Over one thousand words, already. 11:36a. All Literary, today. Not sure I’ll open any wine tonight. In Kaz’s Room tomorrow. Sure I’ll sip a bit there. Hoping to sell some copies of vinoLitLetterz. Need the cash. Immediately, actually. My commute to NWG, still waging unavoidable, unmatched assaults on my budget, if it is a budget. More like a wondering tender stash. All I know, is this is just what I needed. A day off. A completely Literary morning. Looking through this Philosophy Encyclopedia, I’m returned to my only philosophy class on my transcript, taken my senior year at SSU. The professor was beyond knowledgable, but a bit foul-mouthed. And I’m not uptight, or prude. But, I have to ask, are you there to teach, or be something else? Also flying through these pages, I’m thinking of my Stanford class. Literary theory, not “philosophy.” Don’t all English classes entail some shelved tier of what’s elevated to “philosophy?” Stumbling upon the entry for “dirty hands,” from Sartre’s play. This brick of information addresses the line “So what? Do you think one can govern innocently?” And I’m back in mode professor’d. That’s what I am, will forever be, next to a writer. Raising the mocha to this Autonomous Saturday sitting.
Not taking ideas from anyone, honestly. But, I do research these thought movements, react and respond, forming my own thoughts, conceptual varietals. This office, getting crowded, especially with developing times, reality. Need my own office. Decided I don’t want a commute to it, even though I love scenic cruises in the early AM. Would be nice to have one in downtown Santa Rosa, actually. Nice restaurants, a couple cafés I think. Just want a Room of my own. Right, Ms. Woolf?
Mike wasn’t tired of the sitting. Not yet, anyway. He didn’t need a break. This was his office. He, the SOLE proprietor. He could take an executive lunch, if he wished. And executive break, even. He could just take day’s remainder to aimlessness. He could take a nap, if he really wished. HIS day, everyday in the chair, writing. He saw something, felt visions of note. No ignoring this. He typed toward that scene. Click.
10/8/2011, Saturday, NewMike