7:03am.  Potential novel pages, everywhere it seems.  And I have to be honest, I’m getting real sick of thinking what I COULD do with them.  And I know I always say that, too.  Blame it on the blog, this immediacy.  For now.  Yawning, here atop sheets.  Today, Saturday.  My Thursday.  Getting confused.  Glad I’m getting my 300-500 done now [assuming little Kerouac doesn’t wake] so I can print some pages before I flee for tasting Room.  Another day much cooler, like yesterday.. welcomed.  As I noted earlier, the higher the mercury the smaller the page stack.  Can’t write when I walk in high 90s, or even when I know that’s what’s on the other side of those twenty-foot, red, church-like tasting Room doors.  Always thought those things were impressive, even before I started working behind SV Winery’s bar.  Maybe those doors serves as some sort of symbol for me, each entry.  Let’s examine this, just for a bit…  One atmosphere on a side, then juxtaposing aura on other; you approach with intent to enter; once in, you intend to interact with a targeted entity, wine; maybe you buy a couple bottles, maybe you don’t.. but either way, you followed through with what you intended to do, whether a virgin visitor, or returning, or club member; you, the consumer, want what’s behind the doors.  For employees, what’s the vision, perspective, reflection?  Saved for book. NOVEL.  There, I typed it again.

Wonder what my poetry professor, Ms. Gillian Conoley’s doing this morning.  Is she writing?  Had so much fun studying under her.  Don’t think I ever had a more sweet, supportive, insightful and inspiring Creative Writing professor at any point in my studies.  Grad or undergrad.  She was, IS, amazing.  Just did a search on her name.  Many collections of poems, dozens of which are widely anthologized.  No fiction, or essay works, that I can find.  She’s stuck to her sight, followed through.  Need some lyric in this dark Room, sitting up straight, right elbow supported by leaning pillow tower …

eventuality, like a last sip–cloud pinch

every ounce, worked away. smile day.

barks from under phone poles, sending

notes to abandoned boats. forgot my

assignment at a

record store. what was it doing

there with me?


My poetry class, in graduate school, not as engaging.  The professor, nowhere near as strong a verse-ist as Ms. Conoley, felt it necessary to question–NO, interrogate–all forms that appear anti-formalist.  She gave me a high mark on the first poem I submitted (a poem that I now realize would be perfect for a character to write about Kelly), only to be succeeded by lower marks on other efforts.  I re-wrote two pieces, I think, still only earning a B- in her poetry youth core -esque seminar.  My lowest grade as a grad student.  In Gillian’s sections, both A’s.  The first class with GC was a Poetry writing section, when the other was independent study; I would collect poems, I think 15-20 pages each time, then submit to her.  We’d meet once a month in her office to discuss, deconstruct.  She was honest in her critiques–not sure I’d call them “criticisms”–very gentle. encouraging.  I don’t even know I’d call them “critiques.” We just talked.  About poetry.  My poetry.  Hers.  It was Art.  More about the process than product.  But that was then.

And now, there’s a clock.  Hunting me.