Mike kept writing. He wouldn’t let himself stop. He’d probably finish the novel, which was beginning to be more of a collection, vignettes and scattered shorts more than anything, before term’s close. And that was fine.
Second beer. His mind meandered, in and out of teaching, wine, his conversation with Craig.. fiction, everything was material. And he wanted to turn everything into something psychological, something that stayed with the reader– like he said last semester, concerning Poe’s work: “He [Poe] doesn’t want to scare you, he wants to be in your head, your thinking, and stay there.” That’s what made a memorable writer, one worth reading.
The semester vs the wine world.. so funny, the contrast; how much depth there was in one, and the other a dull dust bowl. He left all those thoughts where they stood, floated, and swept himself to his stories; one about a man at a conference, discussing what he had to discuss; he tried to talk about something other than work, what he was supposed to talk about, but everyone around just wanted to talk numbers, protocol, expansion, uniform, “business”. This was death, he thought.
Mike poured himself a full glass of the ’11 Meritage, which was anything but impressive. He kept drinking, and his prose went to blood, in streets, in apartments, something the police couldn’t decode. Worry warped the city’s aorta like a dust storm upon an outlying town. People hid, knowing there was quite the feasibility they’d be located by the hunter.
10:19PM. Quite drained from day, but rejoicing in what I’ve done, the writing. Thinking of rebellion, challenging instituted dogma, theology; the corporate theocracy. Like Dad said: “Everything you’ve told your students about thinking for themselves, and freethinking, has now fallen into your lap.” Why can’t I speak? I will. Through my fiction. I will be expelled for my probity; professionally cremated for my creativity, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Oh no, reader, this isn’t the wine talking. This is the aggregation of my dreams, visions, openings of insanity. And how beautiful… What is living, but TRULY living, thinking, speaking, expression? There’ll be counterarguments to this, I’m sure, but they’re only as legitimate as I permit. And yes, on this page, I’m the ultimate authority; I decide whether opposing opinions live, or die. And on death’s note: I would kill this entire bottle of ’11 Meritage if I had my envisioned fluidity for the night, if I were in a hotel, on some overnight, hours before lecturing out-of-state.. on Poe, or Plath, or Hem. I find mySelf more connected to Poe, all his remoteness, calculation. He doesn’t need to be “understood”, or accepted. He’s there, just as I am, in opposition to all with a noose.
I’m relaxed. No more tail rattle. Should sip the rest of the blend in glass. Getting late. Praise the Craft, as I’ll always be “saved”. I feel that in the morning, I’ll be with diligent armament, eager for interaction with suits… It does well for the book, so no matter the outcome, I’ll have pages. Bonne nuit…