A writer.

An essayist.

A diarist.

That’s it.  Pretty simple.  But I don’t want to think about dying or being dead or what happens if I die… not today.  See?  That’s Monday talking.  Why do I see Mondays as Mondays now??  Never used to be like that.  NEVER.

Stop…. Stop.

STOP.

This song, Slow Hot Wind by Block 16, on the Thievery Corporation Pandora station, makes me travel.  In head, believing I’m in Paris, or Prague, somewhere just walking around like Anthony.  Meeting people, taking streets one way then another.  Need more wander, wonder, in this story.

Taking notes for tonight’s class….  What writing does for a reader, for the one writing.  But more than that… LIFE.  What we want from it, how we get it and if we do then what.  All these books we read and that I pick from semester to semester…. LIFE.  It’s life we’re reading and exploring.  Not a book, not just one person’s take on one day and another.  What is the writing of one supposed to do?  Can this be taught, or is it just an idea to excavate?

(NOTE:  If you’re looking for answers, you’re in the wrong place.)