…his own literary and written, creative efforts. He’s not bitter toward the business, just seeing action as needed at this point in his life, before 39. He turns 39 in one week, one month. Mike can’t believe it. There’s a certain mysticism and metaphysical framing and tangibility to aging, to life, he realizes this morning. So he goes further into his thoughts… what he’ll say to students today.
He takes notes in his semester journal… natant in his notes, dreaming, seeing himself at other campuses. This is the point in his life where he decides, he decides sipping the remainder of his mocha. What is he supposed to do. One thing— Write. Then share. He doesn’t like the word teacher, as who’s he to teach? He writes more in his notebook and ladles more musings, possibilities, sights of himself lecturing at Stanford, or anywhere. He loves the student, the conviction and perception of the student, being a student— mentally alive in ways that no other human type can delight, or write. Mike sees more life in the essays of his students, ones he writes to them, for them. The morning trots onward into its numbers but Mike doesn’t mind it, not a drop. He writes more, like he has only time and then none. “This Now is never, and forever, impacting all story touches and cosmos.”