How IT

Started the day sitting to write in the Carpe Journal, with Jack on the couch whilst he watched his ritual’d cartoons.  “Mikey!” Alice called, stopping me before I took a sip of the coffee or put ink to lined sheet.  “Are you going for a run?” she asked.  I told her no, that she could go, then she insisted I go out, that I be happy.  So I did.  And I surprised Self, putting up 7.5 miles and a per-mile of 8:03, I think.  Something surprising like that.  What I had in my favor for sure was the temperature.  And I barely feel it now, which tells me I’m in shape for ‘Water to Wine’ in August.  I felt it a little bit, just now, walking upstairs to close our bedroom door, Alice sleeping with Emma, me going up in a bit.  So now I’m on the floor, living room, sipping one of the 12’s I made at Kunde.  Not sure which one, as they’re not labeled.  I’m guessing the New Dad Cuvée, but it’s hard to definitively decide.

How do I insist tomorrow start?  With another run.  Not 7 miles, of course, but something like 4, or 5.  Something with which I can continue into the day and feel proud, confident, eager to confront whatever the day has to throw at me.  MY walk in the vineyard block this morning, as it always does centered me, put me in the optimal perspective for story, for ingesting the entirety of the day, what it had to offer; people coming to the counter wanting to taste and taste again, asking me “What’s that I’m tasting?” I always answering, “You tell me…” Not to be a jerk, but for them to confident in their words, thoughts and reactions, wined convictions.

10:54—  Time for bed, nearly, especially if I want to run in the morning as I did today.  Took my last sip of my ’12.  Yes, feeling the day now, wanting that pillow, the sheets…  Would love some music now, anything, Hutcherson or Zero 7, Thievery or Madeleine…  Something. I just sit, though.  Meditate.  Look around my home, think about where I am in life, my age, where I came from in San Carlos.  Met some people today from Redwood City, and we talked about the old neighborhoods, about how RWC and SC are improving, or have been improved, with restaurants, and and wine bars.  “Have you been back?” they asked.  ‘No, not really.’ I reacted, leaving out the part where I went back last year for my uncle’s funeral.  Remind me of life, them coming in.  I’m getting old.  I’m so distanced from the old neighborhood.  It was so long ago, like it never happened.  But it happened.  All of it.  Feel like I’m dreaming on this Autumn Walk floor— with two kids upstairs asleep, a wife, a teaching career, I run now, in the best shape I’ve ever been, and I’m three years from 40.  FOURTY!  Fuck…  Time doesn’t care, it just does what it does.  I the writer should study such.  11AM.  Fuck, clock, slow down…