Again gathering materials for Professor positions. The economy, state of academic budgets at present, quite discouraging. But if I surrender now, I’ll never again be Mentally Alive. Sipping the blackest of black coffees here at 12 & Mission, 3:18pm. On Stanford’s website. Where I ran after seeing how many swimming through all the docs on this laptop, viewing all the unfinished, barely started, mutilated projects in this laptop’s innards. Too old for that. The novel, stopping such habits. Which, by the way, I have in the bag, leaning against my left shin.
Not in much mood for prose, or even to write. Feel like just listening to these wined beats, sipping my coffee, staring out at the cloud cover from the back of the shop, here. Don’t even know how many around me have laptops open. I think all but one table, to my left, a middle-aged couple chatting. Looks like they just came from the gym. Brought “Capote” with me. Maybe I’ll watch that, a couple scenes. That should help. Still can’t believe I’m free, this time of day. Feels conciliating in magnitudes I used to dream of while in front of that screen, on the phone, in that office.
I’m free, no walls around me.
Novel out. Think I may copy and paste some older blog posts into my book. No. How would that be Literary? I’ll type some of my cubeNOTES, add them to its body. Those scribbles capture more palpably what I was feeling–or, what my CHARACTER was feeling–at the time. Folder out of bag. Ready to write. Not type. Glad I turned around my fanged brow that spanned most of this day’s hours, earlier. They did this to me. But, they also did THIS to me; A more dedicated writer, one refusing to turn, fold, cower. I’m still writing. Finally have a novel. They’re still seated. Stationary and stale.