Late, ready for day to close. But I sip this last glass of ’15 Zin, a bottle with which I’m not animatedly in love. But I sip anyway. Finally, some time to me. Did writing for this project earlier, before and during class, in Composition Book, but didn’t have time to transfer. So I’m in the moment. Looking at my new pair of shoes, one of them, that I bought the other day before the meeting in Windsor. I start to feel stressed but I know all I have to do is write, teach.. what do I teach. Nothing. But I offer ideas. And one. Forget what’s in that rearview. Just drive… drive… faster… so that when you feel wind in your hair and around your face you’re confirmed that righteousness fires from your rile.
Time with my babies this evening, just went up to check on them but earlier in bath they reminded me I need to very much take a step back. Relax. And do what? Write. Offer ideas. Anymore, I hate that word, “teach”. Who the fuck am I to teach? I’m doing what my best-ever professor said he did for a living— “exchange ideas”. Like today, with the students who started to civilly scuffle over Japhy’s role and impact on the story of Dharma Bums. This time to self— need to wake earlier. Much earlier. 4am… just play with that idea for a second. Wife’s alarm goes off at, what, 6:15? If I were writing at 4:15, I’d have two hours of writing time. Two blood hours. I’d be set for the day, really, goal-wise. So what do I do? Pound this Zin and have some ice cream. Then go to bed, writer…. Could fall asleep now, if I tried. OR, even if I didn’t try. The writer’s at the end of his conversation, inwardly and out— Trying to accelerate, but I’m running out of gas, as Dad has always said. Tomorrow, Mom’s birthday. How old is she? Ageless— timeless. She’s Mom. She’ll always be there for me, right? This is the exhaustion’s lines to be recited.
I stretch my legs forward, 12, and clear my throat. Sip the Zin’s surplus. Done. Ready for bed. But what about my crème glacée? In a minute.. that picture of my Ginger Ale atop that vineyard post.. so— why pester my own self with this anxiety, of having to do this and that.. wish I had coffee in the house. But no. Why? I have wine but no coffee? That’s a certain serrated puncture. So I change, tilt conveniently. Then I feel tired again, lean head left, put collar over mouth, and just feel lazy. Close, day! Close, please.
Edit and fix.. job of a student. I’m a student. Why can’t I go back with this ‘time’ thing? Why am I circling, in a holding pattern? Why not get to travel? It’s late, and the Composition Book calls me. Morning encroaches. People everywhere…. I need to listen more, better.