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.