6.3 miles later, 720+ calories, after lecturing two sections of English where we

touched on everything from interpretation to writing practice, to certain scholastic habits, to happiness…. I’m on the couch, interacting with the little bit of Cabernet from last night, thinking about this semester and what it could— no, WILL— do for the writer.  I need to do more with my hand-written efforts, journaling like I’m Benjamin Franklin or Poe, Frederick Douglass… now it’s quiet downstairs.  Wife just went up for bed, both babies long ago into their respective sleeps, and my inward jot gain velocity.  Sip the Cabernet…. it says something different than it did last night, and I’m not surprised, to be honest.  Wine is always teaching me something new about perception, about word and my inner monologues and instruction.

At winery tomorrow morning, and pouring later in afternoon/early evening.  The Roth wines bring me back to basic wine tasting principles, like tonight’s run on the treadmill, in a hot and overpacked gym, where I just focused on form and didn’t so much try to hit 7 miles or any kind of speedwork that was too arduous.  I logged 6.3, and the writer’s happy.

I take a second, just to take a second.  I rarely get a second like this, locking my hands atop my short haired cranial, and look left at all the kids’ stuff on kitchen island counter.  Reminded— I’m a dad… Daddy, Emma always calling me now and laughing at my clowning clownish grimaces.  I laugh back and get in trouble with wife when it’s bedtime like tonight and I walk away laughing to myself and understanding I’ve never felt any elevation of elation like this.  And I have this— the writing father’s moments, here on couch, collection, introspection… tacent tells of my story, here on couch and thinking about day now and tomorrow— rest of Cab… sipped, and now meditate, think, tomorrow …

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