Morning This

– No charge to phone, nor to Garmin, so no gym.  Which is a quick kick to the writer’s mood, yay-saying and nay.  On the floor with coffee I made last night at right and already thoughts of what I want from a day assured to be busy.  Which is good.  No, more than good.  Stupendous, magnificent… grandiloquent.  Work IS the positive.  But then what?  What happens when work’s through?  Keep working.  Find another project.  Just keep working, I tell self here on this hard wood floor and already feeling my veins throb from the coffee.  Should save this full tumbler and make a new cup, have hot now and save cold for later.  Now I really sound like an addict.  And I feel strange writing.  Why.  ‘Cause I know I should be running?  Well, yes, partially.  But I don’t know why.  No babies in house to interrupt the session, and not sure I’m happy with their absence, as I’m absent-minded this morning anyway so I keep interrupting myself, getting distracted.

The house is so quiet that I feel like I’m in another.  My brain is ragtag, and my heart is carceral.  Now what, I think.  Just keep moving.  Put anything on page.  Imagine you’re a winemaker on crush pad at 4, watching fruit come in.  Wish I would have woken at 4, but I went to bed far too late, like a fool, a writer still wishing he showed the discipline he reads about in his literary heroes.  One day.  And the ‘one day’ has to be soon.  The days add up.  Who knows what number I’m on now.  Sure I could figure it out, but I hate math.  Well, to a point I hate it.  Who has time to overthink this much?  Wine… going to keep my distance from it for a while to write more judiciously and finely about the vineyards I worship, and the juice about which I’m more confused than amused.  I’ll keep working…. No distractions.