Messy Jesse

Messi and Jessi, Jessy, Jessie, Jesse 

May g’n; Gin and gun; Megan and Reagan and Fagan and Elena Kagan, again.   Agin’ and ragin’ cajuns, gauging aging; young and hung; old, bold, cold, fold, gold, hold, mold, polled, rolled, sold, told, voldemort;  I’m bored to tears with myself.   Writing something fun.  So I woke up early and decided to do everything, today.  I hate that sentence.  Brush my teeth, then meditate.  Then write, to music.  This.  With a clean mouth, a clear head.  A full belly.  An appreciative dog, after walking her.  A nap.  Any dreams? Is love even possible? Is everyone annoying? Do I think I’m better off alone?  Maybe.  Really, maybe.  Les Miserables.  Does that translate the way I think it does?  Why am I talking to myself.  I must be crazy.  I gather writers often are, or have to be.  Thanks, Amazon, and whrb, for the music, and thanks Banh Mi, for being adorable, and forcing me to get outside.   I still should exercise, beyond just walking.  And I have a million books to read.  They’ll be back on the 11th.  In 2 days.  No time at all.  Then I’ll be here 2 days after that.   Then back to Berkeley.  I appreciate this interlude, change of scenery, routine, people.   Ah, to have money.  Maybe I should join the rest of humanity and try and earn some bank.  So I can have a house and wife and kids, or something.  Ugh.   Maybe I want to learn to speedread.   Can I actually read my room? I have too much to do.  And I want to do nothing, often.  What a mess.  

Wake up to my alarm.  Don’t oversleep.  Brush.  Walk BM.  Get groceries.  Music.  Meditate.  Write.  Read.   Push-ups, planks, etc.  Walk BM again.  Simple, productive…happy!  Git r done.  Maybe even flirt with pretty women.   Why not?  Because I’m old and poor?  Keep exercising, and feel younger.  Budget, and have more than enough money.  Discipline, and don’t beat yourself up.  Be happy.   It’s not a difficult thing to achieve.   I’ve got enough, and even a semi-respectable blog following.  I could publish.    And I should.  I should go to the GTU and work on a book.   Every day.   With discipline and intensity.   Yes.   That is my plan.

Buy the Aletheon.  Immerse. Read, read, read.  Become a sensation at the GTU.  Yeah? Ya!  Yah!  Follow your bliss.  Be all I can be.  Stay free, alive, happy, and productive.  I have all I need.   It’s all gravy.  

7:30p, R 2/9/2023

My name is Jesse.  My given name.  Surname is Teshara.   Middle name is Lawrence, after my father.   My brother Greg’s middle name is Lawrence, too.   Dad went by Mr. T.   I don’t want to be Mr. T.    It reminds me of crucifixion.  And some weirdo on TV with a mohawk.   Greg can have it.  Anyway, my initials JLT make me think of jail time and jolt cola, both of which aren’t that great, either.  Jesse makes me think of Jesus and J (the tenth letter - which makes me think of Satan).   Jesus AND Satan.   WWJD?  Everybody has their better and worse angels.  Jesse was the father of King David, in the bible.   My birthdad was Jewish.  Maybe he named me.  Esse is latin, like in essence, for ‘being’.   The essence of J.   It reminds me of a cane.   Or an umbrella handle.  I can be both blessed and holy, like the baby Jesus, or depraved and diabolical, like Satan.  Go figure.   Or beloved (and fat), like Santa.  Jest and Tennessee and jessant and messy are evoked as well.  Teshara? As earth, heart, hater.   There’s a polarity in this, as well, between love and hate.  Maybe it gives me freedom.  Or maybe it’s a curse.   I like my name, in any case.  Lawrence has law in it.  My name, in the anagram generator, displays a wonderful and varied richness.  I’m not complaining.   I wouldn’t know where to begin choosing a different name, in any case.

Maybe I can work on my book anywhere.   The GTU might not actually be all that welcoming.  Crazy deities need not breathe their possibly covid-infected breath in the shared air of paying divinity students.   And it might even be overwhelming among so many (millions of?) Books.   Plus it’s up a demon of a hill.  Good exercise, though.  

I’m conceiving of my book as a rearrangement of my blog.   Like my blog is full of puzzle pieces that can be assembled into a glorious, logical, unified, entertaining whole.