mirror clear

Watching Jack.  He’s tireless.  I admire his pushes through day.

And finally, 2:09pm, he’s down.  I should try to snooze, mySelf.  But I can’t.  Too much on mind.  In no way interested in class tonight.  Would rather just write.  Maybe I will call in.. No.  Know I won’t.  That nap is sounding rather appealing, right now.  Mailman just forced mail through slot.  He better not have woke little Kerouac.  Thinking about these classes, this semester, the additional workload it’s put on the writer.  What is it really doing for ME?  And I’m addressing what’s to side of obvious– money, “experience.” What is it doing for me, and do I want to be in this position come Fall ’13.

Will have to get another mocha, that’s known as well.  The neighbor just slammed his door.  That better not have pulled him from sleep, either.  Too much on mind, this subsequent stress can’t be beneficial for page.  I don’t think in any way, form, subtle shape.  Not going to take this seriously, this stress.  And with all respect for my students, I refuse to take this adjuncting seriously, either.  Even if colleges would take us “seriously,” I still wouldn’t.

Just noticed I’m approaching 200,000 words in this blog document.  And still, the writer hasn’t a book.  Shame.  Or maybe not.  I’m doing this for a “reason,” I’m sure.. some slightly predestined “purpose.” But I don’t know what it is, could be, will be.  Still pajama’d, in no mood to leave.  Why does this writing wobbler have to brave what’s on the opposing side of that sliding glass door.  My stress over tonight’s classes, gone.. and when I have that mocha, I’ll be colossally confident.  Essay #1, for 302, “What ‘Got to You’ and Why.” Or, “Which Piece Could You Relate to, And Why.” Odd caps, sorry.  Energizing Self just talking about it.  I’ve successfully written mySelf to a better mood.  Written mySelf through and out of cloud, as I’ve suggested to students in past classes, at all my visited campuses.

Count, 199,940 words.  And my writing grows in its truth-telling, its snarky cynical spins, when warranted of course.  Writing father, aiming more for wine than ever.  Tasted my Merlot yesterday, with B & Z, and they said it’s progressing impressively.  ML, almost done.  Then, immediate racking [199,985].  Should probably go check on the little Artist, be right back…

Still in dreamLOCK.  Such an inexhaustible latch of intrigue, little Jack.  Passed 200k, feeling no different.  Oh well..  More falling poems, to hands, now sore-ing after these speeded types.  Would be lovely if I could just sit here–  No, getting from that mind frame.  Two essay topics, maybe three choices for 302 class, that’s all.  Don’t want to overwhelm them.  The 100 group, rather tough.  Not to deal with, but what they can handle, how they’ve performed thus far.. very impressed.

unplug inhibitions, found in

older writings, poured pages written

after self pours–

like morning scones to empty entities,

revived.  temperature, too, up

2 — evidence neutral, so what does

an artist do with it?

questions, opposite

bandaiding intent.  sent.


9:19pm.  In glass, randomly, an ’08 Sonoma Valley Zin.  Was chipping away at a Rec Letter, for a former student, now close friend.  One item less in stress buffet.  This sitting, my last typing for day.  Want this night to be like a songwriter’s.  Want most of my writing to have that enactment, tilt, feel.  Still feel the tightened anchor noose around concentration’s lake.  Now I’m just not making sense.  To me, you, who.  If I’m to be honest, I’m not sure where these succeeding scenes’ll be taking me.  Only 22% left on laptop.  This technology, I swear…  Need another glass.  One fuller than full, to last me a whole song.  Simplicity, I’m realizing.  Complicate, and close too many a gate.

At winery tomorrow.  Again.  The cyclical, abysmal–  Shouldn’t talk like that, write or think.  Save for song.  If I were on a tour bus, writing while looking out at desert, plain, forest, ranges…

4 minutes left till I cut Self off from this device.  Watched Jack on monitor for past ten or so minutes.  Was odd, he was awake, moaning and chirping, then back fast to his sleep.  Have the fullest glass of the ’08, one helpful, generous, appropriate for my current balance.  And in my racing truthful reasoning, I’ll tell you, quite sharply: I don’t want to write.  Would rather be lazy, useless.  But I can’t let Self, especially with time about to score its heaviest tally to date, with Kerouac turning 1, in 10 days.  But he’s my most cherished character, only ascending in complexity, vivacity.  We’ll just write through it.  And with Jakcie as accomplice, I can only find fruition.

And with today’s “stress,” or whatever it was.. done.  I’m not taking any of this seriously.  None of it.  Not the wine, its industry.  Class, grading, teaching assignments, lectures [well maybe those, as they’re written, and…].  Only taking WRITING “seriously.” When I need to.  I’m a writer, in need of material.  My material: Life.  It works for ME.  Not reversed.  So, stress, just more humor, transposed, -mogrified, -fixed conveniently.  Huh, feeling better than I have all day.  Sipping…