Too cranky and lazy

to open the laptop, so I’m typing on my phone. Thumbing. This isn’t fucking writing. I don’t even know if it’s thumbing. No TV. Tuesday through Thursday, the trench as I call it this semester, I’m not a fan of human voices. Don’t even think my own. Or anyone I admire… what if I had the power to make talking around me not possible Tuesday through Thursday. Or, I just couldn’t hear them. Or, I vanish to some Stranger Things dimension but without those ugly fucking monsters. And sun, there has to be sun. And a lake, a writer’s cabin by the shore, it’s always a warm agreeable spring, and wine. Like this SB I’m sipping on the floor, legs out and crossed. No voices. Not even my own. I can’t talk. Just write. I’m selfish I know, but it’s because I’m a writer, and a teacher. “Teacher”. I think I teach. Too moody and sluggish, heavy and not-poised to think further of it. Yes, I would have so much of this Aperture Sauvignon Blanc that I would speak its language and only hear her. What is she telling me to do now, right now, with tonight, this floor… Nothing. Enjoy your lazy, laugh from your mood, and don’t mind other voices or anything. You’re allowed time to YOU.

Couldn’t go back to sleep 

so I decided to rise only to have Jack meet me downstairs.  Working event later at winery and not sure when I’ll have time to write.  Not going to worry about it.  I can write what I do now.  Should be focused on time with babies anyway, as I’ll be home late-late this evening.  Glad I’m up now, but hate writing on phone.  Why don’t I have laptop out?  Too clunky and conspicuous.  Just notes for now.  Want to be more like son in how he completes stand-alone art projects, wakes early, and gets right to whatever he was working on last or beginning new projects.  He has the wee hour ethic and habit and persistence of a winemaker.  

And, will I get in a vineyard walk today at any point?  Stressing about way too much.  Why.  Enjoy your morning with little Kerouac and Ms. Austen, whenever she wakes.

Put ice cubes in coffee in tumbler I left in fridge over night.  In mood to have it extra cold.  Jackie watches a different cartoon with little puppies that talk and band together— think they have super powers, or some level of otherworldly power.  On missions of sorts.

“Dada,” Jack says, “do you have a butt promise?”

I laugh and say, “What?  A butt promise?”

“Yeah, a butt promise, I have a butt promise and I throw my butt in the garbage.” He starts on his second waffle and stops the butt promise sagacity.  Watches the gang of endlessly smiling mini dogs run around and accomplish things.

Couldn’t go back to sleep 

so I decided to rise only to have Jack meet me downstairs.  Working event later at winery and not sure when I’ll have time to write.  Not going to worry about it.  I can write what I do now.  Should be focused on time with babies anyway, as I’ll be home late-late this evening.  Glad I’m up now, but hate writing on phone.  Why don’t I have laptop out?  Too clunky and conspicuous.  Just notes for now.  Want to be more like son in how he completes stand-alone art projects, wakes early, and gets right to whatever he was working on last or beginning new projects.  He has the wee hour ethic and habit and persistence of a winemaker.  

And, will I get in a vineyard walk today at any point?  Stressing about way too much.  Why.  Enjoy your morning with little Kerouac and Ms. Austen, whenever she wakes.

Put ice cubes in coffee in tumbler I left in fridge over night.  In mood to have it extra cold.  Jackie watches a different cartoon with little puppies that talk and band together— think they have super powers, or some level of otherworldly power.  On missions of sorts.

“Dada,” Jack says, “do you have a butt promise?”

I laugh and say, “What?  A butt promise?”

“Yeah, a butt promise, I have a butt promise and I throw my butt in the garbage.” He starts on his second waffle and stops the butt promise sagacity.  Watches the gang of endlessly smiling mini dogs run around and accomplish things.