Up earlier than usual on a Saturday. Jack telling me about the business he plans on doing later with a friend of his… his stories are intricate, detail-doused and character-driven. Telling me about purchases that he and his friends made yesterday at a gift shop during his field trip.
Not pressuring self to do anything today. In fact there’s a good chance I may be more or less lazy with the exception of the workout I have planned, here in the condo. No gym. Not in the mood to be around humans…. In fact, I may cancel Anytime, save some money and put that into business.
Caramel coffee after the espresso. Need it. Tired and the effects and sluggish to attach.
Little Emma still asleep, even with the washing machine going, Henry’s school blanket rotating loudly with other towels or socks or whatever. Sounds like a coin’s in there, maybe a quarter.
Keeping my forecast singular for the day. If I don’t get to one store or another, then I don’t. Why can’t I let myself have a relaxing or even straight up fucking lazy day?
Kerri, anything but lazy. Up this morning at who knows what hour to make her boards. Her only focus, ART.
Listening to Sedaris yesterday in car driving to get Henry. Had to turn off after situating him in his seat of course because of language, but something Sedaris said about his writing and what others said about it pulled me one way. Simple, One ROAD, just ME…. Stop fucking overthinking! In fact, you don’t have to think at all.
The scene is doing all the thinking and subject provision for you. Coffee, kids, cartoons, pjs, slow pace…. Emma’s birthday party later which I guess I’m not attending but I’ll leave that salvo for OFFBLOG. Which no one can stop me from pummeling into the page with howitzer downpour.
Maybe I’m not tired anymore and the coffee caramel spell is working. Check on Emmie and the laundry, one sec…. 32 minutes left, Emma still not with the world. In her sweet little Kitty Catt dreams. Wanted to give her a forehead kiss but didn’t have the heart to meet the possibility of waking her, disturbing her rest. It’s her birthday weekend, she’s the ruler, my Queen. “Leave her be.”
Me, a Dad. 44 next year. Oh my fuck, don’t. Don’t address age one more time. It’s like word count, maybe not quite as bad. Close, very close. Now the clock reminds me it’s there, 7:48. Just let Emma sleep. No rush. If she doesn’t take a bath before her mom picks her up, then that’s the story. No forcing ANYTHING.
What I’m trying to do with myself, be productive on my only true day off, get as much done as possible. Fucking, WHY? It’s your day. It’s cliche to say give yourself grace, but that’s my practice in this minute and into the following hours, tonight. Slowing, collecting, LIVING. Easy.