Starting a new page as I need a new start of sorts. Eight mile run out of the way, and little Emma finally asleep upstairs, the writing father has some time to himself but who knows how long that will last, as I’ve written so many times and so many more times. Bored with my writing and words, and I said that I need to be freer and more crazy with my sentences and expressions— tonight in class, this comes out. They’re to bring proposals for their final paper of the semester, this ridiculous eight weeks the college somehow rationalizes as a useful educational term, and will brainstorm and work with each other, ask questions, make suggestions— Again, the same thing I’ve always done. So what differently can I do? Don’t know right now as I feel rushed, thinking my little girl any moment could wake and this writing sessions will be terminally cut.
Coffee machine ready. That’s right, I haven’t yet had a cup. And it’s almost 12:30PM. Not sure when the last time that happened was. But like I said, do things differently, right? My writing needs a revival, still in this positive pulse but a certain dimensional rebirth so as to keep myself in love with my words. Yes, ‘in love’, I want to love what I’m writing, I want to re-read it before posting to the blog and think something like, “Nice.” Or a simple ‘I like that’. I need to be crazier if I’m to be on the road, traveling as result of my writing. A winemaker friend of mine is on the road, promoting his winery’s wines and seeing new street corners, having coffee in places he never has, enjoying new food and wine and characters. I won’t hide my envy as it pushes and usefully shoves my syllables— I always say my freewriting and writing principally is like a wishlisting bravado bluster, a storm of affirmations that I need to catch up with. And, I’m a dad. AND, I’m 37. AND… I’m getting sick of the patterns, the predictable. I’d hate for readers to think, “Oh, well it’s [whatever time], Mike must be…” I want them not even guessing but anticipating. I want to be anticipating what I’m going to do and write and think and say next. If I or the readers were to guess, then that means there’s a slight degree of measurement means, you can somewhat anticipate the writer’s next turn, speed and step. Not what I want.
New page new day new me. New story. The writing father needs to dart at all seconds, like they’ll evaporate— shit, they very well may evaporate, especially with a sleeping baby upstairs. Getting her to go down, one of the more feral displays my Lilliputian love has ever offered. But, daddy won upon skirmish’s close, thankfully. First act, coming down here to write, begin this new page, new me, new language (as I’m deliriously past enervated with my words, speak, spoken habits).
Time for that coffee. Some time for me in a void— collections and measure, but not too much. No sounds, none. Spontaneity is as well a conscious continent in this new Me. So, off the office couch and to the maker, that will help re-make me.