Wife leaves for school, her first

day of the semester— not sure what you call so at the grammar school level.  Reasoned a rationale to run after my day’s 3 pages are finished, posted to blog and promoted or marketed or pimped or whatever.  Today’s set to be the most positive and fruitful of my writing life, without fail.  Both babies still upstairs very much asleep, and I start the yay-saying stream with this quick note downstairs in office.  Downstairs comes Jackie…

Relocating to kitchen.  Moving around when writing and readjusting both in time and topic attention span and other screams of reality is nothing this writing father isn’t already blaringly used to.  Emma still asleep, and part of me wants to wake her, feed her, dress both babies and leave the house with expediency so I can start my day but it’s obvious that’s not what the story intends.  I’m letting the day write itself and write me into it.  Right now my son resists my instruction to eat his cereal, throwing back at his writing father a look, that attitude.  He’s 4, though.  I can’t understand what it’s like to be that age and have a schedule, or even the mere obligation of school.  So I let go, not anymore try to control the morning, my writing, rather harness myself to a freely written write.

Coffee, already nearly disparu  (gone).  Holding off on making more.  For now.  What I’m learning from this morning so far is just that, to tip hat to time, let it in, be kind to it and then, hopefully, it’s so to you.  Try to force NOTHING.  So now…  7:12AM.  Oh shit.. that’s it?  Why did I think it was later?  I’m ahead in the story’s count so far, then, right?  And no run till after the three pages are punctuated, so on goes the writer, with this again oddly chilled morning temperature and sky palette.  The calm in the house, that is right now, as I type, is short-lived.  Soon, Emma’s up, then father character takes over.  More life and love than I here have clock allowance to compose.  Putting off more the writing, till I get back to Autumn Walk and return to the 3 page saunter.  ‘Nother coffee glug…  Thinking of who I am, remind myself for when I forget or entertain doing something else, and why would I—  Writer.  Father.  Runner.  Teacher.  In that order?  I think so…  Why does there have to be an order.  OR, why would there need to be order?  What if I want creative disorder…  OR…..  What if a certain degree of disorder precipitates more creativity?  The questions are the teaching, are the lecture and lesson.  Then I get an idea, so I was right.  Another.  Oh, I was right.  Right about what?  To just keep going, and let rhythmic and rimed color-chaos catapult from here, this writing father, who will later run, and next week start a new semester of teaching.