Known Prose Code [entry for 7/11/12]

Up this morning, more than at peace with my decision to FINALLY kill the other blog.  A full throttle into Writing’s dimensions.  And wine.. has its place.  It’s what I decide it should be.  Reconnecting with another former student, and she telling me what a profound influence I’ve had, my teaching/emphasis on writing and critical reading had on her life.  Suggests I go back.  Back to my classRoom.  She, Kristina, also pursues a teaching credential, where she earned her B.A.  Cal State East Bay, like I with my little M.A.  This came about yesterday, the same day as my meeting with that compliance gentleman owning his own outfit, inviting me to start another venture with him.  Carrying my notebook with me to the tasting room [yes, I’m not capitalizing “room” here].  Thinking.. writing, writing..  Theory.  Stanford.  Creative Writing.  My initial goal, since Mr. Sullivan’s class, “Writer and Professor.” Today, first step.  Can’t believe how much I’m seeing this A.M.  Credit yesterday.  Going to use the wine industry to get me where I want to be.  Where I SHOULD be.  SHOULD have been THIS WHOLE TIME.  No regrets, reader.  Not a one.  All learning exercises, re-instilling my passion for Literature, teaching.

note: Not at all too late.  One of my co-workers, going back to school, UC Davis no less, for his V&E degree.  He’s 31, on two years this Author’s junior.

Love mornings like this, soaked in optimistic strokes.  Typing from left knee, by the way…

10:04pm.  Not the roughest of Monday’s, I’ll divulge.  On mountain’s top.  Yes, quite hot, but not more than I could handle.  No rhymes or academic writing done 2day, shamefully.  But, now that I’m seated with this Merlot-centered blend, I’m more leveled.  The verse in my head, need to transfer to paper.  Yes, paper.  Thinking that of the one classes I may be teaching, at Stanford [pray], will be spoken word.  Poetry, from a performing pose, posture.  Listening to Mr. Shakur’s work on the ride home, constricted my composure, ordered me to keep with rhymed line, even if, ESPECIALLY if, I’m in the mood to just lazily journal, not scribble a single stanza.

2day’s heat, quite intent.  The temperature now, 65.  At least that’s what my phone says.  If I was overseas, or anywhere here in this country with any degree of beach, I’d be outside sipping SB.  Delighting the scorch’s absence.  Last night, had a dream about Florida.  Not sure if it was Miami, but I was in a hotel, the night before a reading/performance.  One of the gentlemen on my only tour, at 12:30p, worked for the Discover Channel, telling me he travels “quite regularly.” Remember thinking how much I’d love to be in his demands set.  The stationary, killing writers.  It makes them, ME, surrender, think this [whatever they do] is all they’re good for.  Not me.. I will see the road, just like my dad, mom.  I will be in that hotel Room, writing, with a glass of something Bordeaux-emboldened at my right, just as this blend is.  All this possible as my focus is now entirely singular.  And that’s what I advise all writers do: cut excess, the unneeded.  Not missing the 2nd blog, even a spec’s worth.

The box.  Still reluctant to read those notes I took in that devilish cubicle.  Why?  What is so terrifying about reading my responses?  My best-seller could be there, on those yellow sheets.  Those fools, showing me where those legal pads and horizontally bound notepads were, not knowing I was using each piece of paper to deeply document what I experienced.  Not a thing terrifying about THEM.  They amuse me, still.  That’s the only reason I still mention them in these entries.  The live, work, boxed.  Selling wine over phone lines.  What does that have to do with wine’s actual, TANGIBLE, elements?  That word “immersion,” the Van Gogh quote they’d cite.. nauseating.  And one day, I WILL let it all out.  I’m an Artist, so I can’t be harmed.  If wine’s “industry” dismisses, or even ostracizes, me.. it’ll only give me goad to stay in this chair, release more expository accounts.  I’ll never be muted.  Like Dad recently told me, “If you’re to be so concerned with what others think, how can you truly be thinking for yourself? … All that you lectured to your students has now fallen into your lap.” And like Mom told me, “At this point, it’s all or nothing.” At the end of all analysis, I can’t lose.  Ever.  And I won’t.  Hoping to wake early tomorrow, to continue this regenerated ardency.  What I’m hoping for, a time like that one morning.. somewhere around 4:50-something.  A.M., before the temperature has to voice its insecure relevance.  On page 194 of this document, which angers me.  Yes, ANGERS.  How have I written so much, and am still where I stand, five days each indentured week?