…part of that soup.  But everything about its character and palate progression was divine.  All of it.  Character locates it in the weighted steel pot on  the electric cooker, than lower-right ring, bright red; it’s prepared enough, believe me, portion small or significant it doesn’t matter there’s enough, believe me.  You set yourself some in your cup and tilt your top portion back, eager, permitting it to dash to your chilled character, perfect for winter, for a night like this.  Between sips, or spoonings, you let the aromatics ascend to your ravenous senses, just above your upper lip.  You salivate and want to taste but you want to too fast as then it’s gone, and it’s too late to cook another batch, or can, or pot.  This is all.

Noticing I can’t read while I write I have to do that after, in breaks, in between typings.  10:11.  I’ll try to be in bed by 11PM.  Is that too late?  Think I’m going to cancel my Dr appt tomorrow as I feel fine now with no sinus pressure at all, not even a slight microscopic suggestion of it, so what am I doing?  Okay, I’ll cancel.  The last hint of pain or discomfort was on the drive home, about 4-5 hours ago, then gone, all gone, nothing now.  So why would I keep the appt tomorrow morning when I could write?  I’ll think about it, and what’s what in the A.M.  Can’t concentrate with that goddamn TV on.  Alice loves her shows, I hate them, I hate TV and pretty much every show.

And I’m on the ground in the living room and I won’t let myself stop with these sentences and reflection in and on and of the day; not just the mountain but the general forward of the shift, no pressure no strife no oppression.  Rare, I’ll say.  No lunch break but I didn’t care, still don’t as I read the three haikus I was able to collect.  Setting alarm so I don’t wake late as I did today, after 6:30.  I’m hoping to rise (with aid of alarm) around 5AM, write for a good hour or more, then get to the day’s demands; getting Jackie ready, off to campus, write and read and prepare for semester– I can’t let the term already defeat me and my adjunct reality anesthetize my fire and tireless tumble with Literature and theory, Philosophy.  And the image: I see myself teaching both Lit and Philosophy, Stanford or somewhere.. not at a JC, no, somewhere with expansive ground and a library you could truly find yourself lost in.  I want to be lost, I want to be mad, I want everything written and logged and truthful, to both me and my self-signed ideology.  What am I, what am I meant to be, and what do I want to be?  I don’t ‘want’ to be anything.  I already am what I am and what I’ll always be.. a writer and thinker, occasional teacher I guess.  But life is short, I’m definitely seeing that now getting closer to 36, and eventually 40.  FOURTY.  How could ‘I’ ever be 40?  Don’t think about just keep writing and don’t edit, just play like the musicians you admire; Sonny, Miles, Bobby…

Jackie this morning, building “towers” as he said, with his blocks, a set we bought him a while ago and just now he’s fascinated by, with, in, he can’t get enough of them.  “Daddy, you build a tower!” I sat this morning to help him, fighting my sinus headache, doing touch-and-go’s with my coffee, cup 2.  He kept building, knocking over, rebuilding, and I kept seeing it as some symbol, dying to find significance in the act and then realizing I didn’t have to strain.  It’s obvious.