Again in the urge to binge-read.  And I mean really read.  Not on a fucking kindle (Wait are those still around?), or my phone, but an actual book.  I read the Dickinson poem, “Because I could not stop for death – ” and remember the first time I read her, when I was a student at Foothill college.  Not that I was as particular with language and writing as I am now, IF I am now, but the dashes, the pauses, her exploration and obsession but still respect of life and what may be after…

Making a note to self to finish or get considerably far into one of the book targets – one of the texts from this past semester.  Thinking Irby.  Love her carelessness but still meticulous placing of self in moments – the people around her and how she sees them.

Feel like I’m against time, today.  I’ll be 42 in 8 fucking days.  Do EVERYTHING, Mike… I’m firing ordnance of love and encouraging shoves toward self.  Scorecard for work comes in … me the top quota attainer.  Hesitant to celebrate.  In fact I won’t celebrate… how do I amplify it into next month, and the month after that…