Zoom call with old college friends, last night, making me feel old, tired just thinking about those days. How late we’d stay up, the all-nighter nights. The quarrels, the couples, the talking, the rushing to class while living on campus… The quiet, when you could find it. The academic atmosphere and stage, feeling of being a student, working in the library till you saw the sun come up, waging war against some 14-page assignment.
I can have that now, if I wanted. I pretend I’m there, again. Have a short story due tomorrow, 14 pages. Double-spaced… What on. I have to figure it out, quick. Wine.. being in the tasting room, all the shit you hear people say. The drama, the tasting of the wines at the beginning of the day. All of it. Okay, so I have that decided… what else.
Or maybe I don’t want to write a whole 14 on the TR. Maybe on a guy who writes poetry.. reads it where he can. All he wants to do is write poems. No other effort or work or labor interests him or can engage him. He swears to himself that he’ll finish a book by the end of the week. Stay in his room, in his apartment downtown, and figure out how to make poetry work. He’s tired of the office, wearing a tie everyday, the order and punching of a clock, the faxing and emailing, walking from one side of the office to another. He hates it. Something about that walk, something about the people and the way they have their heads down that just sickened him, made him question everything he’d done till that point in his life—“How did I get here, to this walk, again…”