Written Love Person Blood

Having a little wine tonight, but not much.  One of my ’12 NDC’s that I made at K——.  Not in the mood to write their name.  Been thinking about that place, of late.  How I was treated, how I was weaker then, how that devilish hole forced me to not care, be in this HST mode of just writing and not giving a fuck.  My glass, in kitchen.  Need another pour.  Not so intent on waking tomorrow at 4.  Whatever the story intends is what will happen.  MY story, elevation increase.  True altitude.  My wife in the other room, relaxing after a long day with little Ms. Austen, both babies now asleep upstairs and the ‘rents down here for collection.  Have to force myself to write, right now, tired and attention wandering, ideas circling me then flying away then coming back to taunt me— “Write about me!!”—  “NO, write about ME!!!” Too much to now decide, but why do I have to decide now?  What does the story want?  What do I want?  What Wellness is to me is utter absence and imperviousness to stress.  Someone wrote me recently and said that stress is part of what makes life, what builds character, and I believe he said something like “A life without stress is not a life at all”.  Something to that lean.  Either way, I agree.  But I don’t like it, stress.  I will avoid it, and I’d rather not see, hear, taste or have it touch me.  I need be composed for the Road, for travel.  Which, do know, is my apexing aim.  And to go everywhere, see this globe and record everything.

This morning, the rain, on my car’s roof.  I couldn’t refrain from taking a picture of the miniature puddles atop.  Just staring at them after that one picture, reflecting the clouds, the tall light of the lot.  Heading to class thinking about my lecture but all I wanted to do was let the clouds humble me, force me to calm, collect, be somewhat composed and more of a Human than an obsessive and creatively compulsive composer.  Huh…  just thinking about the morning and how quickly this day by me flew quakes me to rise, go to the kitchen for my night’s closure, red puddle, large bowl, so large puddle, larger sips, calm Mike at this desk with papers and change, books and other foolish documents I’d be better off throwing away, enclosing my locale.

Again, my lectures today, in my thoughts’ throws and narrative internal.  The quotes I offered:  Douglass, Faulkner, and I don’t know who else… makes me want to stay up, this entire fucking night, and just read.  Call in sick tomorrow, stay home and read more.  But, no.  Dutcher’s been far too kind to me already, and the pushes penned and impetus from those grounds and inbound characters are far too fruitful for me to pass, take lightly or dismiss.  My walks through those rows, my lunch breaks where I should be eating but would rather stare at the hills, that tree-line, the soil makeup.  I sip my wine again, read the Douglass quote, recite it to myself, cultishly—  “No struggle, no progress…No struggle, no progress…”