What to do with the day.

What do you want to do with your day.

What if I can only do so much.

There’s no such thing. No such reality. And no, this isn’t about to be a derivative of ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’. It’s a matter of changing everything in your story. And, in one day.

I need to get to a word count, and I know I’ve told students in the past that quantitative thinking is of a toxic call, but sometimes you need a number marker, especially if you’re a writer.

The day, needs to be used as its own material, and this continues wholly prominent with being a writing father, with two kids who are masters at introducing variables into a writer’s day. I’ve been writing quite a bit of late about health, and being healthy, living healthy and just being alive and with habits that inflict little to no harm on the character, the circuitry and and workings of your vessel.

Thought about going back to sleep but then said to self, “Don’t you even think about going back to sleep, got it?” Guess it worked as I’m here writing this entry on phone in dark on couch while both kids are upstairs dreaming about something and I dream about travel, what travels would do for and to my character, to my story. I can do whatever I want with today. Get further away from work regularity and predictable shifts and scripts, and other demonizing facets of a day to day which so many would argue are mature and professional but I would say are anything but healthy.

Hear a crow outside, calling at another crow then I hear smaller birds sing back and forth to one another. Outside, that blue shade that indicates the day’s about to take off. I hop onboard like one of those passengers that did everything late, from waking up to getting out the door, to starting the car to hitting every red light. But I made the flight. Today. This day. I shift narrative. I accelerate the body of this book, be a writing father but more a considerer of what’s happening right in front of me. That, if you want to be more healthy, is truly living in your scene, your present.

Eyes itch. Think allergies. I know I should take Claritin or something but I’m not leaving this couch. I’m more than in my moment. This is the only time I have for an extended session like this. And yes, much of that reality propels from being this, a father. Day 7, 7th full day, of being 39… and I’m of the careless mind. Just writing. Not looking for synonyms or any word of the day to have the prose appear more intellect-knitted, obscure and philosophical. Candor. Efficiency. Now. The Now, me… like I said to myself in the vineyard that one day, “Where I am, what I’m doing.”

I can see my first travel, right now. I can see the people that want to hear me say the ideas that I put to page, see me say the words, all of them. I can see the hotel room, the people in the lobby both when I check in, come back from my talk, at the bar to get a sparkling water and cranberry (taking healthy break from wine for a bit, again, or trying), the check-out. Ride back to the airport and back home to be with family before another trip. Starting today, starting with today, a morning I was woke by a dry mouth and going to the fridge to get water– pour into son’s Spider-Man mug that I bought him at that candy/toy store in Windsor next to KIN one of those nights I got takeout there– sat back in couch with coffee I last night brewed into mug, and on couch. Much healthier that just scrolling through some social feed or watching TV, which I could never do with these kids as even a slight sound like outside birds could cut and compromise this peace and sitting.

What to do with the day– write. Read. Study. I’m not teaching over Summer so I shove self into the student stride. Revisiting The Alchemist, first. Then, see where that takes me. I need to be more mentally alive today than I ever have been. More than just being healthy, but being ME– you, being yourself, doing what you want and following inner orders and not some societal expectation of whatever or whomever.

05:47… and I can’t get enough time from this morning. I can’t have enough of this dark room and the blue sneaking through the shades, a small bird timidly speaking on the staircase’s other side, outside. I’m here, on couch, writing, or thumbing, my thoughts and Now, my reality, my day. This day is MINE. And today ignited new light, new sight, reason and rationale. This could be seen as another promissory jot, but I won’t let it be that. Not even partially, microscopically. No. Not today. Not with what I want today to do. Write everything, everyone, what they’re doing. That’s the story. The lesson. Every breath being a stand-alone knowledge park.

More imagining my travels… writing early like this but in some distant city like Helsinki, or Dublin, Venice or New York. Anything can happen, and everything I want to happen WILL happen. And it’s more than a matter of just happening, it’s you studying you as you shepherd your self there. Having those inward conversations and writing them down, putting them to page and into the world, composing their own world from which others can learn and grown, cultivate a more enriching existence, more happiness. Health.

The crow, again. He wants the world to know he’s awake, and he does with songs, little riffs that he then shares with other crows that just arrived in the neighborhood. I keep writing… studying. Not fighting anything around me but using and working with its momentum.