4/7/2014. Proclaiming this day as one of resurgence. Already warm outside. And as I walked to this 4th floor reading room, with an incredible view, I recognized how being here, on campus, still somewhat under weather, I’m only motivated, encouraged to be well for the sake of my work. Whereas being behind that bar only caps me with a certain lay of depression that I don’t even want to bother writing. The couch has very much receded, and the sinus aches all but retreated. Have my second mocha, right, but far too hot to jump into at the moment. Many on campus catching this April cold, or bug, whatever in Hades it is. There’s a student, stretched out on the single sofa seats, at my 12, asleep. Good for her, but I won’t let mySelf rest, even for a second today. After ‘100’, I’m headed home, to grade. Everything MUST be handed back on Wednesday. Want to be, now, 3 to 4 chapters ahead of story. Hard notion to wrap head around, I know, just trust I know where I’m going with that. Still no word from the other cc’s. I’m not holding my breath, but rather writing mySelf to what I want. I’ve said that before so I won’t summersault all over this page in repetitive rotes. So quiet in the library today. The semester’s end, nearing, so student nerves are definitely starting to show. [checking on mocha.. still too hot] Looking out this panoramic class shield, then slightly at my 6, I see 101. Everyone rushing, speeding to their destinations. So content with this station, where I am in this oddly sloped chair (have to pull it all the way in so my back’s pressed against the vertical stretch, to be quasi-comfortable), so I can finally write, again. Didn’t write anything yesterday at work but a few notes, observations from the early morning, Alice saying “You’re going to have a great day, today.” I wanted to believe her, and I did for the most part, but I would have much preferred stay home with her and Kerouac, enjoy a Sunday. For once.

9:04AM. Yes, let ‘5’ go a bit early, as I didn’t have that much to review with them. The lazy campus police failed to post the note directing students to email me, and check blog. So, I made do with what I had in my notes from the 31st. Told the students how this recent illness made me appreciate mobility, how when health is effected, whether “minutely or massively”, as I said specifically in class, it alway has an impact; the character always appreciates something in the wake; there’s a result; there’s growth. First sip, lovely. I’m already feeling a bit tired. But that’s because I woke when my alarm first sounded, 5:45AM. I re-set it for 6AM, woke again.

Have to leave… Coughing– NO! I’m not letting this bloody bug–

9:38. Turns out, I had no choice but to let the cough remove me from that gorgeous sitting, that silent room. Hope my guttural barks didn’t wake the slumbering student on the single chairs. Now, the writer’s at home, in the kitchen’s nook. Rest of the day’s chapter: English 100, home (where more than likely I’ll have to nap, for sake of next item), run. Today, the half-marathon group’s doing hills. Up Fountaingrove, no less. Would love to take a nap now, frankly. But as you know that’s nowhere near an option. When home, I’ll organize papers ‘to-be-graded’, grade a couple, then rest. My main aim: get those submissions reviewed, handed back, so I can be free of them, and close this semester’s novel. Another lesson from this bug, my day’s home, sick: Time will keep passing, no matter how unfair– yes, even if you’re out, sick; And, I’ll be 35 next month. 30-bloody-5. I’m becoming angry, vicious; more rejectionist as a writer, Human, Artist, thinker. What they, those devils, do to me?

Should have made more of an effort to write, these last few days. But I just have to move on, keep living, writing, reading.

The mocha, nearly cold now. Do I want another before class? Possibly. But just a straight coffee. Vampire in shade, personality, profile.. that gothic shape.

9:46AM. I hear a trimmer, or weed whacker, or mower somewhere. Can’t tell if it’s close, or distant. Hope he’s gone by the time I lay down. My keys, here, right, by mocha.. obvious symbol. Have to be here, have to be there. what if I didn’t ever ‘have to be’, but instead ‘wanted to be’. Or just was, because I said so? That’s what I hope IS, by the end of this semester’s story. It has to be. I’m getting to old for this pattern, this bloody regularity. And so are my characters.