[entered on phone]  Leaving.. Don’t want to drive straight to work.  Is there a detour I can concoct? Printed 2 pages this morning, for lunchtime reading.  Never done that before, so obviously I’m a little doused in confidence.

[at home]  Can’t remember the time of above post, but it was early.  Right around 8:40-something.  Had dinner at Mom & Dad’s tonight.  They gifted me a growler of new brew I’ve never before sipped.  Not diving in tonight, as I need to write.  Always amazed at how quick time streamlines when with them.  Dad, with his stories.  Mom, her inarguable wisdom, love, insight.  And that’s what family should be, I think.  Those moments.  Watching news.. escalating coverage of 49ers, them landing in San Jose after their win tonight.  And I’m more than elated they won.  They, my only REAL team.  Even more than the SF Giants.  But I want to move on, be informed of something meaningful.  My day’s notes, and there are quite a few, still in pocket.  Guess the animatedness came with the only Mountaintop Tour I had, 2:30pm.  All elements enveloped.. the inconceivably perfect weather, girl pushing a glass off counter when back in tasting Room.  Thinking we are, us Literaries, a danger to an industry this fragile.  As it’s all about some image, some pitch, some marketable message.

11:18pm.  Not sure if I’m going to finish this night’s entry.  Maybe I should prepare for a Barleycorn entry, in morrow.  Glad I didn’t have a nightcap, when back here, home.  Looking at weather “report,” and they’re saying that there’s a chance of showers, or rain, or drizzle.  What have.  Now, I’m just rambling.  Why it’s going to blog, these paragraphs.  Know I should quit the writer’s morning mocha.. but I can’t.  And I shouldn’t, if that’s my only luxury.  Can only imagine how boring this must be for you, reader.  So, imagine this:  My tasting Room.  Sauv Banc, Chardonnay, Syrah, Merlot, Cab.  And there’d be a “reserve” tier, only SB, Syrah, Cabernet.  Have to think of TR location.  And if I HAD to pick, it’d be in downtown Santa Rosa.  Why not?  Why not.. ‘cause it’s not scenic, naturally.  How about in Healdsburg, or Sonoma, or even devilish Napa.  Think there’s still too much of the Zin I just sipped with Dad swimming in my scribed circulation.

Little Jack, asleep upstairs, down hall from mama.  Me, down here, wondering how I’m to get done this grueling grading.  And what do I want from this classRoom?  Do I want to be FT?  I don’t know, honestly.  And that’s all I should be, as a true writing: be truthful,  ever-honest, compositionally candid.  Just landed, 11:30p.  Should get to sleep, this writer.  When will I be able to edit this short book?  Love that word, “BOOK.” But honestly, when can I give its pages honest honesty?  Have to schedule much more efficiently.  And HONESTLY, I’m too old for these types of entries, stating what I should, shouldn’t do.  I need just DO.

Pinot.  Why am I thinking of the Burgundy rug?  Maybe I’ll open one tomorrow.  The shiner I got from Ed?  Possible, quite.

problems with arrangement–

how do I deal with the laden’s placement?

deal with road, circling angles.


1/21/13.  With Jack growing as he is, and the mobility, age & agility he displayed just over a minute ago, I have to be swift with the writing.  Time, its endless tormenting essence, clear.  So, tonight, I finish the chapbook.  Then, onto book.  Have to set the most firm of jagged deadlines, page amounts, stick to them.  Today in TR, more than enough material to jumpstart this second book.  BOOK…  Love that word.  When I’m seen by others, want to be the figure holding a notepad, writing.  Not fiddling with some trite device.

Grading, have to get some kind of start on that.  Won’t tonight, as I need to dive into my project’s pages.  Only allowing Self a couple beers tonight, no more.  Have to stay focused, get a level of profitable tunnel vision that I’ve never before executed.  This has to happen if I’m to live the writer’s Life I want.  And this blog, seeing its final days, I’m thinking.  Why do I say that.. not sure.  Well, I do, more or less.  This writer doesn’t want to be in his late 30s, blogging, trying to be “social” on some internet medium plate.

9:18pm.  Last of beer sipped, the one Mom & Dad–the Particular Palates–brought back from Oregon.  Nice.  Lighter a beer than the writer’s used to, but enjoyable.  I’m sitting here at the table, wondering what I want to do with these books.  I mean, what I really want to do.  Help, inspire, invoke/evoke.. what?  Tomorrow, setting alarm for early.  Maybe 5am, if Jack doesn’t beat me to.  I’ll see.  Looking down at my work bag, the black one I use for class, nights teaching.  At my age, with what time I have left [which is unknown], I need immediacy, simplification.  I know, there I go with the wish list again.  Kelly wouldn’t tell me to stop, I know.  But I want to.  Don’t want wishing to be integral in my voice.  As that’s not a voice, in my opinion.  Watching laptop battery fade [eye roll].

Tasting Room, revealing more material, again today.  Probably from my looking FOR it.  Characters, changing wines, the recently oddly pleasant weather.  Just what could save, FREE, the writer.  Right from here, off to chapbook.  READING, minimal editing.  Why?  Don’t have time for it.  THAT, I’ll accept for my voice.. the raw writing.. Just as wines have assigned voice.  And yes, I do see wine voice, character, as “assigned.” Will I explain, no.  That’s just where I stand.  On a plane, with a flight from SFO to NYC, I’m sure I could complete a standalone manuscript.  Would it be essay, short story, narrative.. don’t know.  But I’d have something finished at that cruising altitude.  I’d hope they have peanuts, which I’d pair with Diet Coke.  No alcohol, as I need to be set on complete the airborne work.  Sick of this blog, now I’m thinking.  It’s not a book.  It’s not.  Even if I printed each screen.  In ’97, in my first Creative Writing class, blogs didn’t crawl on thought plane.  That time, purer for writers.  Our last taste of such life.  This “blog” …