from an essay

7 Apr

…finally returning home from the labor place, son still awake and wanting to play.  I gave in and sat with him and joked for a bit.  But now, I just listen to rain.  Just listen, readers… see yourself in some other form, some other plain, plateau, pose and placement.  No that alliteration wasn’t intentional.  Or maybe a bit.  But I’m home, finally collecting the way I want to, not having to dodge all the people at a Starbucks and just sitting down on the floor, which isn’t at all comfortable, and centering in musings.  What I muse over now, life… where I am in it and what my story’s doing.  Feeling like a student again.  Showing up to class, not sure what’s going to happen or what I want my aims to be.  Blending paragraphs and poems, not at all expected but entirely admirable since I’ve decided to further sit and center in my decisions.  I’ve always wanted to be a thinker, a professor, like Dad.  No, he wasn’t a teacher, but a pilot which is galactically more interesting.  But he always struck me as an educator, a Philosophy professor, and he was a Philos’ major.  I see this writer at my aimed-for campus, which I’m not going to again reverb, offering postulates on those questions, what’s posed in Coelho’s work—

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