Old olive oil and telephone chords.
Thrift store wooden salad tongs from the early 80’s.
tonight, poems and prose to be read. Jack and I now watch some carton before bed. Only now do I get a chance for prose. Yesterday running the half, going to winery to work event that was even more physically taxing than the race, then home. Now sitting. And no session today till now. Today, whole, with family. Which we needed, which little Keroauc most specifically requested. So I posted the class. Now, everything I write will be sold– blog writing like this is what is temporarily rendered “disposable story”. I may sell it later, but immediately this and other leaps like are merely entries, diarism from the penning cavalier… My attitude becomes freer and more separatist wing flap than anything before, sipping my Claret and thinking about the day with family, how amazing it felt not to have to be a fucking adjunct tonight– not having to be somewhere cuz they said ninjas to– and then they’ll say, “You agreed to the assignment.” Yes, I agreed, not wanted. Were there so many other elections to caress? And like you plate so many more pedagogical aperitifs for the writer. Don’t care what they think anyway so it’s not worth writing. You’ll say I’m being negative but no this fearless curvature quips the yay-sayer’s beckon.
9:27M– both babies asleep, I think. Emma no longer in her bassinet and Jackie cuddling with Ms. Alice, temperament settled for evening, and how much a rich stretch it is to finally write. Wanted to go for a covert run today, at some point, but did little exercises in pool, and will do push-ups throughout night. Vacation on the mind but writing about it the whole time, what writing fathers think about, or me anyway, while babies sleep.– Wife just texted me from Upstairs, “Sure is quiet…” We’re both afraid to go in and check on Ms. Austen, afraid we’ll wake the gorgeous little Victorian from her rest and have to do it ALL over again. Hear movement upstairs, think Alice leaving Jack’s quarters. And then what… She comes downstairs. But to tell me that Jack wants me for a minute to talk before bed, and I think “OH here we go.” I know just how this goes, I go up and we talk then get a little silly, telling jokes and throwing stuffed animals at each other, then Alice comes up to tell us ‘stop it!’, or ‘BEHAVE’, something like that. So I go up and talk to him, Alice comes in to supervise and calm him down in prep for sleep, I go in and check on little Ms. Austen two or three times to makes sure all’s well in her little pack-and-play thing, whatever it’s called. And the night is off, at my desk with a nightcap, glass of the ’13 Taylor I took home last night. Have runner’s guilt, isn’t that funny? I ran 13.1 miles yesterday and I feel like a pig gelatinous right now for not running. Pushups, only solvent.
But holding off a bit, as I’ve been noosed by other pulls from the day, one a picture Alice took of little Kerouac and I walking but Spring Lake, just gone in our moment, not saying a word, looking at the water and the weeds around us, thinking and looking for the next scene ingredient to address in some conversation, some wholeness about our characters— My little Artist is much more sagacious than anything I was, am, or ever will be. Not sure if that’s pathetic that my son’s more adept at so much more than his English Professor and Writer fahter but I’m sharing what I observe, and what I observe I’m not qualified to comment on. He’s a stratosphere, and ionosphere, a mesosphere of manuscript potential, as is his little Victorian sister. Getting distracted by my ideas which happens when you sip any kind of wine in concert with exhaustion, be it half-marathon-caused or not. And now, wine gone. Last sip. I’m learning that the academic institutional clasps that everyone so much wants to be a part of simply abhor me. That’s why I have no takes doubled from calling in tonight. Calling in, and what are they going to do? The ‘They’? I can teach, I will teach, I don’t need some building, some department, some curriculum or joke course “outline”? So funny how they promote and ‘profess’ freedom yet they have these bloody outlines for us. Where’s the freedom in that? “Oh, but —— is one of the most prestigious [or sought-after, or high-ranked, or what the fuck ever] community colleges in the country…” Yeah, so I need them? How does that rattle my written rile? I’ll be more brave, borderline bumptious with my efforts. No one will do a thing, certainly not in the academic world— they’re too convicted and concerned with being academics. Why not writers?— Think I heard something upstairs. Emma? Jack? The writing father again interrupted by his concern and love for the babies. What was that noise? Should get up and go check but I’m too into my words and this moment, at the desk with this empty wine glass I more than plan on filling for one more elixir’d transaction. Feel like Kerouac, yes my son but also my lit hero, here at this wooden surface typing on these keys thinking about tomorrow but how can I even entertain a tomorrow when today hasn’t closed. Too many writer’s act in ripples of absolution when in comes to time. Why not just be in-moment, mold it, act within and around and about it? Not saying I’m right I’m just offering how I’m writing right now in this home office with an empty glass— oh the most begged and predictable symbol of anyone examining one’s own or another’s perspective. ‘Is the glass half-empty or half-full?’ As if they’re so smart when they pose such. No pose from me. See the glass as something I need fill immediately—