Busy, in Reserve Room. Still, with the wind. Sipping, quite slow, Sauv Blanc. The ’12. Did a little reading of Emerson’s “The Poet” at work, some associate criticisms. Thoroughly connect to his elevation of the Poet, how we’re seers, voices of crucial Nature. Having trouble concentrating, here at home. Tomorrow, while grading, in much better locale. All day, seeing my book as more of a collection that a novel. And what’s wrong with that? Emerson did same, collecting his essays, writings.
Can’t write in cluttered envelopes. “Clutter,” not what I wanted to say. Just the comfort, distractions of home. Not a negative, just reality. Bradbury had to leave his house, confine himSelf to a library basement to finish Fahrenheit 451. 9:39pm, need to get to my work soon, really soon. Just planning on freeness of writing. My night’s flavor, all for book. Plan for morrow, write as soon as I’m woken. Reminded today, partially with Boston explosion, that Life’s so short it’ll pass before you even have plans to plan its rest. And there’s no excuse not to write. Not for a writer. We should always be recording, studying past masters.
This ’12, motivating vivacity. Reading through The Poet, again, getting ideas for tomorrow’s session. Want to connect Emerson’s piece with our exploration of Art, what defines it, constitutes it. But when am I getting to the grading? The question I don’t want to force on Self, but know I have to. You know, reader.. think I’ll just enjoy my night, these thoughts, this re-read of Mr. Emerson’s work. Pairs nicely with the ’12 SB, honestly. This’ll be my last glass. Not in much mood for vino. Only Lit.
Emerson stresses the Poet’s importance, presence. Makes me think about everything I’ve written.. recently, long ago. It has to go somewhere, amount to something. Fruition is poetic, Artful. He urges persistence, in his essay. Can’t read it here. Too much distraction. And that’s okay. In the office.. that shared adjunct cell. Poetry, for night’s rest.. where do I start? Have to just begin, that’s it. The world for me waits. Collect, collect… Done with wine, onto sparkling berry water. Need to concentrate. No interest in anymore Gatsby missions. Completing tracks, pinnacle of priority.
Taxes, today. Mine, done weeks ago. Wonder where that money goes. And I mean, where it REALLY goes. Not sure why I’m thinking about that now.. have writing to do, poems to finish– SONGS to soon print.
Running into more avenues; accidental
panaceas the Poet had to choose.
Stalls, cause by litigious brick walls.
Across the sprawl.. but I’m to stubborn 2fall.
Like a dazed doll, with chilling stare.. but why would
these devils care? Floating on their cash clouds.
They’re like, “Why does he talk that loud?”
Thin destiny, new recipe.. vended me–
There, put Self in poetry mode. Had to. It’s the only way I can live. Musically. I know just where ALL these pages go. When I’m gone, it’ll all be out, flying in readers’ minds. And what’s not, well-organized in vault, on reaction’s conveyor belt. So I’m just writing till it’s all done, all these books. To sleep now, structurally sound. Splendid spirit shape.