Went upstairs to help a bit with Emma and Jack, “Papa we’re good if you wanna go get more sleep.” Alice said. “Sure, thanks.” I answered. I thought walking down the stairs what the fuck that would do for me, getting more sleep. Nothing. It’s Tuesday, one of the more stressful days of the week as the timetable has to be very much adhered to with the weekly cleaning crew which we can barely afford coming by, me having to drive all the way up Dry Creek to Dutcher from Bennett Valley where Jack’s school is. Now, on the couch in that conservatively dispersed bluish morning radiance. Sitting crosslegged on the couch which I never do— Newness, right? What I need. And usually, I would have gone back to sleep. But this morning the dire diarist voice about me prohibited such laydown, surrender. Hear some bird, distant, calling for something. The echoes of bird shouts seem clearer and more distinct, sharper or more metallic for some reason, I don’t know. Balance this morning, between all my lives; roles, characters, voices and sights— the parenting parcel not tiring me, chipping away at my compositional composure as it has been the past few days. Writerfathers need be relentless with their types – Writerfathers must NEVER let themselves tire, never let the self exhaust the Self or talk it into defeat – the writerfather need harness Self to a new focus, and assure that renewed Personhood that his goals will be touched and attained; sipped and upon reflected.
Just remembered I have some notes in the Passat which is being worked on at a shop up the Road from Jackie’s school— shit. More added to the already compacted and impacted timetable, timeline, timehole. So what now, what does the writerfather implement and employ for resolution? Not sure. I’ll think of something as I’m going, as the Story carries me with it and hopefully it’s kind and not aiming its goddamn cosmic cannon at me as it has been these past few days, or that other week (can’t remember precise dates as it was so taxing, getting lost in days like yesterday and one before). Not at all being a protester with such notes, but disclosing Truth and what I see, did feel, and it can only be true, TRUTH, the story was testing me, making sure that I can do it— by ‘it’, the thousand words a day, the writing life, the traveling ahead of me. Writerfathers would love to write 3000 words a day but for most of us that’s not logical, nor practical, just not doable. A thousand words a day is humble, yet worth an applaud. And I quietly clap in my head for my new Self this morning, flying straight to the keys and letting this Self have a moment.. thinking about yesterday’s sessions, the 1A especially how I’m always tired at that time and need coffee but yesterday composing, ready for discussion on Composition and writing, our lives on the page— teaching. Took notes on the back side of the last page in my Comp Book, “What I Want” I wrote at top, underlined… Of course, writing everywhere in the brainstorming, then teaching.. wine was only a secondary push, more or less a hobby I guess you’d say. So, I thought more.. do I see myself lecturing or pouring, wiping down a counter and drying glasses? Have to think more… of course, if it’s my winery, then I’m fine with all those things— and even if it’s someone else’s like Debra’s or Glenn’s, but… but….. I have to think, storm more in my meditative arena. Can’t answer too quick. But wine is there, working FOR and under the writing. The ’12 I finished last night from Pride didn’t have the fire I tasted the night prior, coming home from Mom and Dad’s. Was like the wine was furious with me, not talking to me as I left it half-used that night. Why did I do that? ‘Cause I had to be up yesterday at 5:45 at the latest. I had to be “responsible”. You know, mature or whatever. The ’12 didn’t care. It was done talking to me. I messed up.
7:01AM— my eyes on the time to avoid stress mirroring the last few days. After this session, or crosslegged sitting I’ll brush teeth, maybe even get dressed, find what I can to wear as I haven’t been to the BV dry cleaners in weeks. Now what the wife of this writingfather does is fold the pants just as they come from the dryer, bless her. And it works. Yes another expense I can remove and not have to dread. Do I have money for coffee this morning, or am I using the CC for that?— Just thoughts to myself, writing and budgeting and trying to plan.. bring everything to winery, work on your break, fuck eating, why eat, no writing gets done that way— “You can work and eat at the same time, right?” – NO. Just work, grade papers so tomorrow morning when you get to campus you can write from about 6:30 to 7. Then write more from about 9 to 11. Think I have a “plan” or some paginated measure for the next 24 or so hours. But what does the writing do when or and after it’s posted? Just sit there on the blog and maybe get a handful of likes? That’s bullshit! I need to market each session autonomously, and angrily.
No noise coming from upstairs. My estimate, Alice fell back asleep as did Em’ after her little meal, and little Kerouac enjoys his cartoons. Peace, for now, but peace for writingfathers or any parents anywhere is volatile at best. So I type toward a thousand, hold my breath, daydream and envision coffee in front of me with the spirit rising from the black puddle— love. More me after I have that, the smoldering sensory envelopment— like Plath with her affirmation of ‘I am’, and Tolstoy telling me if I want to be happy then ‘be’. I will be today. And all calendar corners succeeding.
I’m whole and somehow holy after a thousand.
