woken by Jackie wanting to watch some cartoons downstairs. I take to the coffee I made last night like a madman, desperate to wake. Today’s one without a show at winery, but I need to hit certain markers, one being a nice applaud-worthy run. Next, a thousand words in one sitting. That won’t happen now, and that’s not the mode I’m in right now. Right now is about observations in this unusual Monday Morning conditions set.
It’s not 4, I keep telling myself, but 6-anything isn’t bad. Now the clock reads 6:20, and I slow wake with each coffee sip. Thinking about identity, what I was writing yesterday about the word ‘the’— just odd notes, a poem I think actually, behind the bar to make the time quicker pass.
Morning of a writerfather, son over there with cartoons but I won’t let him watch too much. I’ll cut him off around 6:45, then play upstairs, or down here although I don’t know how much there is down here to play with in the way of toys, or some useful manipulative.
Set up literary corner in garage..
More I have to do, less time I have for writing, or not. I apologize, my thoughts are everywhere this A.M. But I have to change this direction and tonal. There needs to be productivity this Monday unlike others— I do very much, though, miss going to campus early. Right now I’d be either at sbux filling the tumbler, or somehow in the adjunct cell early working on the lecture. What I’ll offer to the 5-ers, what workshopping or freewriting prompts I can carve in the next 30 or so minutes.
Noticing what’s poetic about this morning and others like it: Its containment, quietude, but as well its volatile nature. This peace, and ‘containment’ like I said, could fall apart at any minute, with either Emma waking and demanding feed, or Jackie dissolving into one of his 4 year-old swings of the mood, it changing or dissolving into whatever he wants it to be, for whatever reason. Frustrating as hell, but he does it.
Looked up at the time in the upper-right of this screen, and it offers 6:32. Thought it was to promise something 6:59, or 7:03, something thereabouts. QUESTION FOR YOU, READER: How does time influence your writing? Are you obsessed with it like me, or do you ignore it altogether? Respond with anything from 100 to 500 words…
French word for day: Météo.
‘Weather’. Not just what’s outside, but inside the character, what temperament are they, although there’s a word for that, I’m sure… And there is, ‘humeur’, meaning ‘mood’. Which is and isn’t what I was after.
Have to keep with my French studying. What happened to it? See? Not enough TIME in the fucking day. Sip coffee again… stop complaining, Mikey!—
Emma awake, and Jackie into a mood, just as I forecasted. Huh, a weather word. And onto and into the day…..