Friday 19/2/2010. That kind of dating looks odd on the screen. Anyway, have wits to write tonight. Need to spice up my prose, get crazy and unorthodox with my wording. Like C said, worry how you feel about it later. One thing I’ve been juggling, this blog. Don’t want to get too specific, but I may increase my energy towards this digi-log. My students, this term, tiring me. Teaching the class before Comp is cutting at my core. Just speaking of this term’s actuality warrants a break. Another sip of the Racer. Wine on the mind, literature too, after today’s excursion and review. Love that little Room at Larson. The road to their Room, what a symbol, image that begs expansion in an entry. Pause, me, this ink...
Need to give this log more of a wine knot. I address the stage sporadically, but I’m considering a recalibration. Wine is Literature, my guiding advancement in surveying any pour. So, I’m cordially inviting wine to with this penman reside for an indefinite block of pulses.
Saturday February 20, 2010. Taxes done. While Alice and I were finishing up with Janet, our tax wiz, a gentleman next to use made himself known. Truly, one of the most perturbing roles I’ve ever encountered. As Alice and Janet finalized a few specificities, I was in the mode of the penman spy, ink peppering my flip-pad. He was born in 1968, works, I guess you could say, in construction. He didn’t pay his taxes last year, and hasn’t worked for about a year. He is divorced, with two kids. His ex is on welfare. His situation I did not in any way find annoying, it was his voice. His loud, raspy, over-enunciating voice. He kept on repeating the name of his tax person, with every statement and inquiry. After essentially explaining the entire concept of taxes to this man, Suzanne revealed that he had owed money. He then said, “Suzanne, why are they stingin‘ me so hard?” She went item by item, with charges incurred by this man. He then said politely, but quite loud, “I just wanna get it done, Suzanne.” She tired to find areas where he could make deductions, asking him if he went to school, took any classes, expenses, etc. To each question, he replied, again quite elevated in decibel, “nope.” Nope, nope, nope. The word was like a series of belches that wouldn’t halt. Even Janet laughed a bit. Alice looked at me, said “I have a headache.” His phone went off, louder than his tone. A call from his son, one he had to advertise to the entire building, room. Suzanne asked him if he has ever filed electronically before. He then replied, “I don’t even own a computer, Suzanne.”
The forecast promises rain, but nothing arrives.
WRITING PROMPT: Capture three characters from your nearest grocery store. Give them identities, and have them go on a voyage, or trip of some sort, together. Rules...they can’t be related, you must include both genders, and one has to die. Please submit at least 500 words for this exercise. Let me know what happens!
1:44p. Can’t stay away from the Stanford website. These professors are incredible expansive in their fields of focus. Want to lecture in those halls one day, but will I ever be qualified?
“What kind of talk is that?” the Self says to me. I realize I have to move with unorthodoxy, difference. I have an approach. Brewing, like the espresso for my morning mocha. Like Martin Eden, I’ve tired of regular labor. Sometime today, need to break out some of my theory books, Philosophy texts. Alchemy, a certain thoughtful sorcery on the menu for this day. I am energized, now.
WRITING PROMPT: 500 words right when you wake, another 500 right before sleep, the day’s repose. What do you have, in that thousand? Edit only once or twice. Keep this one authentic, honest.
4:15p. Poetry in my person. Inspired just by pushing these keys. Picturing myself in “whoso,” my envisioned ambient cafe. See Self sipping Syrah. Peace, all corners, in each level of my situation.
If I close my eyes, what will I see? Pond or tree? I’m wondering
to a corner for certain order. A coast away, miles from where
most would stay. Final pages in the book, many minutes me took.
Arms shield the page, I’m in the presence of many a crook.
BOOK ONE, now a work of 65k, down from 80. Brevity and wit, reminding my Self, and students. They don’t listen. Told one of my former students, when he asked how my semester was progressing, that I was only doing two sections of English 90 (again, the class before Comp). He then wrote, via IM, “...nothing more substantial?” I wrote back citing that I felt the same. English 90 is not substance, not for me, the rate at which my vision stretches, my interpretive and creative tools operative.
Going to Mom and Dad’s tonight for dinner, getting a drink with Miss Alice prior to. Her dedication to teaching, even with the impending slip of pink and all the other treachery, humbles me. I need to have her attitude, to remedy mine.
Freezing in this home study. Unorthodoxy, all about my shell. Now, forever. Critics, devils, beware. ANTI on the rise!