’s not hot at that hour, at all. If you need know, this morning when I left, aroud 6:20, it was perfect running temp. So why not?— Okay then, no beer, no wine. Early bed, eat light, run in morrow.
Should go check on the little beat, see how she sleeps, then see what I’m to next do. Coffee? The couch? Write more?
Mikey-a-Mess, what I call myself when in such states.