“Dude, it’s the 29th. Are you kidding me right now?

I say to Jack over there on the couch watching some Saturday cartoons.  No response.

Planning for day.  Budget then some writing, lots of writing throughout the day actually….  Complexities in this room.  The kids and their voices, requests, capture by this cartoon.

They both request breakfast sandwiches.  First one in.  90 seconds of words and me and the day before it happens.  Book nearly done, I think.  Striating with parts of the new journal then this doc, minced up and sauteed, then tossed away back to original doc.  Talking writing with Mom and Dad last night… the accentuation of short stories.

We’ve had that conversation and somewhat of an advisory interaction before but never with this direction and repose.  Citing the kids again, and how they are full of short stories, sketches and notes and vignettes.  Teaching me how to write again, they both were.  Sounds like exaggeration but not, not at all.

Coffee and counter, this laptop…. What cartoon are they watching?  Sonic, the Hedgehog, reminding me of when I was much younger playing that game at a friend’s house.

First sandwich done, need paper towels go out to garage for another roll…. Should I have picked some up at the store on the way home from Rents’ when I got self a Pinot, gum for Melissa and… what else?

Jack up first with sandwiches.  I tell him to say the magic phrase of “Si vous plais, papa…” He does, I laugh.  Go to freezer for Emma’s sandwich and I only see one.  “Man, you guys have murdered these sandwiches.”

“We’ve only had two before this Dada so ZIP IT.” Jack says.  I laugh.  Emma requesting another order of orange juice.  I laugh.

Emma with her breakfast, eating it slow, Jackie requesting more orange juice now and I tell him to give me five minutes, that he’ll survive.  “I don’t think I will, Dada….” I don’t resound and back into typing.  They amuse me even when they’re doing nothing denotatively of amusement or engagement.  Last night Jackie coming downstairs, sneaking out of bed, asking if he can hang out with me.  I tell him sure and ask if he wants to watch a movie, or cartoon.  He says yes and I can’t remember what he chose but I looked at the time.  9:32pm.  Both of us unconcerned with the time, time principally.  I should have I guess sent him back up or walked him to bed but then thought of something Dad told me about being a parent, interactions with your kids… “You will never get this moment again.  Ever.”

9:05am.  Need to get back into my French studies….  More poetry as well.  

Telling the Now to top

halt, wait for me, another character 

In a room of definition and not

stop, floor speaking in a different

Form, meant for hours walking steep

Une trêve avec moi-même.  A truce with myself.  On a number of levels.  Write everything, especially the seemingly excess in commonplace qualities, or normal, devoid of dimension and and appeal.

Jack wrapping himself in a blanket he calls the ‘daddy blanket’.  “Emma how’s your sandwich?” She responds with a muffled “good”, taking a bite of her morning main course.

Me at the counter…. Looking at the brush, Emma’s Frozen one, to the left, less than four inches from my knuckles.  My “little baby angel” as I call her, done now with breakfast and stretching on the floor.  In such a way she’s see the screen upside-down.  Is that—

Computer stalled.  Had to restart.  Didn’t save the other poem I typed but I had the sense to fight this laptop with a journal, the 1948, wrote it there.

9:30am.  I tell the kids to turn off the TV in 5 minutes.  “Did Mommy telly you that?”

“Yes Jack she did.” I say.

“Show me.” He says.

“I don’t have to prove anything to you.” I react.

“Promise then that she said that.”

I nearly say in promise but stall and stutter a bit, and just tell him that the TV is off in 5, now four, now 3…

Need to clean this laptop, the desktop especially.  Didn’t run this morning of course.  Realizing this bends my speed and pace on this page.

Kids want more breakfast.  How are they still hungry? What kind of beings are they?  Monstres…. If that’s true, I ought appease before I’m devoured entirely, and no writing’s done.