from this day’s 3 pages…

(10/17/16) 7:05, putting pants on, waiting for Jack’s waffles to toast.  Only one coffee sipimg_7646 under the writer’s belt.  45-minute run planned when I get back home.  Quite sure I’m going to drop the 3pm 1A class next semester.  Too big a gap between that and the earlier 7:30-9 English 5. I’ll take a second class, but one only immediately after the 7:30-9.

Use restroom, about to sip coffee, Jackie eats the waffles, watches Thomas.. Me over here thinking about the book I’m finishing.  Why did I ever think about or put even the sliverest of slivers into small page collections?  My impatience.  That’s it.  Obvious.  But I’m changing, I just thought washing my hands.  Telling Janet that I’m dropping the 1A for something earlier is a significant step for this writing daddy, adjunct.  Telling them it’s unacceptable, such a layover between classes, that I deserve something better, something that works for me– oh I can’t wait to tell her.  And not with any malice, just firmness.  I want to hear this new Mike say it.

Emma up… Starts with puffs then to apple saws– sauce!  No time to spell.. Typing in home.. PHONE.  TYPING ON PHONE!!!

Getting gas… No run.  Will write for 120 mins when home.  Set the timer.  Today has to be a day moving me. Loser to the travels, to my reality– the me I need be.  Cold outside, no rain, crisp atmosphere.  Maybe I should run.

Home.  Decide no run, even after seeing that girl running on Marlow.  Should I?? No… Devoting whole morning to writing, my book, my career.. How I want to be seen.  Coffee machine cuing, me waiting, enjoying quiet house after frenzy morning, another one.

Cup one, brewing, typing on phone realizing I’m five minutes late to sitting.  9:30 was my clock-in time.  Good thing I’m self-employed.  Or at least today I am…  Now cup two a-brew.  Will sip both from the mother-in-law tumbler as usual, put on Hutcherson station, and fly– cup done, now to work…

9:42 and at laptop, listening to an old Miles track, “I See Your Face Before Me”.  Seeing myself on an airplane, traveling east, hardly able to wait till I can fly back home to see my babies, wife, be in my own home.  I know I wanted the travel, but I only want to be with my kids.  This morning in the quiet house, all to myself, sipping coffee and wondering what next semester will bring with only one class, if any classes at all.. where is this story going, of this writing father?  Well, I guess I’d have to ask myself, where do I want it to go?  Distracted by the fucking clutter on this desk.. aggravated by the mess, the stuff we unwillingly compile in our lives.

Interrupted by my own lack of concentration, pulled away by the piles and piles, putting one on floor and moving another from one side of the desk’s top to another.  “Lotta good that did,” I say to myself, sneer.  Sip the coffee again, tempted to check my phone but won’t let myself.  Sip coffee again, think, put phone on other side of desk.  Why did I do that?  That girl I saw running on the way home—  Maybe I should go out, just for 45 minutes.  No, stay in the goddamn chair, I yell at myself.  Not just “say”, but truly order, instruct.  Writing for  me has now become something different.  Somedays I’m more serious than others.  I tell my students to know their habits and places where they like to write, who they are as writers but I have satisfied nada of the above.  What I’m trying to change with this sitting, this hour or so in the chair.  Love this song, “Cool On The Coast” by the Brubeck Brothers Quartet.  Relaxes, and not as stressed as I was earlier getting the babies ready for launch to school, I write on.  Déndendu (relaxed), me, finally.  But am I just killing time or am I writing with some purpose, some mission or grand intention?  I want to go outside and scream at the day, tell it, “Well, sorry if you have other plans, but you’re doing what I want you to, okay?” What do you think it would say?  Does it have the gall to answer back?  Same writer, ab initio, but not.  I’m trying to figure out in this sitting exactly what I want to say, what I want to do, so I can stop the wishlisting and the vows and promissory writings I annoy myself with.

Not worried about typos from earlier, even though I’m now tempted to scroll up and edit, revise and polish but “no way, fuck that” bounces around in my head like my son Jack was around the family room floor this morning, Emma just looking at him in either amazement or terror.  I know that if I just woke up earlier, so much would change.  Then why the ‘feck’ don’t I?  How ‘bout this, a last promise, or wishlisted speak: Tomorrow, 4AM wake, 3 pages before leaving for winery, start readying for early vicious session now, or after these thousand or so words.  The writer-father need get ahead of time, and the ONLY way to do so is to wake earlier than I ever have, and not just make it an occasional thing, but a pervasive lifestyle shift.  I demand people recognize me as a militant and disciplined writer—  Okay, then start acting like it.  Agreed, ‘nother sip…

Messages from wife, asking if babies were okay this morning.  She’ll have to read the blog, and later book, to get complete account.  10:03.. I’ll get in shower right before 11.  “Ahhh…” I hear my mind sigh.  Just enjoying my morning jazz, coffee, words, confession or inner detailings of a writing father, just wanting singularity, simplicity, no more of this adjunct nonsense, the 5+ hour layovers between classes.  Today is monumental, where I tell them what I want, just like I tell the day, and this sitting, the coffee, myself.  I don’t see anything around me— no clutter, no phone, not even the Kerouac books, or my composition book, the running magazines, my keys, the check I wrote the other day to Ricardo the successful housecleaning entrepreneur without which my wife and I would subsist in constant ick.