5:07PM, on the fourth floor, in a removed corner. I can hear two people talking, joking and laughing and it’s odd, uncomfortable and annoying, I want to ask them to be quiet but I don’t want to walk away with them talking about me and me hearing it. How annoying would that be. Interested in checking out some Tolstoy, but I want to research him first, print a couple Literary articles, do some research and get to know the man before I read his work, and many of his works are mammoth, and I’m not just talking about War & Peace. Another short coffee. Haven’t had a single mocha all day and my stomach loves me for it.. was looking through old entries before tending to the day’s contributions, and I notice the energy I had in Spring of this year, probably ‘cause I was only teaching two classes, and Dav sat in on one of them, the whole semester for support. He didn’t have to, but he did, even having breakfast with me that last day at the Omelette Express on RR Square. My Life: I keep thinking of this, how I want it read and studied and perceived and talked about– and how I want my son to read it when he’s on campus (hopefully not here, hopefully right to the university from high school, and he will, he’s smarter than me.. not at his mother’s level of general prolific acuity, but close, loomingly near). The people talk louder, “this…is…a…hint,” the man says, laughing at his own words then tearing a page from his notebook it sounds like, or maybe that was the woman with whom he’s seated. He’s showing off, it’s clear, and he’s older; maybe he’s single and wants a date or just wants company, some ear that will let the words rest upon like these Tolstoy books on that thin black aluminum or metal or tin shelf.
Serial novelist. “There’s no such thing,” I remember Scotty saying one time, and Glenn just agreeing. How can that be? And if there isn’t okay. Maybe I’ll be the first one. Just write novels, or memoirs, or books that hopefully make a point. Worrying or obsessing or preoccupying or distracting myself from the novel with these short pieces or flash standalones is novel death, Lit seppuku. And what am I thinking about this so druggily for? I was nearly talking to my Self while crossing the street between Emeritus and the Doyle Library. I love this seat, no one can see me, probably only the laptop on this oval knee-high (while I’m seated) table. Now he talks about abortion and the moral hurts therein. Who is this guy? Maybe he’s a professor. Of what? Philosophy? Sociology? What? Bio? I need to slow down. Think I’m typing too fast. But the novel’s due soon, this Monday.. kind of exciting, the deadline, a self-printed novel, 308 pages of Mike Massamen’s story; adjunct, father and husband, wine person sometimes, questioner, wandered, fool, runner, and whatever else I want to credit myself with. That’s the joy of writing, and writing FICTION! All mine, and however I want. I should have made myself a pilot like Dad, or winemaker like Katie, or doctor like that girl I met at the winery, the one who had a beer with us that one time, in town with her other doctor friend.. and they looked so young. And they’re doctors. What have I done? Who have I helped? Where do these pages go?