Don’t have as much time as I’d like

to write, but tonight I’m deeply contemplative on everything.  that I have two babies, that I can’t stop staring at that picture I took of them this morning while their mama was out with her running group.  I’m getting old, Time is assaulting with more venom than it has in years recent and near. So what else can I do but give ‘time’ its capital letter.  It IS a formidable foe, and I will lose, eventually.  Met with guest throughout the day that made the writer think and examine his peregrination through his own story.  This could be the Zin talking, that Dutcher Crossing ’15 PR… and if it is, so what.  That would be demonstrative of candor, a certain kerfuffle removed from expressive impulse.  When I’m on my Roads, which will be soon, I’ll finish the Kelly novel.  What the f…..  Why did I hop from that project’s hull?  Coffee for morrow made, and the write measures the next day.  October 3rd will have its own business plan…  Run all morning, then to campus, give cosmologically wobbling lectures, then come home to be Daddy.  All I have to do.  Running route in morrow’s plan and palm will be Bennett Valley-emboldened.  Sitting on the wooden floor of this bottom floor of the A-Walk Studio and I become impatient.  With what.  Don’t know.  Time and life and realizing tonight in unusually stark suggestion how short life is—  I get unnerved, irked, just frustrated and wanting confrontation with Time itself.. “Fucking coward!” I propel, toss like an ax in medieval ages or a Vietnam War grenade, “Meet me here in this room…  In THIS room!  C’mon!  Where are you?” Then I realize I’m acting too much like a writer, like the crazy kind that’s studied.  Yeah, I’d like to be one day read, not sure about ‘studied’, and I don’t want to be know for lunacy or even tempered wine affinity, but discipline.  Waking up at 4, getting babies ready for school, taking them to school, running, coming home to shower, then going to SRJC for the semester to end all semesters, lecturing, then coming back home to give both my little beatniks a bath.

So quiet in the house, and I react to the last couple days at the winery, Saturday and Sunday, days I could have spent with my family.  But I worked hard for them, especially those little artists, what they need and what I want for them, how I want to send them to college, pay their way so they don’t have to worry about the corporately fanged serpent following them to collect on their student charges.  I want to provide for and protect my babies.  Yes, I’m overstepping, maybe, but I’ve never done this before, been a parent.  I’m doing what I know how to, and I don’t know how to do what I think I know how to.  (Postmodern as that is.)  “Just enjoy the quiet.” I tell myself.  “Ruin your moment with thinking, later…”

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