Been writing the entire morning. Put 500+words into OFFblog log, that new book project I started. Or maybe it’s not a book.. possibly just a typed log, or blog with 1 follower [its Author]. Asked, “What’s my book about?” It’s a collection, so it’s “about” a few ideas, topics, moment clusters, I think. But if it HAD to be about something.. it’s about ME. What I do, what I see, how I see moments, translate them as a Writer.. one in Wine’s whirling world.. exposing certain toxicities, character habits, the Room’s motion, my love for winemaking– I don’t know if my book’s about anything, or any 1thing. Is Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” about ONE thing? Some could argue “yes,” but most would state “no.”
Looking through blinds, see beautiful morning. Have grading to do, the last before final paper submissions. Caffeine wearing, I think. Hitting block. Hate when this happens. Remembering my Literary Lunches in downtown Napa, when I decided to no longer have lunch with Tina & Lisa, listen to them growl over the the office’s conditions [at the box]. Many times I’d participate, which I didn’t like. I remember realizing one day driving to work, while landing on the Napa-Vallejo Hwy from 29, that I could be writing, crafting pages for a book. So I did. Love the definiteness of that decision to habit morph, still do. Need to exercise such separatism 2day–
Spoken Word this morning, mostly. If I organized all my poems into a collection, SELF-published it.. would that collection be about 1 thing? Is Plath’s Ariel “about” something? Maybe. What if a Writer’s book is about them? Is that wrong? Not sure why that question has me so cogitative.
measurement, to final addition
or is it the last?
throw it into pan, see where i
wondering where the wind’s coming