Starting morning with espresso again, not the k-cup coffee. This little dose, working quickly and wanting me to do the same. Slept in, had to. Couldn’t get to sleep last night for some reason, reasons I know thinking about 2021 and tomorrow back in AE/writer mode. Today, I work. Don’t want to be flustered or thrown into some frenzied mind on Monday. First, and I know I know I KNOW I’ve said this before…. This desk. Done.
On couch. Jack telling me as he ate the cereal I set for him all about the science experiments he’s doing with his mother and how he has to wait two weeks for one of more of them to come to fruition, and then tells me all about the different crystals that’ll form, and how one of them is a bouncy crystal. The wonder and eagerness in his cheeks and speech, his eyes and how his head would barely move, just looking me in the eye like here were trying to speak to someone behind my eyes, all about his science experiments and the other science kit he got as a gift for xmas…. That’s what I need as a writer, and that’s what I’m seeing in my new pages on Cabernet, on writing, humor in all these scenes in this house.
About EVERYTHING…. Finishing the year I believe at like 117% of quota, something like that. I see myself, or sell self on the idea of writing to 200% by June. I know how, and the plan is being written in a separate doc on this laptop. Not sure why I wanted to note it here, but felt need to for self. No selling, I remind myself, even though I’m definitively in Enterprise sales.
The espresso is all over me, feel in chest and legs, hands as a type and eyes, nose and sides of face. Put on music, see day ahead of me. Assembled and revolutionary, relying on my own pages and words, thoughts, self for production. Connected to my Room, this couch, my kids in the other room, this last “day off” before the work week lifts off. Espresso, a double, on wind ledge to left, sipping slow. Keeping the movement a movement, ideas colonizing and setting their plans in decided shifts about this current Me.
Quarantined, but not. Running later, and new route. Didn’t go yesterday, wasn’t time and wasn’t the self-shove out the door. Can only cite self with my non-running. In Paris, I’d run every day. Why not. Why stop dreaming about and going back to my city, in head, with visions and imagined songs. The streets and tables, those newsstands, the lady in the metro station with her bistro. ’09, my last time there. Far too long, and my French is better but still sucks. Maybe that’s too harsh, but I’m not pleased with my handle on or relationship with the language. The music I’m listening to now should be French, in FRENCH…. What the…
There, some French jazz. De retour sur la bonne voie. Back on track. Think with the $50 Amazon gift certificate Katie bought me I’ll get a French book of some kind. Also, what’s that app called, Duolingo? Something like that? Yeah, do more of that. I think of this couch as it being in a French apartment, one I’m renting for the day, or the week to finish my book. What am I writing, writing about…. Essays, on EVERYTHING… on needing to get away, to running to wine, French wine, poetry, music, ME, self-care, and whatever else. Doing for work what you want and not just looking through ads on some site to bring you a wage. I know many are there, but I’m leaving there, that wheel. Yes, I’m happy at Sonic. More than merely happy, I’m more a writer there than I was in any tasting room, though I’ve been writing a lot lately about those TR days.
Haven’t sipped the espresso in a bit. Probably froid by now. Cold. But I don’t care. This track, “High Low In” by Paris Combo, could barely hear but turned up a bit. Emma rushes by me to go upstairs and gets…. Nothing. Weird. What did she go up there for. Who knows. She’s a kid. I’ll act like her, and Jack, in curiosity and action, follow-through and fruition of projects. One done, then onto the next one. Parfait! The day starts, in music, love, espresso, music, everything. Everything I love, on page…. I’ve already started the work week. Never done.
