9:59.  Clocking in one minute early,

just home from taking Jack to school, Emma to daycare.  And the running writing teaching father sits at his desk, for meditative composition, or at least for now.  Was tempted and still am quite a bit to run, drive up to Healdsburg and run along Dry Creek Road.  I don’t know, should I?  No, stick to plan I tell myself and write wildly like I did in Fall ’15, at Solano, in that teacher’s lounge or adjunct parlor.  Ick, such a repugnant experience that place.  Never again.  And soon SRJC will find its demise when my lectures and teaching lift off.  this morning’s version of character is relaxed but with melodic and music ardency, in shaded varied and expansive yet somehow contained.  I’m focused on living today, my last “day off” till next week, when my semester begins.  Killing teaching blog, or merging it with my bottledaux world and only printing writings for students this Fall.

When Emma woke, that’s when the writing father was tested, Jack only wanting to challenge me every time I requested he get dressed, or do anything, or just be silly, Emma with her little cough, not eating from bottle.  More than likely ‘cause it was daddy feeding her and her brother being the jester he usually is right in front of her little face, distracting her and making her giggle.  Then I started giggling.  Jack notices, Emma notices, nothing done.  So we left.  Once at school, all smooth.  Went for a drive up Yulupa to Matanzas Creek hoping to shoot a video or take pictures in the vineyards, but all gates were closed, so I came back.  Coffee made, and I’m ready to storytell.  But what.  The house is quiet.  Nothing’s happening.  Well.. this is happening, the probably excessively energetic tireless writer at his desk, looking at the running magazines thinking that should be him, out there running.  He needs his coffee, the cup he just made himself.  Shit, then I feel pressured— this is my last day off, what do I do?  “Whatever you want,” inner counsel counts.  “That’s the thing,” I think, “I don’t know what I want!” “Then you’re fine,” counsel ends.  Now I’m really at loss.  Hoping the coffee commands me to do something.  AND…..  I need music, immédiatement.  First song Spotify cues, “Sexy Boy” by Air.  Haven’t heard this song in quite a while, but I remember the rile it used to send through my fingers while typing like this, me imagining myself typing in a Paris hotel lobby while really at the Napa Roasting Co. in 2011 on lunch “break” from that goddamn box where I’d call on winery lists, attempt to sell wine.  No.. no negativity in that memory, but wild propulsion in my foreverness in this blog and my writings, MY company.  Okay, getting coffee finally—

Let it cool, unintentionally obviously.  But the story’s off, as am I, onto day.  Promised Self no backpack this semester, more pen-to-paper writes, more studentness about this adjunct.  So…  Where is my Comp Book?

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