notes …

= More in new journal.  1 victory in day.

= reading assignments: Plath, Hoffer.

= Wine tonight, another Cab.  2007.  Alexander Valley, I think.

= 2013, about to land.  Thinking of how to budget this smaller project.  And yes, the 108-page book’s release is getting pushed back, as I hope to have a couple chapbooks subsidize it fullest fruition.

= Should be on road, writing in hotels, lobbies, looking out at some waves set to a glass of SB, or sparkling.

10:05pm.  Glass, single vineyard ’09 Cabernet.  One of my preferred’s.  Just started with Hoffer’s manuscript.  Love his rejection of blind acceptance, how he cites “widespread enthusiasm” as part of the problem.  xmas eve…  and I’m writing.  Little K’s asleep, and I find Self a little more affected by the vino that I projected.  Have to through it write.  Tell the truth.  Going to finish one standalone, in the new journal, by night’s end.  By the end of this month, meaning 7 days from this sitting, I’m looking to have 1 chapbook prepared for vend.  How else will I be There?

Thinking about the semester coming.  Not sure how excited I sit.  Yes, if I assume onus and own my moments at those helms, it will serve enjoyably.  Won’t it?  Or am I just wishing?  Need a sip.. one deep, angry, deliberate.

Nice oak assimilation.  The more air the wine sips, more I find Self delighting in my tilts.  Can’t stop looking at this new Plath book I bought today, Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams.  I will finish these books before January’s mid.  I’m hoping, honestly.  Hate making promises, as this writer has an impressive record of breaking them.  All my journals might just be a certain Literary parthenogenesis.  They don’t follow any process, I just jump.  So I break these “promises” as result of my drive, aims, fervor.  And, just being a journalist.  Or diarist.  I capture moments.  Sometimes they overlap.

This table, ruled by clutter, odd objects.  Need my own office.  One offsite.  Where I can’t hear TV, or anything/anyone else.  Love my home, but it becomes increasingly frenzied, as Kerouac ages, grows.  And this wine, while relaxing the diarist, also paints pictures for me, of this idealized office.  This solace, oasis, haven.  So, next semester.. thinking as few assignments as possible.  Too much a workload detracts from learning’s inherent and assumed joy.  Yes, I know there are word requirements, other boxes to be filled, or checked.  But I’m not concerned.  I want my students engaged, not fearful, or in perpetual dread.  Sorting out strategies in this new journal…

Getting a bit tired, but still a scribe sips.  Not much to report beyond that.  My academic writings, calling.  But they need caffeine, not vino.  Will tell you, the skimming I’ve done today, of Hoffer’s manuscript, has me evermore envisioning me on Stanford’s terrain, lecturing on theory, theology in Literature, dangers of tenacious leaders, and much else.  Just have to keep writing.  Stay in the chair.  Reading student responses to my prompt, the last night, of “What are you walking away with?”, has me realizing that as a professor, I can have seriously positive impact on someone’s life.  Humbled.  How did I not see this before, appreciate what it truly is?

Looking at this new journal, its enticing leather shell, has me thinking I should spend as little time with this device, or any [with respect to writing], as possible.  I mean, what if this blood thing just crashed, or died as my last phone did?  A New Year’s resolution, one serious, for sure.  Lamented.  Decreed.

12/24/12, Monday