early in the day, while slurping coffee and making eggs and getting N’s food for school ready and holding M because he couldn’t stop coughing and chasing N to get dressed and eat breakfast and make a pee-pee before getting both boys into the car, I had stuff to say. Stuff to write about.
in the car, listening to N in the backseat, watching M in the mirror that hangs above his backward facing seat, local public radio piping through in its steady drone (possibly the real reason liberal elites have fallen asleep and ceded the country to fascists), I cultivate my stuff to say. Write it in my head.
since i haven’t succeeded in getting a new apple id password, I haven’t gotten a voice transcription app that would allow these deep, provocative, and undoubtedly important thoughts to be recorded. which is likely better for us all.
and after dropping N off at school, schlepping M in his giant (and why it’s so heavy anyway) car seat back to the car, and getting through Mopac traffic home, and rushing through breakfast and then M waking, and then laundry, administering antibiotics and dishes and sweeping and M nursing but still uncertain he wants to nap, and reading picture books and cooing and more nursing.
And now he’s down, it’s midday, and I’m tired. I have nothing left to say. The caffeine has left my system, the number of wakings and childcarings from last night has come to take it’s toll. I’d like to lay down now, or at least clean and listen to radio. Anything other than put out, than think.
I can’t think what to do with these stories.
This is, of course, the point with the one hour. to train the brain to work, even when circumstances are not optimum. But yesterday I found that I stared more than I composed on the Pitchforks story, and I keep pushing back the deadline for submitting work to Arsnika. Perhaps the time has come to go back to the drawing board, and just brainstorm.