Sew, Play, Cook

What else in me but a maelstrom rut hole stucksludge–  Tangled with this last bit of port, listening to the fridge groan and hum, thinking “How am I going to get up at 4-whatever when I should?” Coffee cued but that’s not a sole panacea–  writerfather, annoyed with day and night, and thoughts and glass that doesn’t motivate me as I want it to, a flimsy film, and me not a star but an article, artifact, old enough to be that.  I try to habit shift, but there’s that consistency in me, the trench of me, that me, on stage looking at people look at me, reading from a Journal.  Who cares I ask and there’s no answer but who and asking.  Where’s the coffee when I need it?  Have to wait.  Right now too late.  10:51.  Should be in bed.  But we, my phylum need actualized and devised paths– pages but what–  and on the day, my story compounds or doesn’t, I’m not sure anymore, universally underscored and I’m heartsore.  What to scribble next, don’t add more work or get a new gig with that winery or take that client, write that for them, or this for those other people?  Why write for others?  Can I hire me? Maybe just another wined hypothetical but still a plausible position, proposition– walking from my car to office, wondering what I’m going to do, doing to a go, and no offer.

I don’t have to have this attitude, it can be palliated somehow, but I’m still at drawing board.  Circles encircling me, wake earlier I tell myself but the arduous current with two children now overtakes (not overwhelms).  I keep writing anyway, like a writer friend of mine insisted, insists to other writing parents in her work.  This coffee can’t work quick enough, and when will the writer have time to write?  Aren’t you writing right now, as you write this?

Yes, but it’s rushed, it’s only ticks and a couple talks before my near-4 month old wakes and I have to aid Alice in changing her, bring her downstairs, and everything else a morning involved for a writerfather.  BUT… Saturday.  I have that in my alignment favorable.  Coffee narrates to me its story and intention and dares me to be like it, its makeup and mold and fiery inner and outer climate.  Next sip and I realize it’s correct, complètement—  So I take a minute and breath in more Truth, thinking of my day and days with more ecstatic echo and I have to write more poetry, more tracks per day (writerfatheradjunct struggles, many of which no one wants to hear or read and certainly not study but that writerfatheradjunct has to expel such collection otherwise a more sludgy form of angst accumulates, one I can’t manage, one I can’t write through or out of, so some permission is permitted, allowance allowed).  So no more hasty surge.  More so measurement, meditation, more coffee.  Listening to its lecture, closer, closer…

Feeling repentant, understanding I’m the one posing inquiry, hoping not for too quick a solvent.