Want to be in bed by 22:00. Breathing easy downstairs while wife and little babies upstairs rest. Long and significant day for the writer tomorrow, closing the semester and back at new winery assignment. Time continues to assault the writer, but I need stay sharp, healthy, lively and awake. Much why I’m going to bed so early. Getting my haircut the other day, or yesterday actually, and the gal telling me she doesn’t have a life, that she does everything for her kids. Granted, she has three, but still I felt so bad for her. I very much have a life.. a creative life, a teaching life, a LITERARY life. For my babies– OUR babies. If I don’t follow my strengths and elevated interests, my babies are jeopardized. Getting too heavy for this late hour, sipping Pinot and hoping somehow I wake early. 21:40, no sipping after 22:00. Hear neighbor’s chimes outside. Is it windy? Huh.. term ending tomorrow. Still have to order books for Summer. I force myself to slow, put chin in curled fingers of hand left. Exhale. The moment tells me what to do. You should let it do so, too. Hard typing on this goddamn phone. So why am I doing it? Don’t know. Can you imagine Hem typing on a cell at La Coupole? Disgusted with myself for even using this devilish THING. Sure my kids are reading this in the future and are ashamed of Dada… sip then off. Take my deep sip but the Pinot discloses new dimension that tells me about poetry, about what impact a page can have. Inwardly apoplectic, but have decision why. Need again breath… paix, paix. Just reassure self, all the writer can do at this hour.. 8 minutes left, and I feel fearful. Wife might arrow– “Why were you up so late?” Valid inquiry. What was I writing? Where did the pages go? Is the book finished?
Go. To. Bed.
Earlier next time.