I could do it right now.

Just before 4.  3:53 with precision.  And I’m going to let myself fall back into sleep.  What is the remedy for this, this 4AM war?  Back at work today, for what more observations.. Fighting self to stay awake, typing on my phone, laptop in other room, don’t want to walk over to study and get it.  Could wake Jackie, or further antagonize him if he hasn’t already fallen back to his sleep.  Just transported him to our room after he called me in for a quick change (too much water last night before bed).  I was laughing as he chugged his water, saying “watch dada… One… Two…. Three…” Counting every sip.  Tilting his head back quick then calling off the number.  Don’t know why but I found it hilarious and could’t hide my giggles so he kept doing it, me knowing I’d be called at about this hour for the change.

3:59 now.  Think I’m a bit more awake than I was a minute or two ago, but sleep still appeals.  If I had even one sip of that coffee in the tumbler, that I made last night, I’d defeat this devilish hour, but then would go into the tasting room bitter and loathing self.  OR, I’d feel a victor, knowing I finally beat it– well, for the second time, but ONLY the second time.

Almost erased this whole effort, selecting the text then copying to see where I was, word-wise.  Why I hate typing with my thumbs.  This isn’t writing.  But I did write something, right?  I mean, I do see words above this line.  I’m a verve away from rising and tipping and toeing over to the coffee, taking a couple deep pulls of its matter, its dark expanse into my curvature.  “Could do it right now”…  I did, I think.  I don’t know ANYONE who’s done this, certainly not doing this now, at this hour, with the urge to at this quiet hour capitalizing on savory silence, this consumed by and dedicated to their pages—  too tired to edit.  I did it.  A few words at 4, actually starting before.  And in the phone, so stealth that even I forget or don’t realize I’m actually doing it, IT, my It…  The writing life I need to perpetuate, so this can’t be the only scene, doing as Sylvia and Ernie did, be on their level, me being read in the same American Lit classes as them– ma parole, could you imagine?  Have to be extra careful with these thumb pushes, be sure I don’t erase my words’ advance into 4AM’s ground.  Can I save this, my progress?  Should be writing by hand, ink and sheet while with pillow and this red blanket on the couch.. That’s what Sylvia did, scribbled with coffee before her kids were up.  Just one skips all it would take…  But I’m afraid of how tired I’d be later…  This 4AM war is not for the week writer, the idealist… This is for the fighting writer.  The hungry.  The one who wants IT.

Taking a wee break to look through messages, social feeds, other shit, now having to use restroom, maybe get a little further into 4’s territory– hear that word, territory, in my head with British inflection…  Terri-tree… Sounds better, certainly more interesting.  Short bathroom break–

Was told recently this is a fool’s errand, aiming to rise at 4 to write, that I need a good seven or eight hours to sleep, rest, collect or whatever.  That would be what it is in the mind of one who doesn’t write, always wished they would have tried to live this life, enjoy the luxury of judging me, those with my aims.  What IT is, is what I have to do, this is the only in the day I can experience such quiet, peace, and I’m doing IT right now, sub rosa, no detection–  4AM didn’t stop me this morrow. Maybe if would have had Jackie not had all that water, who knows. But I’m here, now, with my sentences and visions.  The only fools are the ones who judge us, make their jealous so visible that they are more blinded by it than us that actually write.  No errand, this is a mission, in a campaign much larger anything the self-knighted judges could ever enact.

Breathing…. Deep like a wave. This time, mine.  If I have just one sip from that canister, just one, I could reach two or even three thousand words…  But word count isn’t what I’m after with these harsh hour sessions.  It’s the act itself, the substance of It.

Now I can go back to some sleep, some rest before the eight hours away—

Heard someone at a neighboring house start their car, go to work maybe.  On a Sunday?  That’s what I should do.  Just get up and go to work.  Before going to work.  This, my IT, is my call, labor trade practice craft—  No pedestrian errand.