Back to work, back to surprise myself.  But more than anything, defeat you.  Quiet as I ever heard the house– No, quieter.  One idea that pushed me away from the pillows, causing me to rise and turn off the alarm, and again not go back to the fluffy temptresses and under the blanket which is now merely over my lap– regret.  I’m tired of going a whole day cursing myself for not waking up, having to wait and work through the entire day just to hopefully again try the day next.  But I’m up.  Now I’m up.  4:06 and with words in front of me.  Time for me.  And this quiet, auditory opiate I could use and use excessively over and over.  Still thinking about the races yesterday.  I wrote the metaphor is obvious and maybe it isn’t.  Maybe I need to think about it a bit more, more and more–  So, speed.  Singularity.  One track.  When the race is done, onto the other.  Consider the atmospheric conditions of the track.  Vary speed…  I’ll think about those cars and sounds, my writing intersection throughout the day.  And speaking of this day and what I have to do, and not regretting, that kind of thing…  Running.  I have to get in a run before heading to the winery.  Only 45 minutes.  All the time I’m allowing myself like the racers only have a set time to finish their laps, till they see that checkered cloth.
Now in family room, or living room, the never-knew-what-to-call-this-room room. 4AM. Finally, I am here in this quiet and dark, and on this couch Alice’s grandmother gifted us. Alice is right, not as comfortable. But I’m glad it’s not. 4AM might have a chance of getting me back in bed. Huh… Comedy there, somewhere. So much I want from day. Story and three pages and just surprising the shit out of myself with what I can do. My thoughts are everywhere as I’m still waking up or adjusting to this adrenalin level. Fridge making some odd sound, and I’m so tempted to take a sip of coffee from tumbler— made self two cups last night just in case I actually DID wake. And I did, have, so why not sip? Don’t know, part this writer still wants to get in a little sleep before run, work. But that’s what I’ve always done. Why not not have now be when the day starts. Who else can say they’re doing this, have done this today? Would be willing to bet, no one I work with. And good for them. As pleased as I am that I finally woke for a 4AM sitting, the mess of mind it comes with is a lot to manage at such early hour. But this is the only time the writing father has to collect himself as he wants.
Afraid to lift my head from the screen. Afraid to stop even for the most abbreviated of breaths. Just relax, I tell myself. Enjoy your words and the sight that comes with it. Well, with words, my choice there in is funny as when I lift my eyes to look around room I can’t see a thing. This darkness I feel’s a reward for finally waking at the war hour for this writer. Can’t remember the quote a student shared with me, but it was something like ‘2AM is for the writers…’ Something like that. Shit. Now I want to look it up. But I won’t let myself. My time is 4AM. And we rarely meet. But we have this morning. What does this say about me? That I want something, something more than regular pattern and comfortable occupational orthodoxy. I want to go fast, faster than fast with my paginated aims, travel, “teachings” if you could call them that— Not sure why I always qualify myself like that with teaching. I do teach, just my methods and style is a bit more Human and approachable when actualized in the classroom. I tell my “students” that THEY are their best teachers. I offer ideas but it’s their onus to interpret and translate, process, the ideas.
4AM teaches me this morning to move quicker. Don’t measure so fucking much. Writer friend sent me a message with an attachment to an article about a woman who published a novel that sold 12,000-something copies and she can’t pay a single fucking bill. This enrages me, how publishers treat the ones plating their manuscripts. Seriously, I was disgusted. One the most powerful and convincing such pieces I’ve read about traditional pub. Just the reason I post my pages to a blog, aim to print myself— sovereignty, depending on nothing but my own checkbook and life to get my life where I need it, both as a writer and father, but as well a runner, teacher, thinker, person crazy enough to wake at 4AM to write.
This is a bit maniacal, I understand. But if I regretted not doing it as I have in the past, with those other mornings where I actually set the alarm and ACTUALLY woke, but only woke to turn off the alarm and hated myself the whole day… No. No more. I’m up to work. My day’s started. Love this time. And yes, parents appreciate this more that others. With both babies upstairs quite dormant, spouse resting. This time is all mine. Feel I should celebrate with a sip of something, so yes, COFFEE. But why am I scared? Think ‘cause I know once I sip there’s no going back to that soft stack and that wrapping stretch of cotton. What would you do, reader? Was once told this was a fool’s errand. Think he was right. But, being smart or mature, or anything expected is not my aim at 4 in the morrow’s pulse. So… I’m getting that tumbler, taking a wicked set of sips. Like the races, right Mikey? Well, quicker then! QUICKER.