Judging Carcass

Still in writing wings.  9:55am.  Alice on way home from gym, shortly, bringing 4-shotter.  Need more poem, song.  And that, recipe-wise: pen, paper.  None of this button thumping.

11:32am.  Post 4-shotter, thinking of when I want to leave.  1:30p?  2?  Depends on what I want done.  Only have a little grading, after looking at my bag’s contents.  Want more injected into book, in shoving to have it sewn by semester’s end.  Sent letter to dept chair, open to a second class, only if it suits my conditions.

When to rack barrels.. thinking Thursday next.  Will text winemaker friends, see what they think, and what they can allow, with their already excessively demanding schedule.  Am bringing a book with me, to coffee house.  Paris Wife, decided.  Have day completely regimented.  Feels comforting, sitting on floor, next to organized professor bag, watching little Jack play with his toy laptop, it reciting the alphabet to him, other random tracks audience’d to children his stage.

Only 1,000 words prose permitted to blog posts, today.  Poetry, limitless.  No laws when derived in verse, song, poem, anything relating.  Need more song, poem.. and I know I keep singing that, but I think I have an addiction to this laptop, the blog, the immediacy of it all.  That’s why it’s difficult for me to make wine.. patience.  Don’t understand its concept, flavor, key, song.. anything.

Jack, by me now, one hand on my lap, as if to comfort his writing father, to suggest, “Calm down, worrying won’t get the books out any quicker.” He’s right.  He sits by me again…  “This,” he says, followed by “DA‘ DA’!!!” Computer’s acting strange again.  Not sure what’s happening, but I’m suck of this device, having it so harnessed to my written acts.  After this sitting, rest of day INKED.

12:14pm.  Kerouac, down for nap.  Me, more frustrated with this laptop.  So why am I still on it, as it cuts lines short, fall to next, but as soon as I begin to type more, it fills the previous line from where it left.  Confused?  Yes, me too.

Simplicity, I miss it.. in such symphony lifted–

Hope another drizzle visits.  Frantically fidget.

Sentences, running on, reading empty, gone..

Tell Self I’m king when visibly pawned.

Thinking about those essays I graded the other day, everything my students have seen in their lives, what’s shaped their characters.  Need to do something to shape mine, but I have to exercise more caution than before, with Jack’s addition.  More pragmatism.. how I see it all playing:  I’ll be Autonomous in my Writing by Thanksgiving, with 2 books (both 200+ pages) circling me, teaching 1 class a semester like other authors, making wine on side.  Simplicity, the only way I can live.  Complication clutters, contaminates my pages, any composition.

Think I’ll leave at 2-2:30pm.  And in that chair, in the coffee house: Pen.  To.  PAPER.  No Computer contact unless I’ve handwritten it first (in the instance of injecting something into book, which now has 108 strong pages in its borders.. a journaled cuvée, megatage).