Posts Tagged With: Music

No Why Of

am i trying to be correct in my planning, my
maturity if i even believe in that
hard to say but i have to at a certain point, i know
not a high or low, just slow, immeasurable pull
no team or advisory, on own but cliff looking at tree, that
cyprus meant to garnish sea view,
overlooking my notes and what i recorded and wondering
if i did it right
but that depends on who you ask, and who would you ask
the supervisor? nothing super about him, he
doesn’t like me cuz i talk, cuz i question, and there it is in my
truth pot, the table not yet served, i sit to gather self and order more
coffee probably don’t need it but this isnt manic, i dont think, but im not a
doctor or even a professional, the professional they want me to be, im just
a word wrangler, and im inchief as they say, so official, im in office, and
bobbing head with what the xylophone does, following the snare, my snare
as i stare into the smoke over the small crowd in this free hut–
not sure if its simplicity or if i some urge to
complicate and overcomplicate, so maybe its not them, not
them at all, maybe im imagining them, the clock, the obligation and
the schedule, i have to be there, that’s mature, maturity, maybe
we’re all imaging that–
return to the burn, the purifying waves of flame that come from the midday
into the notebook intel spell, attempt, no contact from me after, just silent
i spoke too loud and here i am, whoops, without
but im better, so much better, i should thank them for the paper work, release, out,
of a certain cell, look at me, seriously look. at. me.
no suffer, suffrage and suffer age, put my temper in the fridge, or freezer, thaw it
and what do i get:
sense, a chorus, words ive never sung– bong blong ting ting–
new jazz in a new life in a new street and new calendar square, dirty hands
but that’s art, voice or something like that
new extremity, so now they
call me an extremist, rabblerousing roarer
but as my songs on plays i sway on something
sharper, and my You’s a renewed ME–
landscape to escape or just remain, im
too mobile and manic to anything mold,
im told, complexing
and complication, what now, what now!

Colors circling and I get tads in dizzy,
More vision, though, there’s more
here,
Trust me.
But I don’t trust me so I’m a hyperhypocrite, listening to
two idiots in front of me in this
cafe talk about philosophy and amoebas and followings
and Asia, and standards– oh they know so much,
and I just stare at the shade, the tinted blends on the wall, smell
espresso or biscotti
or maybe that’s just the wind outside– oh so now they talk about Shake
speare. they know so much!
Please tell me I’m not one of them, I’m not of their hem!
Lean into my keys and feel please but I’m around two pseudos,
send me to Peru, or Pluto!
I thought I was manic, you should hear this guy!
I’m annoyed, about to feel my patience fry.
Concentrate on what I have to do, focus I
tell myself but I’m a bad coach and now the younger gives the
excuse that he has to get to a haircut, he doesn’t
want to listen to him anymore and neither do I and
now that the younger has left I don’t have to– praises!
To the moment and to the oddness, now come curious pauses..
Does this happen to you, when you have days off? Oh, but this
usually is a work day, but not anymore, not anymore,
more than anything I have songs to bring, new life and
new me and some trumpets and snare, event
ually:

just notes on sounds, the espresso machines, fruffmmm and
shaaaaaaaahg, repeated.
ugh, now more talkers, ladies at table two over
left and they talk about days off they need or one of them
does– oh no, she’s talking about an
employee, she’s management, enemy, turn
that espresso machine back on!
Bring that younger back in here!
She’s one of them! One of the
clock lovers, one of those bots that make
my case lowered, ‘I’ to ‘i’–
can I go? Sure I can, I have the day, no noose, bless
ing, no dis
guise, look at my eyes, both, you see a sky and a lake of intent, or at least I
hope;
a guy wipes the counter, a tall guy walks in (he works here), and I just write, and sing to
myself cuz I love my voice, I’m no different that this amoeba philosophy guy
i need some advise, and a teamish tone
let’s see what I can draw, but I’m gone
and the shop wants me to go to, go out there,
enjoy your day,
you’re free, swinging in and
out of any
sea, no edit or controls I start to shiver
but then I’m enclosed, in love, set, and I
know why

(1/31/15)

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Home, 9:01AM. (Day 72 excerpts.. no edits)

…Mom said, “Laughter’s a proven life-extender!” Yes, very true, Mother.. now I create and focus on my images, the one of me just walking around a vineyard (in this particular conscious envisage, St. Francis’ Wild Oak Vineyard), between Syrah and Chard, and I think that’s Merlot.. not sure, but I just walk, look up at Hood Mt. and stare back at the ground. My wife, Jackie and I took pictures over there, far left, over by the visitor center, where the tasting room is. All positive and poetic about this morning and this imaginary walk, ‘nother sip… Mr. Hutcherson plays, and I play.. music and poetry, my teaching, talking about Kerouac to the students and seeing what they have to say.. this 1B session, about wellness, health (mental and physical), about Personhood and “spirituality”. Duluoz, in a battle for Personhood, for (dare I say) recovery! He wants to, possibly, recover from everything and recover and/or recapture what he’s lost, leaving the madness behind– I’ll save for the paragraph below, the one I’ll post to the teaching blog. Today I live as how I saw myself living later in life when I was 17 or so, in high school, in Mr. Sullivan’s Creative Writing class; I saw myself, at this age, as a writer/professor, and that’s it. And today, that’s it, ‘that’s the ticket’ as they say, I’m him, the New Mike! The one I saw then and now and the one I revel in. Divorcing the negative, attaching Self to the positive; my son, my wife, my family, the words, the mélange of it all, all the positive, all the lifts and gives to growth, that makes me smile, this poetry, the Art and expression and LIFE! That old expression: ‘If you don’t have anything nice to say then don’t say anything at all.’ Radiantly correct! Why would you! Why would you dignify the negative and what would prompt to say or write negativity with the Art, with words? No! Only the affable and transcendent!

…COFFEECOFFEECOFFEE, my singular obsession in this sitting.. why do people drink alcohol when you can have this? Especially if you write? You’d rather have a drink, a whisky or wine or bourbon or beer? Are you a fool? Look at this, this madness that folds and delivers me from any sorrow or depression or holding, or clockish confines! I will hit 5 pages today you can bet, and when I wake from my nap I will run, only five miles, that’s it, maybe just do my ‘big daddy’ run that Alice often does, just five, a comfortable and leisurely 5! After 10 now and I should take a break from the page, maybe use the restroom, stretch, breathe, meditate without writing, but can I do that? Something so godly about Literature, and Philosophy, and the act of reading, what’s on a page, the Author having the fire to confess what he/she does. I could only have heros like Plath, Kerouac, right? Like Mr. Hemingway, like Dickinson, Joyce… I’m at peace in my Personhood now, so thankful the story brought me here, home, around my son’s toys and on this couch, hearing this jazz paired with the fridgehum in the kitchen. I’m smiling right now, fearless in my joy and positivity, my thanks for everything, my loves; Mom, Dad, Katie, Jack, Alice, Grandma and when she told me only days before she left, “It’s YOUR life…You have YOUR choice.” And, now and always, I choose to be happy, and to be in love, with everything, with tomorrow and today and what brought me here, all in my story. Namaste…..

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from day 61

At home working on my syllabi, Alice taking Jack to his friend Addison’s house to give me some time to work, bless her… Easy drive home, no traffic at all, none. Finishing this coffee, then to a beer which I’ve been craving for the last two days. Still very much feel the 9.3 miles, very much. Wanted to take a nap like Alice but couldn’t even if I wanted to as little Kerouac was still very much in his demanding standing, “Play, daddy, play!” So I did, and now I think of how to make this semester one for me, more than for the students. Of course I want to “teach” and show the matriculants new ways of looking at Literature but how do I make it more for me, how do I change my life and my story and the intensity and meaning of my existence? I’ll see, I’ll take some brief notes, and explore my owning notings. I’ll have to print the syllabi copies, at least those for 1A, the 7AM(!!) section at some point tomorrow after work. And I will, straight from work going to the copy place on 4th then back home to pack bag, again lightly (will travel light this entire term, a difference), then to early bed, ready, and I will fill that tumbler with the most extreme of coffees, more than likely the Pike, but have it to top, no “room” as they say.
Still feeling run, so very much. Why has it hit me with this intensity, this time? Maybe as I didn’t sleep that well last night. Next time, on the next overnight, wherever it is, I’ll bring my own pillows, sure that’ll help. One other detail from this morning I forgot to cite was the fog, in the park mainly, and how the pockets kept trapping me at the beginning of the race, even forcing me to run onto the side of the road with one of my little skipjumps that Alice always laughs at. But not at all hindering, as I always was able to establish my own pocket, and at the end of the race a couple trying to dash past me, and I let them for a minute, fooling them into seeing me as a dying engine, but then I shot past them with an furiously electric gallop they weren’t prepared for. I want to run around Petaluma tomorrow, I mean Tuesday, after class, around the campus and maybe up whatever street that is that runs into Petaluma Hill Rd, maybe just an hour run, or 45 min. But right now I can’t imagine running, honestly. Ugh, hate that I’m so tired, and that I’m not typing as fast as usual. Tomorrow in the goddamn tasting room, I’ll write both lectures, or take the notes, or those in addition to anything I write tonight. Have to go pickup dinner.. but not hungry after the late lunch we had, sandwiches from Oliver’s– I feel a mess right now, honestly, and I don’t like it, at all. Should switch to poetry later, write something that can stand on its own and be performed, read, to music, jazz then.. yes now I come awake with my deflated slate, think about writing a poem in that bar, in Union Hotel, at the bar itself while people sit around me and drink and talk and/or stare at the screen, highlights from today’s football games, or watch one that still might be on. Frustrate now and for what reason. I’ve had a wonderful day with Ms. Alice and now home with my son, why the sludge in my sight and this ephemeral edge, at least I hope it’s short-lived. I’m not in the shape for some internal skirmish.. go for a drive, I tell myself, go to the restaurant, order dinner, wait and have a beer and write a couple words, whatever lands, and stick, and provokes.
I’ll write one when there, on the first object or character that calls, but I have to be in the territory of bar, and after I order an IPA.

And I did write a poem at the bar but my little pages are upstairs. I’ll type it tomorrow morning, before prose, or I’ll try. Here in nook with nightcap, my streets in that neighborhood, Japantown, calling me, wanting me back, or the neighborhood through which Alice and I walked last night, to our restaurant; new topics sprout– sidewalk discoloration and wear; the uphill facet and consistency of SF, how I love it; and those buildings, the building that make me dizzy if I look to their topfloors, closer I get to Market and Union Sq. Sipping my Racer 5 I dream of the Road, other hotels I’ll frequent, write in, shower in, how the towels will feel, what tables I’ll place my laptop on, or write in my Comp Book, what the lobby will smell like, what the color layers will be and what the elevator will look like and what views I’ll have from my floor. Last night I was, we were, lucky, with that view of the heart of Japantown and Sutter St. and the people walking through that narrow plaza. Last night and this morning, I experienced Newness, difference, Life like I never have; that windmill, the waterfall, the expansive lawns, trees, the smells of those leaves at the end of the run (can’t be sure what trees they were coming from as I was looking at the ground at that point). I’ve found something in SF, my city, where Dad was born, and with this trip! I grew up just south of there, and visited ridiculously often after I turned 21, relying on North Beach for social circles and meetups and parties. Now, I’m an agin writer, never more desperate for material and pages and characters. Today’s characters: all on phones, or most of them, after the run at the afterparty if that’s what you’d call it, on phones, taking “selfies” (can’t believe that’s a word now)… Sick. I don’t want that in my story, in my vision. In fact, I may outlaw cell phones in my office, when there, on the Sonoma Square, and yes that’s what I’ve settled upon. Right off Spain…

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6:23am and in

a fanged mood already.  You know why, you know and you know me and you know it would fracture my mood, either slightly or significantly, that review.  Mendo.  I’ll specify, why not, what do I have to lose at this point.  Downstairs in dark, mouth dry from the Zin last night and ales that encircled.  A problem with my writing that can’t be overlooked, lashings from a full-timer, a teacher, how much a writer be he I wonder.  If any point to be remembered or relished in this transaction it’s this: the writing has to happen NOW.  No more of this delay and play with certain methods and recipes or tricks– it has to be this.  And, as my wife said quite starkly last night after Mom and Dad left, “so who cares?” She’s right.  I’m not teaching there next semester or ever a-bloody-gain and it’s Mendocino…  Mendocino College.  In Ukiah.  Ukiah.  Where’s that?  I’m a writer, my own Beat has been carved at this old age 35 and I’m not budging or compromising.  My teaching’s fine, okay, but my writing cited?  I can only laugh, in the dark here with this Sahara tongue.  Water, that Perrier that Alice bought, wonderful– I’m sharpened and I have to be and with thicker skin like Kerouac with people reviewing his words his books and sharings.  I guess why I’m bothered is ‘cause I’m tired at this age; tired of being reviewed and approved and applying and the back-and-forth and the commuting and the trying.  “So stop it, stop it all,” a voice says, probably one of my characters from the novel, either Glenn or Dav, or Crystal the winemaker.  And like my sister once told me, “if you second-guess yourself you’ll never make wine.” Or never write which is what I was drawn, my character, Mike Madigan, to do.  Would I want to be him, I ask myself, the full-timer that gave the review, be a full-time English teacher at a removed and obscure college that’s known for…?  No.  Now, if this review came from SSU, or SRJC, or even Napa when I taught there, I’d have reason to be even more hungover than I am, but this is silly–  I would deplore that role and reality, a teacher there.  “That’s where I teach,” I can’t hear myself say.  “I write, I self-published a novel and am selling it.. I wrote it how I write not how I think it’d sell, or it should be written.” There I am, me… And then further into this dream I add, “And I lead a fiction seminar at Stanford.” Ha ha, I reel to myself.  I know what I want and this, that school, isn’t part of it.  So he can sip his self-indulgent defamation and entitled mumbles up there in the mountains, on that campus that barely outsizes this condo complex.

Tried going back to sleep but couldn’t.  Yesterday, more than crazy at winery.  More of that crazy you’d expect from a rainy day where the only alternative’s to taste inside.  Wrote down one line, from a guest, not sure where he was from and I overheard him say this to Gary who was pouring right next to me at day’s end, for a little over and hour and a half: “Old vine Zins always taste too incense-y to me.” Funny thing, I somewhat agree with him and understand his idea, so what did I write it down?  I’ve never heard it put that way with those words before– well that and I didn’t write anything the whole shift into my little pages so I thought I should scribble something.  I poured my people the ’11 Cab and turned around, brandished the little pages and used the back bar for support.

Wonder what Mr. Dav is doing.  Still haven’t sent him that letter.  I’ll print it tomorrow at Mendo and send it from SRJC’s base.  Keep typing, I tell myself down here, keep typing.  6:45, and I hear Jackie upstairs, coughing a little and saying something to Alice who’s probably only wanting to sleep, poor thing.  Going up to rescue her and him and further distract myself this morning.  That review of my teaching or writing, now far past my care, gone into some sewer of dismissed ideas where it certainly belongs.  And when we meeting, this reviewer and I, I’ll be silent, no comments, I won’t waste my words or respiration or time.  I’ll just nod and tune out and leave.  And, frankly, I have to get to SRJC so he only has so much time anyway.  As much as I permit and budget.

Jack and I now, on the couch, Alice sleeping upstairs.  I’ll make sure she rests till 8.  She told me that he was kicking and nudging her all night, my poor wife.  I’m sipping the only k-cup I had left.  Well, I have those decaf doses but those are worthless at this hour, or any hour other than those close to bed.  This coffee bouncing in my rhythms, just what I needed.

I just looked at the evaluation again and it’s just plainly droll, dull, and just what I wanted now that I see my students highly approve of my performance, in fact he himself even noted that my student evals are “exceptional”, and that most obviously means more to a writer like me than what some full-timer documents from having to.  My students’ approval has value.  His thoughts are just part of a machine, a track, an intoxicant that he’ll probably read to himself and show off to the other FT-er hogs.  “Look what I did…” Pig.

Miss the rain.  Want it to come back and I want my little boy’s cold or sniffle set or whatever afflicts him to just bloody fly away.  Now he plays on the ground with a small colony of coins he took from me; everything, pennies nickels dimes even quarters.  He won’t give them back, “My money!” he reminds me.  This is what matters, him, my little Artists, and my students; that they’re pleased with my lessons and the ideas that I offer.

I need more coffee and more time to write, prep for tomorrow.  I know how tomorrow will be approached, just how, Mendo will be conducted slightly differently, meaning I will have my students there enjoy their session with even thicker pleasure entanglements both in idea and expression and the reading– and with Hemingway on the platter now.. we have only the fruitful ahead of us.  I’ll wake tomorrow morning, I’m hoping, when my mother-in-law does, before 5.  I’ve always admired that about her.  I’ll try to run tonight, just five miles, which means NO tasting today.  Nothing.  I’ll let the guests tell me how it tastes and what characters and notes they encounter in the wine.

Jackie continues to throw two footballs at me, one small, which he calls the baby, and the other which is ‘dada’.  He laughs and stresses about nothing, bothered by nothing, just enjoys his morning around me while I type and record whatever I can to make myself feel like a writer.  When Alice wakes I’ll go get us coffees and then come back to shower.  I’m realizing that the music in my life is everywhere and that’s where the truth and gems are.  Not in the routine and the documented and the official.

IDEA: write a short piece, three pages, and distribute to SRJC colleagues.. no selling, just promo, sharing, for Art’s love, Life– and I know what to do, what to write, about what.. that eval from that gudgeon full-timer only convinced me that I’m a writer, one who will by the pen his way, and won’t be in the adjunct role or anything stricture-bound or pinned by any document.  I’m on and in my own Beat.  No more being beaten.

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excerpt from this morning’s sitting…

I speak, no more shriek

need more coffee, quick, my consciousness over tipped,

and I slipped on the what should be

proper, or responsible, mature–

that’s all myth, says this coffee

jazzy smoke and bass from corner have me continued in my straying

this feels amazing– okay that’s it, no more coffee for me

wait till I finally grow up

 

tricycle wheels over carpet, no sound, then

some fool on a harley quakes past

to show what he has, how musical, how nice, how needed

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1/9/14:  Second Chardonnay glass.  1,000 words this morning reached, in Annadel.  Just sent letter to writing ally.  And now, I can relax.  Well, not really.  Have to edit the last few entries for this blog.  And later, more poetry.  Loving Mr. Kerouac’s writing, in the book I yesterday bought.

But tonight, right now, I’m finished for day.  I want to be lazy, normal.  I’m never lazy.  How often am I “normal”?  Don’t even want to think about it.  Want to note, pen-to-paper, read through this Kerouac collection–  OH!  Still have the poem I wrote in pocket.  Tasted through both my wines again today.  Efrain, the cellar master, suggested I bottle the blend this Saturday, leave the Merlot till later in year, closer to harvest.  But I can’t believe.. I’ll be bottling the NDC in two days, maybe.  MY first bottled wine.  Maybe I shouldn’t dismiss wine so quickly, just stick to my only interest in its world: making the wine.

Also tasting some ’12 Cabs in the lab, then two bbls of ’13 Cab.  Then, shortly after, tasted the two wines E’s making.. a 100% Alicante, then a Zin on mostly new American Oak.  Aromatically, it presented a little reduction (the Zin), but palate-wise, was probably the nicest Zin I’ve tasted.. maybe ever.  And it’s still so young.  Not giving up on winemaking.  It’s too interesting to me, as a writer.. all the components connecting.

Think I may be ready for bed.  Oh please, Craft, let me wake incredibly early tomorrow, to get some work done, finish my letters for this new semester.  10:16PM.. the day’s over.  I’ll re-fixate in the earliest.  I’ll repeat it to Self as I fall asleep.  That’ll have to wake me, right?

know it’s time

to stop when I

feel

forced

especially

by

self

architectural zest, in internal

afforded, but I have

to rent my soul

and the market sours

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midOctober

Transferred the 2k words to book, 41-page project.  And it’s done.  Time, 8:41am, and I’m nearing 1,000 words.  Could be the coffee, could the morning.. could be me.  Not sure I’m concerned with cause at this point.  Started a 500-word paper on Naturalism, its significant to students, readers, on teaching blog.  Feel that it may be part of what gets me to Stanford.  I think.  Could be wrong, but what’s wrong with trying, blended with hoping?

 

Season earlies, not hurting,

but teaching, showing, new green stretches,

glazed, almost closed,

stay on patio, enjoy moment before

numbers heighten–

all touched, as if it were sent from

Yukon, Arctic, somewhere in

Siberia.  Thank you, perfect

beginning. now if I could

just stay here, freeze frozen

frame, for me, to keep, what they could

criticize then.. nothing.  their lips would

be iced still, shut.

Sounds, natural or man, with whisked white

whispers.

 

(10/13/13)

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Pointing

All poetry, no prose.. I chose notably, so closed.

Unload, they froze.

Time running out, but how?  Only a second ago, I left

impressions aglow.  Thorough like Thoreau;

Arrow, bow.  Precisely skate over Arctic ice– isolated,

part with price.. critics feared like rabid bat bites–

however not me; react immediately, clocks cracked–

how these devils are, but I top that..

attitude & demeanor, the bad news infused to deed’s

beaker.. me, measured untethered.  Arguments

implied with convenient skies.. my writing shape, quite

cubist.. only way to be truest, but they’re still clueless.

Depart from heart, emotion.. more than impart commotion–

experimental potion, all pages, syllabic hit– mad as

Lazarus.  Tracked, but I’m packed, ready to leave, need

times-three reprieve– was burned in internal journal hurdles.

(8/4/13)

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31st

Reach to another space–
But I’m afraid of erase.
If I fail, I’ll press delete,
Restart, so no obsolete,
I promise,
To self,
What else is dealt?

Solidly, promises and wishes,
Fall to three.
Pleasing pleases,
Fortune spun for sick seasons–

Decided to stand still, admire perfect walls..
Intimidated by stares of beloved dolls.
Plates broken in floors, slamming invisible
Doors. Ignore the call for to any chores.

(7/29/13)

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journal, 7/17/13

Tonight, one for documentation.  A walk in Annadel with Dad, what the writer needed.  The whole time, listening to his stories, thoughts on matters, perspectives from his Human Experience.  He told me a story about a writer, for some paper that went with out devices for 20-something days.  Just what I need to do.  Honestly, reader, I’ve had it.  Completely.  Want to enjoy moments, and move pens only when I want to– what I discovered writing at the CIA yesterday.

Tonight, sipping Rosé.  Locked Self in castle.  Have a lot about which2THINK.  Too much to catalogue, and I wouldn’t here on blog.  Just know I’m thinking, about and within matters of tremendous gravity.  Another night where I outrun the wine’s effect.  Downstairs, steak and veggies in oven.  Bought from Oliver’s, so don’t think I started cooking yet.  But I will.  Someday.  I hope.

Logged out of ALL “social” [should really be called “judgmental”] media accounts.  And pretty soon, only pen, paper.  IF I do 3 pages for book, it’ll be in the overcrowded Comp Book.  I just think of Picasso, what he did.  Utterly independent of devices, electronics, certainly the devilish internet.  No one could spy on him– he moved brushes, colors, across material’d flat.  That’s Artistry.  Technology compromises Art.. it hinders IT, detracts from IT.

Now, my mood becomes rattlesnake’d.  Judgement, disruptors.. I’m just going to do what I want.  “It’s your Life, you have your choice,” Grandma ordered.  I didn’t write ‘said’ as I’m convinced she wasn’t just saying something, reciting lines, speaking.  She was giving me a direct order.  And I’m following it.  WIthout question.

Have to work tomorrow, but I’m not paying that too much mind.  And why should I?  2nite’s about Art, this moment, in this office.  Took too many pictures with this devil phone, now it doesn’t function as it should.  I swear, revolution’s near…

That forest today.. so perfectly purist.  For both prose AND poetry.  I AM going to sit at one of those trail benches, just write.  The laptop’s stalling again.  This devil laptop.. asking for divorce–  NO!  Ordering.  Need another glass of wine.  And I need to clean up all these items I removed from desk, put to floor.  How does that make sense?  Yes, need another Rosé pouring, some dinner.  Next semester, on mind.  How to convey my favorites: Plath, Poe.. show them more as Optimists, yeasayers.  Not the dark, tormented haunting scribes everyone labels, often dismisses.

9:47pm.  Couple minutes past, poured Self the most obnoxious glass of the Rosé.. and the dinner, amazing.  Have to say I agreed with everything from texture to marinade to intended profile.  And I’m not full/feeling sick, which is nice– no, not ‘nice’.. incredible.  Dad, telling me about that writer, quitting tech, “cold turkey,” as Dad put it, has me thinking.  About more than just my interactions with tech.  9:57pm…  Think the turkey’s cold.. starting now.  Why does Time have to be so vicious?  Maybe it’s my approach.  Maybe I should be more relaxed, not trying always to hit some words counted.

Well.. the writer’s over 500 for this sitting, so I’m off to Comp.  This Rosé.. indebted to my brother, Blair.  Nice balance of thinned Zin/Syrah notes.

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