Last night of semester, and got a low table at S&H.

Ordered SB, some French version.  Need to write wine tonight, and about wine.  Not much chance to write at office today.  Actually doing my job.  Well, I always do, but of late I’ve been with special and specific, obsessive focus.  My way tonight is different, like this place.  Collective mode switch and shift.

                Still thinking of the note one student wrote me from the 1B class last night…. And me as a professor.  And work.  And everything…. Singularizing, after a meeting with Mark this morning.  Focusing on a certain business type and set to grow my agency.  All around education… want the same reaction from clients as I’m told by students.

                The whole intention behind this blog, really, is to love your work.  It is YOUR work.  Your product and identity.  No one else’s.  Last night’s meeting and the entire day today starting with the BNI meeting this morning beforehand encouraging one of my partners to speak in the moment and forget about his notes…  I think I finally know what my work is to be… my singular reel and reality.  Realized finally at my old age.

                This place, tonight loud.  Quite.  The wine enjoys my typing I feel, being part of this sitting.  More texture than a lot of Euro-SB’s you’d have, but I don’t know… something else.  At the end of the day and before the final meeting of the semester, this glass is a terrific moment-fit.  It’s the scene in the glass, the hectic whirl of this bar or restaurant (I’ll call it a restaurant, which it is, and the food is shocking in its appealing consistency), and me with all in my head.  All my work… but not work.  I don’t want to ever feel work feeling like work.  I certainly don’t at Sonic.  That beat has to keep its street.  It will.  It only can…

                Writing bottomless from the bottom of my thinking well as Kerouac might put, I think this may be my new seat.  Of course if I can get it in the future, but I’m blocked by a wall to my left (back side of a booth), and an empty 4-top table to right.  I do consider this an office.  How couldn’t I. I’ve probably written a fucking book here.

                So, then, where is it?

                Good question.  In this laptop, and the Sonic one as well, somewhere.  Tired from my 8-mile lunch run and rubbing eyes, little rain outside and I feel it consistent with the celebrative sake and beam of the night, this last night of a semester which was not only challenging in more ways than I can here list or recite, but there was a weight to it.  A mechanism somewhere in its phantasm and climate that slowed me over and over, quite a bit.  And now it’s done.  I’m sad.  More of my life passed. It’s gone and I can’t see it again.  Didn’t I say that in class, a number of times, the same address and consideration?

Anyway, into the wine.  More story.  More love.  New mode and way.