Waking the next morning after my first night to self since Emma’s birth, and I’m moving surprisingly fast. And I say surprisingly as I had a fair amount of wine. Not an alarming amount, as I was more or less sick of wine coming home, after the early tasting yesterday and tasting throughout the day. But even still, I’m sped this morning. My ukase for the day, “distance”. From anything that slows me, or impedes or obstructs the writing. thievery on right now, like last night, and as we had on during our tasting yesterday morning. I realize that this is me, this sitting and a telling.. the chair, my stories. The quiet of this house has me intrigued with it. The house, what a house is and what occurs in a house— conversations, arguments, growing kids, writings like this, music played and discovered, books read, meals cooked, consumed— When we have a second home, where will it be? As I’ve grown up with the home in Sunriver, I want one for my children, wife. But where. I want my babies to see the world, the country, everything.
New paragraph and new direction. New promises, to acquire certain specific distances. One distance I want is from noise. I want more quiet like this, where I CAN use what I have, what’s in my page’s structure. Didn’t edit the writing from yesterday morning before the meeting, maybe I can do that now— No, this morning’s for writing, composition, not scraping anything away or changing. So behind in my NaNo effort that I’m disgusted. If I don’t hit fifty-thousand words, then something extraordinary MUST happen before 11/30. I’m demanding too much of self, one could quibble, but I have to be at this age, don’t I? Last night at a bar after work, only having one beer even through all attempted persuasion from a friend to just “have one more, Mikey”, I looked around at everyone and thought what they would be doing if they weren’t there drinking. What would I be doing if I were to just leave? And I did, after my beer and a little conversation with co-workers but I couldn’t help thinking when home, close to nine that I should have come straight home. I need distance from distractions. I need distance from the weights, the weights that hold down a writer and prohibit him from ascension, from taking off and looking down from a plane window.
Closer to 8AM, and the coffee insults the headache I have to the point of it altogether leaving. Thank you, blessed coffee, thank you… And the writer continues on his dash, his darting in telling his story. Distance from all negatives, all nay-say, all frowns and indignation. Think I’m joking? Then keep thinking. I’ll prove my promise, disseminating positivity on a colossally viral scale. That’s how I want my babies and wife, mother, father, sister, neighbors to see me. It’s Autumn, my second in this Autumn Walk Studio. My efforts more electric this morning, after yesterday morning’s meeting and tasting through those wines— But unfortunately, I need distance from wine, its industry. Not a total succession, but partial hiatus definitely.
Goddamnit! 8:01… What the fuck happened to my morning? Yeah, the wine’s voice is gone but I’m now pinched for time, which I fucking hate. Calm down, listen to the music, distance from time, distance from stress, distance from worry. What’s there to worry about, our new president? Not hardly. Like a friend said yesterday, “I’m going to work my fuller than full days regardless of who’s in office. Need another cup of this medium roast— or no, it’s the French Alice bought me. Think she’s running right now, her ten-miler in the city. Jealous, I won’t hide it. I need be a more dedicated runner like my wife. Running whenever I can… tomorrow morning, the whole morning, dedicated to running, faster than fast. I will be monitoring my time and pace, distance of course, calories, form, effects of weather, all. Tomorrow’s run will be a mammoth step toward my first travel, my first article on the Road.
Thinking I’m finally awake. Best cure for wine’s nextday reach, WRITING. I could have very well went back to bed but no I committed myself from the second I was standing, one thousand words. Fuck NaNoWriMo. And who said a novel is 50,000 words? Have they ever heard of essays, or creative nonfiction, or novellas if you’re so set on fictive fumbles? No negatives, and that was negative. Yeah yeah yeah… My wallet next to me, reminding me I need to log yesterday’s spending, what did dinner cost, why am I obsessing overt this, why am I asking all this without ending a sentence and no question mark, oh I know. No I don’t. Just wanted to end that sentence with a period. But here I am asking the same question— $15.16? Or was it $16.15? Did that lady give me a receipt? Don’t think so. So let’s say $16.50. I know it wasn’t that much but let’s just say it was.
Budget done, and my skip to mastering personal finance continues. I won’t have today as a no-spending day since I’m in need of a morning mocha, 4 shots more than likely, and some little breakfast appurtenance. I stop there in my thinking, wrote “mocha” and the fantasies unraveled… mmm… mocha, caffeine… chocolate… breakfast. Yeah I’ll hit a thousand words this morning, but they’re sloppy. Energetic, but I think to a fault. What do the NaNo clowns have to say to that? “How does it fit into the story?” I can hear one of them offering. I don’t answer back. I don’t want to talk to you, to them, even to myself. I want more coffee, I want more of this quiet, I want more of these sentences that just go on and on and keep me in the moment trapped like a lit rat. And I have a question for them, sorry, “Why do you give yourselves a month to write a book? Why do you need a month? Kerouac only needed three weeks. Oh, not that quick? That’s okay. I understand. Not at all.” Stepping away from yearly project, I think. Distancing, go, away.