6:05, just went up to cover Jack in his bed, he calling out for me, “COVER ME UP! PLEEEEEASE!” I laughed a bit and he didn’t like that, so that forced me to laugh more. If I don’t write now, I won’t at all today, that’s a certitude. Hot downstairs in the Studio, coffee ready to brew all I have to do is rise and push the button. But that will cost at least ten maybe even fifteen or twenty seconds, probably more like twenty as I have to reach up, get one of those cinnamon dolce latte k-cups, put it in the machine then press the button. Everything costs time, and this time to write could be shattered at any turn. I’m not even sure Jackie went back to sleep. This is most assuredly a writing father moment where I’m reminded of how time can be mine and at any time be taken from me.
Hating everything I’m writing, but I’ll write anyway. Fuck it. Today should be crazy, with the Memorial Day crowds coming into wine country, wanting to taste, taste more, get drunk and belligerent, obnoxious and argue with us as to our closing hours— “Well, I read that you’re open tooooooo thix…. that’th what it sayssss onnnnline…,” saying it even more slurred than I tried to write it. We turn them away and get a bad Yelp review. So sick of that part of it, this, the wine life. I’m always on the side of the consumer. Just, not where they’re total assholes.
Haven’t touched the papers to grade. Well, read a couple, the ones I know are going to be outstanding, but that’s it (’N’, ’S’, and ‘A’ from the ‘5’ class). Grades are due on the 1st, I guess, which leaves me NO time. Have to get up and grade, early, or do so at night, no wine, just decaf and the papers (WOW, sounds like an incredible time!). The clutter those papers inoculate into not just the physical visual of the home office by my head and thoughts is infuriating. Kept thinking yesterday, “What do I want to give myself as a gift, for my birthday?” The one word I kept repeating to myself yesterday, well two actually, was ‘happiness’, first, then ‘everything’. To give myself the career I want and know I’m good enough for it; the travel, the research of places and their stories, blogging everything and waking early going downstairs to the hotel’s lobby or café by the entrance and writing for two or three hours. LIVING, not existing— having a life that others want to read, not just the predictable pattern (which I’ve noticed in my work of late; wake up, go to work, come home and be a dad for a couple hours, babies asleep so eat, then write and have some wine…). Crazily boring. TODAY: Write (check..), coffee, take pictures of kids, get coffee and go to work… post one sentence an hour.. never done that before. Be Dad when home, but write while being Dad. Write the entire day. You don’t even need whole sentences, in fact that would be a new thing to try— stay away from proper clauses. Just keep the machine-gunning of words present and visible, shared with readers— let the world know, or remind them really, that you live with and by, FOR, words.
Jackie and his sister, my wife, all asleep. Not a bad start to this birthday eve. I’m going to turn 37 and there’s nothing I can do about it. I won’t eat till I come home from work. I’m using the Hemingway starvation method, to enforce discipline, make me more a competitive writer, with a slight mood garnish of anger coupled with intention. And I lost my thought’s train… My thoughts missed their train to coherence. What a joke, an English Instructor not demonstrating coherent page placement… Ugh, whatever. Met a lady yesterday who I would have NEVER cast as an academic, BUT she told me that she just finished her PhD. Actually her friend did, saying, “Okay let me brag on my friend over here for a minute…” In clinical psychology, or something. Then of course the PhD thought hopped into my head. What do I do… What do I do? I need to calm down, refocus on education, starting with the papers. Bring five to work with you, and the Composition Book— Heard Jackie. Quiet and writing over— quick, brew the coffee! Breathe… Go press the BREW button, hurry! Before he gets down here! Hear his little feet on the carpet above me. Is he in his bathroom? Probably getting the cars we brought into the bath that I left on the counter. Already feel hunger, that snarl of gut. Discipline…