and missing the Nurse, obviously. Sipping latte, barely helping.
My happiness, in tact. Composed, and this morning the writer is meditative. Looking for an old journal, think it’s upstairs somewhere. So now where do I go with the morning’s words…. Into a new essay form.
Everything is material. More than material, a Story. NO— A book. Several books. Jack lightly shouts down the stairs, asking if he has to go to his sister’s game. I tell him no, not in any mood to argue and too tired for a firefight. When home though, chores. Hope he’s excited.
Quiet of this kitchen, forcing thoughts. Walking up the stairs from the old office, also with more thoughts. Consolidation, Composition… this new Story, and purpose. Starting with Coelho’s book, and going from there. Connectedness with text.
Virginia Woolf’s Death of a Moth piece, how I’d read that over and over with students. One in fact having it tattooed on her leg a year or two after we worked together.
That’s what bringing me back to the classroom…. That’s what turning me into this type of creative, WRITER.
Thinking of ways I can write at the baseball Field…. Distracted by an idea, the doc I couldn’t find on the little laptop. Where the fuck is it and why can’t I find it?
I need to be more organized. I’m fucking 40-FIVE. Jesus Christ…
Guess I lost those paragraphs. Oh well… mustn’t have been that crucial. Have to walk away for a minute. UGH.