draft

Tomorrow’ day, assured to be long.  Both babies asleep upstairs, Alice napping with J, which leaves me down here after eating dinner, typing in my phone.  Well, this isn’t really typing, is it.  Thumbing?  Punching?  It’s not texting ’cause I’m not technically or at all messaging anyone.  Getting into my personal of personal forms, delivering what I’m doing, convincing myself you care– son of you do, or partially do, I’m on the floor, back to couch, nightcap (Lagunitad) left, and trying to hit my word count.  NaNo is subduing me, so far.  Not sure I can catch up.  I will if I wake early tomorrow and Sunday.  And, tomorrow night I may be on my own for the first time since Ms. Austen was born.  Part of me already entertains getting a beer with an old friend, while this Mike, the one thumbing this entry, knows he’ll stay home.  Open wine, yes, but stay home and get within a thousand words of my project’s equator.  Starting to feel tired already and I blame myself, for not nurturing interest in my book, in my writing career, this blog, any of it.  Yes, I write, but I have to antagonize self, test myself and keep the writer on-edge.  If I ever start to feel comfortable, that’s when I should realize there’s a problem.  No…  Be uncomfortable, be anxious, be rushed and dressed and coaxed from the moment.  That’s what’ll keep you writing.  There were I don’t know how many times today at the desk I felt… nothing.  Unmotivated, bland, and one-shade. I can’t write from that.  That’s existence, not wild life.  So, on this hard floor, punishing my back and legs, I keep edge.  That valuable uneasiness.  Jackie tonight, telling me that I need to draw–  “I’m going to show you how to draw a sin, okay Dada?” He said, in bed, reading from that famous caterpillar stuffed animal with the brief text that flaps over, inside.  “You like the sun, Dada?” I told him I did and then he instituted his lesson, instructing me on how to draw a sun.  First with the circle, then the shooting-out rays (wavy lines), and a smiley face in the circle.  “You see, Dada?  You see that?  Yeah?” He said, insisting I look and survey each detail he was elucidating. Kno I should be checking in on political points, but I’m too tired.  What sitting at a goddamn desk all day will do to you, especially if you’re a writer.  My beer diminishes, as does my time for writing, time left in the day.  This day, flying by me even though I make it sound like it was a groggy slug.  So now what, now what with babies asleep–  No time to self, and the time I do have as a writing father is like that fish that bites your line and the speeds away to the bank where it can hide under hanging moss, or under some protruding roots.

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