At the end of the day, my mood is sewage. 

img_2952Hard to even compose myself to compose, frankly.  The mood attacked at work, toward, the end.  But so what.  I’m fucking human so what do you want me to do—  Sipping the night’s cap, sitting on floor with legs crossed, back against the couch sipping a Lagunitas while I type.  I don’t care, has to be my continuant disposition, it has to be.  I know I’ll be interrupted any minute, knowing my luck, and how the day’s gone.  BUT, one thing I did right, or pragmatic action, I made coffee for the next day.  Just had an idea— write the students.  They ALWAYS listen, or most of them do.  The still, now, however long it lasts, calms me, but then I hear Jackie cough, of course.  My luck, and his, and this house’s— the Madigan disquietude.  Again, my current posture and view.  Don’t listen to me.  I won’t, wouldn’t, won’t.

Light above me set to the atmospheric setting, as I like, but it helps little.  Goddamn my mood.  Take a deep delivery of the ale…  Don’t feel anything, but I may in a minute.  Time to increase elevation, so here I go, the writer to more fruitful folds and forms, forwards and frolics.  Adjuncting, getting me nowhere.  The wine world, lovely as it is, won’t provide the revenue or ataraxia I need or deserve or have envisioned.  So, I need to not care, write like I don’t, write in the stream of an HST—  watch me.

No chaos, yet.  But that could change.  I’m a Dad, I realize, I get it.  And I’m fucking old, nearly 37, 24 days.  Fuck my age.  Did Jackie just cough again?  Am I hearing things?  See?  My age…  and the character’s cue, even more iniquitous.  Sip again…  Go away!

Look left, right, left, right again, this is my floor.  But I’m Dad now, that could change—