Alarm ignored. But I’m up now with that temptation that any writing parent feels. To just go back to sleep. But I think daughter has a cold or ear infection, something, so she’s been up through the night. Can’t let myself go back to bed. Not sure when I’ll have time like this to self again– this quiet, this space, slice and selection of seconds.
Noticing I’m a bit hungry, but no way I’m eating right now. Waste this zen, this composed scene on eating? Idiotic. Being a writing parent I’ve noticed, of late, has been tangibly more challenging. And not just with finding time isolated to self, but with budgeting time, fitting in other small wants. Next semester has to be different, I tell myself, but can I really afford to teach only one class? Can’t cut down on the winery hours, as that’s what provides my benefits… Mentioned in my walking vineyard verse yesterday something about a ‘map’ and a ‘trap’. Can’t remember exactly what I spoke but I know the impetus behind my intonation. There’s a plan we all follow, the path of maturity and responsibility, not to get too careless or wild, but following such IS a trap, it’s own surrender and death. But what can I do? I’m a writing parent, not some single early twenty-something living in a studio downtown. I’ll figure it out, but I have to move quicker, be more outside of character, put self on a beneficial edge. Waking early like this is some kind of start, I’m hoping, but I have to make it a lifestyle, a truthful lifestyle change.
5:41AM– Wish I would have risen when that alarm went off… Goddamn me! Why do I just go back to sleep like an unmotivated jelly bot? Starting to feel a certain virulence kick up, a mood that will push this writing daddy to a beneficial breaking point. “Good,” I think, “maybe that’s what I need.” Of course it’s ‘what I need’. So what else can I do besides write prose on my phone early in the morning like this? One thing I thought of is putting myself in character, with whatever I do, in a way I never have before. With the winery, with my adjunct instructor life.. everything. And write more. And try to distance myself from anything that slows the production and composition of this prose. I know what I’m referencing I’m just electing not to chisel specifics into this paragraph. All components for any idyllic frame are already present, I merely need to put them in place.
5:48. Again, GODDAMN ME! It’d be 4 something in this session had I elevated when I had planned. But, under the umbrella of resolution, utilize what’s immediate, don’t dwell on a wish-for or erased hypotheticals. Don’t hear Emma upstairs. Maybe she fell asleep. Have to iron pants, can’t forget, shower somehow, and get to winery early– hear wife trying to put daughter back down in crib… “Please go to sleep,” I say to myself… That’s all a writing or any kind of parent wants, for their children to snooze if parent is trying to do something. Can hear her squirming, moving, those light little grunts… “No, no, no… Sleep!” I need to charge this–
Walked with my light burglar ballet steps to other room, where charge is, plugged into laptop. Nothing from upstairs but I bite my tongue as that could change in a light lick of a partial heartbeat. First sip of coffee from tumbler. Think I can somewhat catch up, be where I’m supposed to be writing-wise had I shot from pillows and sheets at 4, or a little after 4– What am I talking about. No way am I going to get to a word count like that– never mind. Just keep writing, daddy. Was wishing for quiet like this all day yesterday at the winery. Let a mood somewhat take over my character, didn’t embrace and immerse my role behind that bar as the writer should have. But again, dismiss that rear view portrait.. Push down on gas, or climb that mountain, that ‘goddamn mountain’ as Jack said. I will, I have to… Fuck what have I been doing living so safe and understated. No wonder I’m not fucking traveling yet. Sipping this coffee again, and ANGRILY. Now that’s a sip, that’s how an early waking writer-father should glug-glug son café (his coffee). Huh, and my French.. What happened to that? Need to do what my father made me do in sixth grade, write out a loose plan for the entire week. That is, for each day he’d have me simply write each class, one thing for each, and that’s it. I’d add as things were assigned, if that makes sense. What Dad was punctuating, and he still does, is to be three or four steps ahead. So today– French … Music … Poetry … Photography … Blogs … Fitness/Nutrition … and that’s enough for now.
6:05. Have to begin readying at 6:30. May take a day off tomorrow. I rarely do so, such, which is all the reason for this writing father to collude. Still typing on phone, and it acts strangely, slowing down in some typing sprints. Why do info this? Why can’t I be like Plath when she wrote early, actually put a pen to a line? Again, STOP. Move forward. Have some more coffee. Funny to think how some right now may be sleeping off, or trying to sleep off last nights drinks, drunk, well this writer sits here on a hard wood floor writing, contributing to some book effort, or vision, possible hypothetical some something. Not sure if that’s admirable, or just fucking demented. I’ll go with ‘maniacal’, not ‘demented’. Why didn’t I wake at 4? It’s time now for writing papa to get ready for his longer than long day in wine character. “Take possession of it, Mike,” I say.
There’s a story to write, only you can write it, so stop thinking so much.