Nose airway obstructed, so I’m up. With not much to write other than I’m awake only wanting more sleep. Made self coffee, as why not. Day off today, but I’m sure much of it will be spent like this, sniffling and being sick. Why on my day off, I’m asking. No answer expected for or from the bottled ox. So I must note more, with everything on my head, dancing around these thoughts are like lightning storms touching down in bolts, to streets, wherever they please. Can’t remember the last time I had a cold…. this is a sign, signaling of something. What I don’t know trying to interpret but my thinking doesn’t seem to be its normal state, or functional pattern… in tasting room just over 12 hours ago, and I saw it… saw everything. Me away from there and not having to do anything but write. Finish books. Away from any anchor, or bag of bricks that slows me. In writing about health, being alive for my babies and family, mental heath is really what I’m addressing before establishing any new workout pattern or running goals. Up this early, spending my time in the quiet before Jack wakes, and he’s always the first up, is what’s needed. It’s more than healthy, it’s life, no matter how slow and pained I am with these sniffles. Nearly stopped writing and stared off with another collection of thoughts, but I halt myself, like dog owners pulling the chain attached to dog’s neck ordering it to stop. Composition, character, the utility and presence, identity in this act, writing. True, I’m writing on my phone, but I’m still writing.

Starting to feel a little better, but still sniffling, still with a small sinus head aching, but nothing that will stop me from doing just this. Writing. What keeps me alive, healthy, interconnected with the atmosphere and immediate elements of the room, the day. Getting frustrate typing on this phone with my thumbs… none of my studied writers wrote like this, obviously. Should be writing, solely ink… REALLY writing. So why aren’t I. Good question– actually a dumb one. Should already be doing that.

Can breath a little better now, looking ahead and over to a box of old writings, old journals… what’s in there I wonder. Writings from I was with old girlfriend, living in San Ramon, working at that racist insurance agent’s office… of when in grad school and I moved back to Sonoma County Boeing never to again leave…. I feel a sudden rush realizing how time has typed it’s way by me. Encouraged. Like this morning getting up with this cold and sinus-something I have a new day. A new notebook. What do I want to do with the rest of my life– and no exaggeration, not at all a hyperbole spree. I’m sitting on this couch downstairs seeing everything in front of me taunting me with interconnected lesson and rich elevation and healing quality, qualities.

Pen on paper, Plath waking up early to write two to three pieces, Kerouac on the ship writing while mates play cards, cook, or……. I’m a different writer this morning. What happened. This, more than healthy. This is more life. Life I needed, life where I’m finding more in my character. But, I’m typing on my phone. SO? Like I say to students. The important and crucial appellation of me and what I’m doing is in the act. Not being complacent or lazy, or taking this breath for granted, or the next one, the next one, next… The world outside waits for me and what I have to say, I wait for what I have to say, wondering how the story will be affected. How will it. I have to write and see, not just wait.

Hear daughter coughing upstairs, and this sitting, this peace will be broken soon. That’s fine, I say inwardly, knowing that’s what’s to happen. I can always write later.

Brought daughter to her mama…. back downstairs but hear little Kerouac moving and awake and soon he’ll be down here, drawing pictures as he now likes to do before anything else with his day. Time with my babies, contributing to more than just my overall health and sanity, sense of all around me, but of me and why I’m alive, why I’m here and what I’m to do here. Maybe this is just the way I should be writing now, on this devilish device and not with open journal… not with ink, but like this. Ontological intention of it all, diving into my story with more voice and voracity. One day, and I always think about this, my kids will read this, my books, and form opinions about their writing father. If I’m some college course, what would they write about me? About this entry?

Hear Jack talking to Emma in our room, on the bed, asking her questions…. “Where’s Dada?” He asks. “I’m right here, buddy.” I say from my writing cushion.