then to Field to gather a couple potential leads with the Associate. Will email them tomorrow. More and more nervous with how quiet it is. Can’t fixate on it, just keep moving. Get out in the field more, I tell myself. Something has to change though, in my daily. I’ll think about it tonight..
Opened a Bodega Head IPA, needed. Exhausted from prospecting. Did a call with an inbound lead earlier, after being int he Field. See where it goes. I’m guarded, and cynical now. Change that, I know.
Thinking about teaching again, but different context. The #professormikey blog, just put it out there and see what happens. Could plan some prompts and exercises, see what happens. No Netflix or news tonight.. WORK. Staying on the laptop, on the keys.. working. No distractions, those days are dead, buried and forgotten.
Back from a dinner date with self, and some wine, I’m in the Nook preparing the actual evacuation. Calls in the morning…. And of a free mind tonight, and writing freely, unafraid of any reverberation or consequence, or what some NyQuil addict with glasses might say. Yes I’m angry YES I’m exhausted and mutherfucking YES I don’t care.
I’m immune to consequence or reaction, just as some others are with their corroded chorus.
This is MY kamikaze, my obvious and allowed, allotted jihad. Feels pretty fucking good I have to say. Why haven’t I written like this before, in this whole thing… the shift.
Pinot from last night— WINE, writing, my mom, closest friends like Taryn I saw today, grateful in a way that’s above and past and far distant from language. Like how much I love my kids. MY, kids.
Oh, am I supposed to say that?
Just told a friend of a friend that I’m a writer in fight mode, which I am. Like Pac coming out spitting at cameras, or strutting out of the courtroom.
What am I opening after this? Thing there’s a Dry Creek something open.. or is it Rockpile? The wines I tasted earlier at MS were more than decent, in fact new and renewing— new shape and feel of wine. Taryn whom I’m known for years now, always there. To tell a story, to listen to me, to go back and forth in wine stories and accounts and at times gossip.
Yes, I do it too…
Starting to feel tired, but then I remember I’m still in a trench. And the other side thinks they rattle me.
Not permitted to pass any sort of border… even the one who has all laws committed to memory but in no way’s apt to communicate or elaborate or negotiate…. Just an eroded waif.
This fearlessness may be overtaking me compromisingly, but I don’t care at this point. Why should I. Some walk with no print, while I’m constantly printed and painted and berated.
Free will… freedom. Such a hopeful onus and opiate. Could be the pugilist in my typing, or the wine, or an awesome concert of not-gone honor.