Late.  Wine.  Work. 

And should I take the Sonoma State gig?  MY head’s everywhere right now.  Last glass of one of my 12’s.  Watching an episode of the Soprano’s, Alice upstairs with a cold.  I’m 37.  Certain patterns need to stop.  You know that and I do.  And if you’ve been following my works, you know the halt need be immediately hammered.  The night surrounds the writer with a forming fold that I can’t translate.  Keep thinking about how I want my babies to see me.  I want them to see a writer, a leader, educator.  It will hurt sacrificing my last little smatter of free time.  There’s wine about my senses and centrality of systemization.  What do I do?  Why am I writing while in this wined hold?  Distracted, disgruntled, feeling disserviced.  I’m assuming a contrasting character, something I have to do.  MY ideas, thinking of Spain of course, then my city, Paris.  I don’t know.  On a highway, somewhere in the midwest.  I’m everywhere, and the life now, circling.  Illuminated by the Now, by what’s a my forefront.  where am I, how old am I again?  Something has to change, especially if I’m to be universally and envelopingly autonomous in this.

I’m in my way, in my course.

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