Wednesday 2/3/2010. Still drained from yesterday’s 2k. So, forgive the brevity of this sitting. A student raised his voice and unjustifiably embittered his wittiness, accusing me of “putting him on the spot.” I did. Toughen up, coward. Not at all fearful of consequences that may unravel from my candor. This term, certainly the last. Another thing, the critics of my prose, poems. Lock your jaw, devil. I’m tired of being the kind, passive writer at times. I will unfasten my inhibitions, hurl barbs whenever tremors tumult. Feeling audacious, aggressive, antagonistic, belligerent with a certain barbarism, boldness, bravado.
Had a great dinner with Mom and Dad tonight. I still don’t get how she, Mom, works her culinary magic. She always says something to the tilt of ‘oh, it’s not that big a deal’, or ‘it’s really not that hard’. She’s amazing, beyond her cooking. Mom is an odd Muse. Her brilliance and gentle presence is unrivaled. Dad, so much experience, so many stories. Each of his stories could be a series of novels. He is a character that I should use. When I say “use,” it sounds negative, but please know it’s the most purified state of praise.
Clocking out. Readers, I apologize for slumbering so fortuitously. My spirits, descending like planes out of fuel. Looking through my Room notes in my little flip pad. Good material. These characters I’ve recorded, a career for me. I swear, the Room is a well of weltering wealth. Sipping what remains of the Anthem I opened last night. Almost better tonight. How do these winemakers weave continuous perfection? Maybe I should ask sis tomorrow night. It’ll be her 29th tomorrow. My baby sister is twenty-nine years old. How?
Ending utterances: 1) Death to critics, 2) fuck over-confident students, you don’t know shit, and 3) POETRY4EVER!