9/10/12.  Class tonight.  All that’s on my mind.  Was just thinking, while brushing teeth, how wine just before bottling is like writing before print.  Why have I 2nd-guessed mySelf for so long, deferred to this blog?  Anyway, today’s promised to be fruitful.  Tonight’s lecture, hoping to encourage that playfulness with the literature that I mentioned last class.  Too much clutter and distraction around the writer.  Clocking out..

7:55am. Think I’m just tired of writing this blog.  It’s not writing, especially when I’m “uploading” “posts” from a mobile phone.

12:42pm.  At Starbucks on Mendocino.  Arguing couple to right just left, just as I started to type.  Now, this whole back area to me.  Need to not carry so much clutter with me.  And such includes this laptop.  Should have just brought pen & Comp Book.  First sip of 1st mocha 2day…  Can’t concentrate, though.  So, as I guessed, the peace back here didn’t last long, and I can’t grade.  So, I’ll just write my way away, till I have to leave.  Next time, though, not as much baggage.  Literally, figurative/symbolically.

Not letting this entry go much past 300 words.  But I’m even started getting.  Put the words somewhere else, into a page set that’s not donated to a “blog.” Something I can sell.  Traffic flying by, like there’s a rush swarm.  Everyone wants to be at the same place, before the person driving next to them.  Don’t want to live like that.  Can’t, I realize coming from the hospital where I was merely picking up something for a dentist appointment.  So many there, in line with me, sick, elderly, barely motioned.  Life again I’m reminded will pass as it wants, which is with cruel choreography.  This mocha, beautiful.  Thought of getting 4 shots when I got here, but what would that do?  Guess the writer’ll never know.  Now, 2 other characters back here with.  Make that 3.  Feeling squeezed, when I need see free.  Leaving early, I feel.  And when home, I’m breaking away from this typing dependency– its hook, drug, narcotic, swirling substance-like influence.  I quit.  Back to moving a pen.  I told my students, last week, to always have a pen at the ready.  Not a device.  So, with more consistency I’ll travel.  Finally.  Probably why I can’t write my lecture, finish it, here.  ‘Cause I’m typing, not writing.  The intimacy isn’t there.  My writing needs to smile, cry, hurt, rebirth, re-die..  It need be immortal, Literarily gridlocked.

Forgot I had the little pages in back pocket.  To ink a day–