Had everything on mind platter, now it’s gone. Should wear this laptop around my neck. Glass, the Zin from last night. Today in tasting Room, incredible characters. Didn’t do much tasting, but took plenty stills. Photography again pulls at the writer’s attention. Another thing I’m noticing, I need to keep the prose on this “blog” to minimum. 1k would be more beautifully placed in a book.. what I want to write. Tomorrow, my Saturday, all for book. BOOKS. TV, won’t ever again have my eyes. Alice watches her show, now, and deservedly so, spending the day’s whole caring for little Kerouac. But I need to immerse Self in study, writing. Three characters, that I can only now remember [will probably be able to summon more, later] from Room today, in graduate programs. Everything from MA’s to PhD’s. Not sure if I need the apostrophes, but I don’t care. Not now. Thinking of study, my studIES. But I’m at point where I need to do EVERYTHING independently. Took some theory notes after the first left. After second, third, I filled a handful of pages in the little book. MY Literary Theory, one rejecting theirs.. embracing the ACT of reading; the practice of; the love for; the engagement. And just as a winemaker can’t specialize in every varietal, or even several, I don’t look to be an “expert” in numerous authors, or theories. Ms. Plath, at this stage in my life, has author’s commitment. And my theory, rejecting theory; dismissing institution, endorsing readership individualism. Today did quite a bit for me as Author, reader, scholar. MY wine, didn’t touch it today, regretfully. Might go in tomorrow, but I doubt it. Have to prioritize, schedule. And what holds focus, in this writer’s Life: the WRITING. What a concept, I know. The rain, falling just outside this kitchen window couplet. I listen, knowing evolution’s sculpting its own solution.
Need to jump into my reading. Ms. Plath smiles at me, almost saying, “Don’t worry, I’m right here. Come over when you’re ready.” I smile just typing that. Should be writing poetry– Just had memory.. one of my grad school colleagues, the first day of Poetry Seminar, saying “Well, I’ll just get started writing poetry till Prof. G gets here.” Prof. G, such an elevated bat. Beyond pompous. Who can’t even write that well, showing little mastery over language. Would love to do a reading right now, as I did when living in the Prospect Place apartments, driving down to Cotati, reading to beats I’d bring on a CD. Miss stage. Memory has me muffled, marvelously, tonight. Need to explore more of this valley, county, the one on mountain’s side other. This must be Zin talking. I’ll let it. Looking into Plath’s pages.. wish I had her senses, her sensitivity, sensibility. Wish I had her pain, but then I don’t. This amount of work, only a small spoonful of her total tray. My book, hopefully, starting similar ripple. So I just need to keep writing, stop worrying about what others are doing in juxtaposition to where I currently circle. Yes, a doctorate would be nice. But a Self-published supernova would be more mammoth, meaningful. I don’t seek institutional approval, even from my ever-adored Stanford. All starting with manuscript, with writing. OR even typing [but I should prefer ink]. And I’m only a chapbook’s length, if that, from my Palo Alto campus.
Students, last day this Wednesday. For my first semester in over a year, I think I did average. I remember going in with a bullish bravado, aiming to make Self known with my lectures. Think I succeeded a little in such slant, but not to targeted or wished-for degree. Next term, has to be a “perfect term,” as Dad used to speak of the “perfect flight.” 2 developmental sections in Spring. Definitely a challenge for this speeded-speak scribe/philosophy, Theory-obsessed/defiant dagger Lecturer. But I’m going to make it work. For me. Pouring Self another glass, before I meet Ms. Plath about her map. Listen to atmospheric nearness–