7:05am.  Morning to Self.  So I write.  Still feeling yesterday’s run.  Love every increment of this hurt.  Goals for morning: 500 to blog, 500 to OFFblog, print 1st piece in book, then 1 poem.  Has to be done in an hour, by 8:15am.  So actually I have just a pour over 60 minutes.  Coffee in brew.  Love this next morning feeling of no last night wine, or microbrew.  Am I am gaining an addiction for this dryness?  Hope not, as I planned on opening something impressive tonight.  Maybe that Crocker & Starr CF my sister gave me.

Need to post photos today, maybe a video or 2.  No, no more than 1.  AND I wanted to taste my wine.  I’ll do that at lunch.  Planning on going in Tuesday, early, to do whatever I have to, to both.


7:15pm.  1 hour from now, making Self stop.  Taking OFFblog aim off morning’s list.  Think I made too much coffee.  “Too much?” I ask Self.  “How is that possible?” Too energized from night’s sleep.  Taking first sip.. putting me back in Paris, right there by Montparnasse, the Seine.  Had a dream about my city the other night, that I was there with her, my character.  Just walking, discussing what’s around us– Art, Architecture, Literature, the people, what they’re saying that we can’t understand– the cooking notes, airborne, staking themselves in and to our senses.

“Don’t you speak French,” she asks.

“I’m trying to learn, but I still don’t get a lot of it,” I say.

“I love it here,” she says, stopping, looking over at some bookshop with yellow-wooded surroundings to a soft-spoken blue door.

“What is that, a bookstore?”

“I think so.  It’s so cute.  You want to go in?”

“Um, no.  Let’s just keep walking.  How far away are we from the hotel, do you know?”


“Huh.  I guess we’re lost.”

She smiles.  Her smirk stays, coupled by a barely loosened stare, lasting for six, seven seconds.  “We are.”

“In Paris.  How amazing is that?” I say, letting my right arm pull her presence nearer, as if to say ‘let’s stay lost’.  And then…

“Let’s stay lost,” she says, grabbing my hand as it slouches over her right shoulder.

We keep walking.


Time really is a cruel thing.  Already 7:26a.  Need another sip.  Now, Fall semester on brain.  Should open that document, put at least one thought in there–  “Whether encouraging, or foreboding, it’s still writing.. YOUR writing.” Not sure this is delivering itSelf to page precisely as I’d like, but I put a thought in there.  Re-reading it, it sounds more geared to a Creative Writing class, or workshop–  Well, not necessarily, ‘cause if we’re addressing Poe, some could see him as not-so-much a naysayer while others will embrace the all-too accepted conception of him as “dark,” or “gloomy,” or death-obsessed.  Poe, definitely closer to securing himSelf a spot on my syllabus.

NOTE = poem throughout day; forget media.. it’s evil