Mike knows that today is to be brilliant, revealing and a much of late demanded redirection of things. Not sure how precisely, but he knows.
At his desk, the small irritating off-triangle table that fits too perfectly in the corner. Like it was punishing humor, or complimenting his ability o write and now come up with something, some new pages that would bring him something otherworldly.
He loves waking early like this, seeing the day before most do, and getting to his pages. Everything was different. Birds and light through blinds. It was all different. He noticed this before, a flurry and vast continent of continents of times, but this morning is a noticeable contrast.
Week coming up, he needs sales. Something. His last check, the largest commission injection yet. Of course he wants to keep it going, but how during this goddamn pandemic. Maybe just ignore it, or deny it, he thinks. Something… just do something. Like a jazz musician in a jam session. Don’t think, just play…. Like Mike’s kids and how they just concoct some scene, immerse in it, and start playing characters.
41, his age, he keeps repeating it to himself then ordering a stop. Why are you thinking about that, about anything…. JUST FUCKING WRITE!
His attitude and mood back to where it was when he woke, after driving up the street to the closest coffee cove and getting his 4-shot latte. He needs those 4 shots, this morning. The week starts now, he says to himself. The book starts now….. The writings from his work laptop all removed and on that one memory stick…. The new journal as he called it, and kept the title till he decided it was done, over 100,000 words later.
Hears one of the kids upstairs, more than likely awake. Won’t stop typing. To the finish line, he says to himself. Use the morning and that light, the birds, even this stupid fucking table on which he writes and the hilarity of him cursing it yet still writing there. He smiles writing this realization…. The comedy of comedic supernova in repeating the same action while cursing such. Not self-depreciation or anger, or depression anxiety angst, none of that… just a understanding. A poignant for of self-education and by extension elevation.
Classes in the Fall, all online. He decides on narrative, but won’t use the word. What then. Voice? Poetry or poetics? What then…. Poetry, poetics, music, notes from the old journal, the ‘1948’ as he called it from the little stamped 1948 on the inside cover. Gift from his father just this past Father’s Day. One’s voice… morning voice versus later in day words and observations… how what happens earlier and what people say around and to you influence your character and its voice in late afternoon and evening.
Just notes, but notes that have him thinking. About everything in his story. Impact of the meta and its meteoric signature in his steps.
His role and voice as an Account Executive, for the internet company, his days in the wine world, then as an Adjunct English Instructor or Professor or teacher, whatever they were calling him these days.
Deracinating passed days from memory and applying them in the present. Learning from certain interactions, with his father, friends in college, even those people he’d rather not think about. Everything illuminating gems and lessons, something it fuse into the talks in the Fall, the classroom virtual.
He’ll use Zoom, he guesses. Or not. Doesn’t have to figure that out, not now anyway.
Birds and more of them, and louder, as if trying to startle everyone on the street and nudge them musically from sleep. Mike writes onward, just playing with his thoughts same as Coltrane with his notes, the scales and different odd and seemingly off-notes that don’t sound like notes at all. He writes about Sonoma State, then graduate school, then working at the insurance office for that racist old white guy who peculiarly taught much about business, that anything’s attainable (that is, how Mike saw it… if this crazy jerk bigot could have his own business then anyone can…).
Writing on the table, how it is urging and helping him to get further from it. Write everywhere, don’t have an office. Don’t be pinned and imprisoned by anything.
Mike empties his wallet, rips up all the receipts, puts the cash in his backpack and stacks his ID atop his debit and medical card. To travel light. No needed weight.
He stops for a second and wonders where the kids are. Didn’t he hear one of them moving around, or waking just a second ago? Thought he did. Guess they’re still sleeping. They did go to bed late. Thinks it might be the latest they’ve ever gone to bed, now that he wonders closer, with more exam.
The morning continues to empower him, and he doesn’t know quite why. He runs with it. It, the morning, runs with him, alongside him and his lessons from the light and birds.
One of the kids, his son, clumsily trots down the stairs, then into the living room for some cartoon, or some kids show. Tempted to go to the room and be with him, Mike stays. Gets back into his French study. Word for day, his choosing – portefeuille. Meaning, wallet. Mike has always wanted to learn French, mainly since his interest for Kerouac intensified years ago…. His attention starts to self-mince. Doing a little for the Karl letter, then to his own pages, for him, for the morning, for the sun gently floating into the room through micro-exposures in the blinds.
The desk and its ally chair become Mike’s ally, no longer some suppressor or cager. Focus, more or less. An intention, thesis, purpose, story, VOICE. Mike feels part of the corner, not IN the corner.
Both kids awake and watching some loud cartoon, no distraction. He’s put, ready, as if for a fight or combat. Needs music, some beat, but can’t have it now. On the ride to Sonoma in a little over an hour to see Chris the owner of the Caddis Room.