Back from taking Emma, and relaxing with son. I need to relax today, collect soul and ready self for new work load and shape. Sitting on floor while Jackie plays and relaxes himself, not knowing what to write about this morning… then I think, obviously, of semester. The act of writing— not act, but habit, practice, faith in writing. Noting everything around you and that everything in a student’s day and scene is worthy of page. Needs page presence. When reading, I’ll offer to them, not each work and the singular song and significance of each word, sentence, paragraph. The standalone nature and identity of everything on page, in what you’re reading.
Don’t think I can write about wine, anymore. Not as I used to, or even principally. If I’m to write about wine I’ll do so about its industry, its flaws and lures, Hollywood nature, deceitful tactics and turns, and…. For another book.
Now that I’m back in the house, with Jack, I feel Self better collect. Now that I’m centered here in domicile, I can remove thoughts from anything that detracts from the writing. Relaxing, but working. More a unique form and framing of meditation, collection, Zen and Personhood amalgamated to one purpose and travel. I’m overthinking. Like I always do. Over overthinking, utterly over it. And I hate that saying, and when people say that, but that’s my immediate thought. Not even 09:00, and I’m measuring the day, the week, the rest of my working life. It’s all here. In home and in the classroom, working, writing. No moods or lowered state. Not this morning, or today, or again ever. To get to where one wants to be there must be a stubbornness about arrival, that it will happen regardless of momentums internal or ex’. I’m convinced so much is ready to materialize, take shape, eternally eventuate.