After a long battle with Emma, getting her to go down, I’m finally downstairs and on couch for some thought. But now I don’t know what to think. Thought about work, and this coming semester, everything you’d expect me to think but I don’t want to entertain any of that. What I’d like, frankly, is a course-change…. But to what. Here I am, with time to self, didn’t take a lunch and all I wanted to do at lunch was write up in the office but couldn’t do that and only thought all day about getting home to write and here I am with not a thing to say. What… the book. Poems… speaking and reading across the country. Wine… education … parenting…. No wine tonight, just this Racer 5 (only my second) then bed.
Crayons still on the ottoman. Were they drawing somewhere around it, the little beats? Why can’t I be as amused of things as them, Kerouac and Austen? I can if I try enough, and practice with my inner tide to see things as they do. I can see in little Kerouac and Ms. Austen that everything is an opportunity, a visit and invitation. The life in front of them is not just in front of them waiting but there encouraging them to keep walking forward. Why do we lose that as we age?
I’m embracing a tidal wave of ‘yay’ this evening, after putting little Em to her little sweeter than seer-sweet dreams. Everything around me, all this clutter and toys and what I call “baby ruin” is a legion of vignettes that accumulate to wider perspective. Dad has always impressed ‘intellectual honesty’ upon me, and if I’m being honest with you right now, intellectually or no, it’d be to annunciate my hope in everything. I want to pick up the crayons and draw on the walls, be cozy in my craziness and delight in all days.