Stay Moving Stay Busy Stay STARVED

3/22/20, Sunday.


Kids up, and Emma and I back from getting Starbucks breakfast.  Store portion still closed.  Yesterday telling self that I need finish a book by the end of this.  And this may extend for a while I’m told, so if I don’t actually finish this new journal…  I’m failed as a writer.  Someone will say, Don’t be so hard on yourself!  Or, No you’re not, that’s not what that means.  Something like that.  But that’s what I’m putting on the line.

Kids on floor here in living room playing with that lite brite thing, both of them, each with their own.  Emma says, “I’m making a hot tub.”

WHAT?  I say.

Yeah, I’m making a hot tub, Dada!

I laugh a little as I didn’t even know Emma had any conception or awareness of hot tubs.  She shows me, and it looking nothing like a hot tub, I congratulate her on the illustration.

Sipping latte, clearing throat, Jackie mocking my hurumphing and acting crazy… wonder if this Day Whatever under this stay-the-fuck-in-your-house offer, or order, or suggestion.  Or option.

Jack tells me he’s bored, Emma says Sorry Jack, and I laugh again.  Maybe I’m losing it.  Reading a note one of the 1B students posted to the #professormikey blog, and I need to not only write more but differently, expect different results maybe but just to try different places and approaches to narration, capturing this pandemic panic and scene set.

Need to run today, and not in the Fountaingrove Hills again.  Only did five miles and felt failed after that outing.  Today, all flats.  All around here, and all result in 7 or 8 miles.  Have to, as now I’m getting bored, just like Jackie said he was a minute ago… use this to be a runner, a blogger with the monthly goal of $6000 a month, a number I calmly calculated walking back to the house yesterday on the walk/ride in Coffey Park with the wee beats, on Santiago to San Miguel.

Both beats on couch reading or looking at pictures in Emma’s posture and reading whatever she thinks she sees.  Jack then says, and I’m not sure why, “Art is Art.” I ask him to explain, and he couldn’t.  He just let it fly from his chords.  The covid thing reminds me of art in all scenes and from things you would think you should write about, or write at all, something you’d think wouldn’t be read.  Everything is Art, and Art is ART.

9am and the latte nearly dead.  That’s it for caffeine.  Trying to not have so much be  apart of my composition myriad or practiced anatomy.  Kids already getting restless and the day barely taxied to runway.  I’m with them, the beats, these little humans and they have and find fun and uniqueness, ART, in everything.