Finally sitting down to type. Didn’t write during lunch break today, but rather actually ate for once, the remaining territory of the burrito from the other night. Then, going for a quick vineyard walk, down the Rhône section, just one row, taking pictures and shooting a quick video. So here I now am felling awkward while writing like I haven’t written in years (seriously how I feel currently), on my second cup of decaf, and looking at the notes I took earlier for an article I’m set on writing about happiness’ philosophy. Not that there’s a certain set philosophy of happiness, or any directive or campaign to acquire it, but I do see there as being some set vision, or interpretive lens through which people who consider themselves happy or those riled in determination to be happy see. Tonight, I needed to be free in my types and just sit at this desk and listen to the handing shutters, right, every ten seconds or so lightly touch-tap the sill.
Still feeling odd while typing, but I embrace it as a topic, getting more into its psychology— Why do I feel like this, doing the one thing that I’m CERTAIN I’m meant to do as a Human— WRITE. I’m estimate it’s form the day and how it wore me, and how I didn’t wake early this morning at all to write but rather to a dry mouth and percussive head from wine night prior. Tomorrow morning, I again ready my thoughts like a brigade for a clash with 4AM. Now, anymore, my thoughts and their high general (me) are a simple annoying dissension, or occasional hasslers of the 4AM hour. Our victories are small in quantity and so spread that the one prior is forgotten when the current precipitates. But, tomorrow morning something has to happen. I’m hoping for 3 pages that capture the lifestyle of an obsessive and wild early morning writer-father that will take any free and quiet second he can to write. Waking at 4 and writing moments after is a charge that nothing gives me, not even running. As the oddness leaves my circuitry, I become hungrier, more eager for that hour, what I’ll write and how I’ll be thinking. I’m a dad, so 4AM is like heaven— no kids, no crying, no wife asking me to do this, that, this again, that two more times, that blended with this with a slight hint of the first this and that… Why did I not see it so before?
Still in my seat and more comfortable geographically and cognitively. Have three books, new manuscript targets to read— one on what “the best” college teachers do, ‘Sur’ by Kerouac, and that Carolyn See book about living a Literary Life. In no way will I fail with these reading missions. No way. Not minutely, majorly, not at all. Just read the first couple sentences of See’s book. She’s a teacher, I’m a teacher, I will learn from every word that’s on the pages and propel myself from there. Kerouac and the other author, too. Right now.. hear cricket somewhere outside, perhaps on our lawn or left neighbor’s, don’t know, but this is a moment, here at this desk, the writing father’s. See what I mean? This is an opiate for us writing fathers, the quiet, this decaf, light wind on right, and just the moment— It’s mine, all of it— I get to write! Finally. Ending the day with far more effulgence than its main content. Ready for 4AM, but that hour is not ready for the salvo I’m set to send its way. Happy, tangibly and philosophically.