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…