Another reminder today I need my own office,

something area entirely my own.  No kids or anyone permitted on floor… Emma misplacing my headphones, the ones I just bought.  They have to be around here somewhere.  Frustrating, and I know I’m not the only parent that’s had this happen to them.  Tomorrow and this week, this month, will be the singular force and propulsion that gets me to my office.  And, I’m working from the Sonic office at some point this week.

My frustration right now, typing while watching Henry to my right…. stinging.  I think he can sense it so I talk myself out of it.  Move some money to the projects…. I’ll have the office soon.  I’m certain of it.

If there’s ever been a motivator to work later at night and not be tempted to stupid fucking Netflix shows….  I may be exaggerating, I know.  But I’m capturing the feeling where it breathes and breeds.  Spent too much on lunch today, so I penalize myself by thinning my week’s allowance so thin that I can only get gas, and maybe a coffee – I mean latte – one or two days.

I take Henry out of his bed and sit him next to me, and slightly upright.  He makes sounds like he’s imminently interested in what I’m doing, just typing on this laptop.  At least he can’t steal shit from my office.  Stop there, it’s NOT an office.  It’s not even a corner.  It’s a goddamn end-table in an entry room.  My office will be at least a couple hundred square-feet.  Just my room.  Journals in a box, doing touch-and-go’s on them through out the day, logging everything that happens… from ideas for a website or project, to notes on someone I just spoke to.

Feeling a little more eased, but still no headphones.  Opening a bottle of Cabernet, the last bottle from the six-pack I bought at Bottle Barn the other day.  It’s from Napa, never heard of the label….  I’m creating tonight.  Bringing every idea to life.  Will keep a tally.  I know these are the promissory notes I say I’ll stop scribbling and typing.  I look over at Henry, and only intrigue at everything around him.  With one of his legs he stretches and pushes against my right arm, just below the elbow.

Will I miss the kids when in the office?  Honestly, no.  I won’t let myself.  Which will be difficult, especially this little beat to my right, kicking and making his little sounds, then those little grins, the waving and shaking, jabbing of his little arms.  Henry Lucas…. A pretty interesting wee animal I have to say..

MY office, in the Bottledaux suit, lab, creative cove, see tables.  Chairs, mats on which you can sit or those beanbag chairs, or the thinking pods Sonic has…. Where writers can be with page and not be distracted.  Music… tons of it, always.  Maybe this disappearance of the headphones is meant to be in the story, for my story.  To teach me what, to calm?  Maybe.  But I think more than anything remind me that I need to be more disciplined.  That I need to produce more, market more Mike Madigan as I’ve written I don’t know how many times in the 1948 journal.

Life, shorter than short.  Heard a family member has cancer… fuck.  Move quicker, stop thinking, stop relying, stop fucking fucking around and sell EVERYTHING.  Stop being influenced by some people and their negative blades and words, their attitudes.  Remember, composition and detachment.

Henry looking up, and I think obvious symbol, right?  Stop looking around you and look beyond the immediate room.  Take yourself away from the constriction, whatever it is.  Even if these phones never again appear, the instruction echoes.  Lights alive in sentences. Henry makes a noise as if to confirm what I now understand.  Henry looks again up, then looks at me.  Kicks legs, then just continues looking at the light.  Kids come in and are instructed to find phones.  We’ll see what happens.  Maybe I don’t need anything to happen.