No time to write, I feel.  The novel needs just that.  But I’m rushed.  Long day in tasting Room, but providing good material.  People aware I’m writing, taking notes to little pages throughout day.  Tonight’s wine, a ’10 Pinot, pairing it with a tortilla casserole recipe from Mom.  The wine I enjoyed most today at winery, that ’09 single vineyard Cabernet.  MY wine, the Merlot, still in bin.  Going to press it off on Sunday, hopefully.  The blend, not being done till later.  But I am making 2 wines this vintage, that IS definite, defined.

Was awarded another teaching assignment for next term.  Initially, was told it’d be a Critical Thinking section.  But, to my surprise, it’s English 100, the class before 1A.  I accepted, as I want to be challenged, eager with this opportunity/invite to be Creative to make class enjoyable not just for them but for mySelf as well.  Why is this slug of a laptop moving so gelatinously?  I’m irritated, honestly.  Can’t wait for that first Pinot pour.  Need a writing retreat.. The Road.  The travel, the unexpected.. newness.  To live Artistically, I need 2B more Artful.  Whimsical, I know…  But how?  I can’t be too crazy, with real life outgunning any fantasy entering stage.  Have to balance, like the winery’s blends.

8:12pm.  Still no wine, yet.  Waiting till little Kerouac’s dreams.  Rain coming back, not sure when.  Could use some on one of my off days, rather than one clocked.  The novel, hopefully touching at some point 2nite.  Maybe later, before bed, during the 11 o’clock news.  Never pay attention when they’re embellishing–I mean talking, anyway.  All these notes, making me think the novel needs more than the prescribed 102 pages.  But I can’t afford even a single sheet more.  I’m the publisher, the one putting all onto shelves.  In winemaking analogy-speak: I’m at a certain case production, as that’s all the fruit I can afford to buy.  Like the winery’s winemaker said, once in my presence while I was walking the vineyard blocks with him and the other winemaker, “Once it’s bottled there’s no going back.” For me, with this novel: When it’s bound, it’s done.

Another struggle I’ve been having lately– writing in moment, like if I’m at the bar and a guest says something potentially valuable for page, I don’t break for a second to scribble.  Well, not so much I “don’t,” I CAN’T.  Especially when it’s superbly busy.  But, as I’ve said before, if I don’t remember it later, don’t write it down when home or later at work, then it wasn’t worth remembrance.  That man from Wednesday night, laughing while he repeatedly reminded me that I had to teach still, while he and his wife were going to enjoy their hotel room, some more wine, a nice dinner at EDK [El Dorado Kitchen].  He wasn’t malicious, antagonistic.  Just think he had a bit much that day, before he arrived in our Room.  I remember being proud that I was off to lecture my college-level section, while still a bit sick.  Told him, “It’s fine, I’m an animal.”

Need.  To.  Write.  Poem.  2nite.  No exception.  No excuses.  Especially if I’m sipping Pinot, a nice one, for the first time in…  The lady yesterday, telling me how she travels frequently for work, on mind.  When I’m on the Road, which is soon I’m convinced, I have to record everything.  All people, places, meals, wines, weather trends.  Won’t allow mySelf to skip on even the shortest note.  What books will sprout from those jaunts?  Can’t wait.  Just thinking about it makes me anxious, pleasantly.  Now, need Pinot–

8:55pm.  Sips…  Nothing short of magic.  Makes me think of travel.  Of course.  Writing at hotel Room desk, pen to paper, with sliding glass door open, enough so I can hear waves.  I think about going for a walk, writing ON the beach, closer to the water orchestra.  But no.  I’d stay seated.

Poetry calling.  Thinking of what’s close.  The Road.  But, topic next.

This “developmental” class for Spring ’13, thinking must emphasize student opinion; molding that opinion into submittable form.  Doesn’t have to be so “academic.” I’d rather it be Literary.  Want students to feel comfortable, excited.. Mentally Alive.  Another note here about my cousin Nick.. only 26[?], making $200,000/yr according to uncle Tim [his dad].  This writer’s never jealous.  But I was motivated by this divulgence.  That’s where I should be.  AT LEAST.  Jack’s depending on me, whether he’s aware or not.  Posting to bx everyday, even if it’s merely a photo.  Speaking of which, I’m running out of space on phone, and I fear this monster [laptop, if you forgot] as well, soon.  Have that external hard-drive upstairs, in the closet in Kerouac’s Room, from when I had it for a studio (well before his birth, awareness of his approach).

Just remembered a title I was going to use for a post this morning, which I never did: “Friday, my Wednesday.” So, tomorrow’s my Thursday.  Weeks long, always for the writer.  And is the resulting page HONEST?  Of course–  I can only at this point convey what I’m doing.  Where I am.  What I want.  Where I WANT 2B.  Need to be motioned, so I can write in more varied tints.  That’s the writer I want to be: truly worldly, learned like my father, seeing much.  And writing it all.

Tiring, from day.  No compromise in my aims.  Writers can’t afford that.  We’re Creators, only allotted 1 life for Composition.  Not fair, now that I think.  Pouring night’s cap.  Focused on entry, visions obstructing my view of this screen.  The Road– beaches, expansive forests, desert, metropolis, village.  Anything.  Need to soon my future novels meet.  The last note from today: “Day giving me 2 much material.  Can’t trap it all.” Not an excuse anymore, if I’m walking away from this session learning or realizing anything.  Just have to keep writing.  Everything.  Life, not important.  This Literary digging, however, very much IS.  Will always B.

The Pinot, just as brilliant as I needed it to be.  More, really.  Just went upstairs to check on little Jack.  Love watching my little friend rest, enjoy his quiet.  Strangely, I envy his state, stage.  Time, pocketing another victory against the writer.  But I’m a diarist, so I trap all these momentary’s.  Makes me feel a little better.  Need randomness.  Oh, wanted to get back into running–  How about tomorrow morning?  Don’t care how cold it is.  Want to take better care of Self.  For me.  For Little Kerouac.  [Did I capitalize “Little” before?]  Have to close.  Leaving with new plans.  New vision.  Used to hate that word, “vision.” Reminded me of that advertising firm owner in Marin, when he asked me, “Why did you go to graduate school, to study English of all things?  I mean, what was your vision with that?”

“That?” I remember thinking.  What a pox-marked vassal.  I still get a little quilled when I hear that word, honestly.  Okay.. closing.  Finally.