Short entry tonight. Posted enough to blog, for day. Couldn’t believe the rain. Glad I caught some of it, filmed. Pouring rest of last night’s wine, tonight. In Room today, not much to report, from not seeing traffic legions. Do have notes, still in back pocket, but I’m too lazy to reach for them. Tonight, Italian, from local restaurant that I’ve frequented for more than a decade. “A decade,” I just wrote. Guess I’m that old. AND, for tonight: have to start my Plath writings, on “Plath’s Positive.” Know I have something there, as so many see her as this sour varietal.
Still, now. Little Kerouac concludes his nightcap, prepares for dreams. Me, narrowing focuses to an actualized focus. Just started the Plath/[academic] writings document. Actually titled it latterly, “[academic] writings.” Taking my reading transientness to Stanford’s halls. Can’t wait till I’m there, sharing findings, seeing what my students find. Looking at her smile from cover. Sight that this Earth doesn’t fully deserve. Do I? Don’t care. And why should I? She put herSelf right/write in front of me.
10:07pm. Started with Chard, now to last night’s Red. Much softer than 24 past. Tempted to rant for 500+, but won’t. Need to fill this new journal. Type poetry to sell. Had a dream last night, actually, about living as poet.. surviving–no, more than just that–from rhyme. Leaving any, all clocks. That’s what she would want. That’s what she DID. So after this, to just that.
Little Jack, fast into his sleep. Keep stressing over if I forgot something to report from tasting Room. But then, I remember: if it were worth report, it wouldn’t have slithered from my synapses. Honesty, my remedy, my key, what I’m using.. that’s my formula.. I’m it revealing, FULLY. TV’s on, but off. Need this quiet. My glass, impressive in its fullness. With the TV FINALLY off, I’m off to page. Populate the blankest of space. Love that there’s not a single line. Just void. Like Kelly’s workspace. This is me. Filling. Hoping I wake early as I this morning did, just start writing. That’s what I need do. EVERYday. That’s how I know I’m a writer.
xmas tree to right, lit like defended skies. Reminding me of 115, Bayview, where I use to reside. I know, I shouldn’t give that address away, as others now there live. But Dad built that house. That’s where I grew up, where I was raised by incomparable parents. And I’m being honest. SO I’m forward 2nite, like the stance of this CF/ME/CS blend. Loving this quiet. Tempted to summon some episode of Ghost Adventurers, or whatever it’s called, but I want this– Peace. I’m even joyed, believe it or not, that no rain’s falling, making its ridiculous sound in that tin drain.
Finally, TOTAL quiet.
Almost at 500, how did that happen? I’m the undisciplined writer, inputting more than he should. But isn’t that a quality “good?” This quiet, my newest vintage LOVE.
note2Self: start on Letterz… [must ALL be handwritten..]
Still haven;t touched the journal, 10:43p. Distracted by devilish social media “connects.” To canvas..