Jack and Emma having breakfast and watching some kid show. Acting a bit crazy, Jack for the most part, Emma following his movements and voices, mimicking. I open one of the nitro coffees, knowing I’ll need it. One sip, already felt.
Have this obsessive idea of pulling an all-nighter, like a student but as a writer. Write until I see the light change, shift into that early morning cast, earlier than daybreak but such that you know it’s coming.
Jack and Emma pretend that they’re conspiring to buy new houses, multiple homes as Emma says. My houses, the ones I see myself buying, the feeling I experience when I see a home that has noticeable architectural style and signature. This house is too small, I remember saying to myself when I heard the other day about neighbors a few houses down moving stating the size is inadequate for their growing kids. I’m running out of time, I wrote. Jack nearly 9, Emma 5 in a couple months.
Think bigger, bigger than a wine blog-shop. Then what….. Just keep writing I tell myself, even as the craziness of Jack escalates. “That’s me! That’s me, Dada!” He says, referring to something on the screen but I turn to see and don’t but pretend I get the correlation.
Wine last night, Red Blend from Dutcher Crossing, doing nothing. Convincing me of nothing, showing no new voices or characters, treks or Roads in ways of Rhône blends or red wine, blends or singular varietal. Let me be clear, I’m not making the slightest defaming remark about the wine or Dutcher. This is me, possibly outgrowing wine as an address or topic. I don’t know yet. Or maybe it could be part of the bigger effort, a parcel in the grand consideration of more vast writing, more weight-places paragraphs.
This sitting at the kitchen island counter, kids in room enjoying their Saturday, a much-needed and beneficial emollient. Rubbing eyes thinking about next week, my last before going back to AE duty. I’m thinking about too much this morning, too. Much on mind and …. Think I heard Henry. I’ll go check.
Jack settling on couch, more quiet now but still in a comical spill. He watches the show and I can tell he’s analyzing, not just watching. Understanding characters and their intentions, what they want and anticipating what the’ll next do. He’s reading, not watching. Iw watch him, his ways… little Kerouac still to me, my little poet, writer, artist, master builder as he says and self-knights with his Lego sets.
Shedding operose writing ways and just putting everything to page. The coffee, this mess on the counter around me, not here after the cleaning crew left but only hours reappearing. Everything here around me is a book, series of books. Your kids, the house you want to exchange for one more sizable but keep as a rental or investment property, the candles (speaking of, going to light one… good for sittings and pages, written mood), these chairs, little Emma over there next to her brother not as deconstructive as him of course because of her age but still present and never breaking from his side.
Musings of higher altitude. More architecture, more edges and shapes, rooms, color assembly and thoughtful placement. The writing is a structure, with structure, measurement, fanatical yet whim-tinged engineering.