My Friday. But why doesn’t it feel so? Saw that one of my former students is starting her own hairstyling business. She noted in her social status, “Time for some major positive changes.” The notion, or reality, really, of having something to look forward to.. don’t want that to be lost on me. What do I have to look forward to? This Fall, for one. Touring with my writings [added a full-page verse last night to 61-pg project], and teaching that class at Stanford. May leave work a bit prematurely today to get some significant strides into Fall. Want the syllabi done, not too extended in length. In fact, was thinking of having them simply one 2sided page, just like my first ever college course, the English 100 class with Scott Lankford at Foothill.
Bringing bag with me to work. This is something I’m nearly sure I must do, in order for my ‘major positive changes’ to come2fruition. Just saw clock.. 8:45am. Time, in mode of attack. Doesn’t matter.. I’ll be taking laptop monster with me to work, then to 12 & Mission. […] Just was distracted by money matters, moving money around for house savings, paying down CC.. need to get these books in selling rotation. I mean, if there was ever a time where it was NEEDED, it’d be now. Just need to be the calm writer– methodical, precise, measured.
7:59pm. Managed to sneak in a 3.5 mile run. Did so in just over 30 minutes. Probably 32, almost exactly. No device measuring, as neither of them worked, and I was tired of fussing with them. So I ran out, deviceless. Did one mountain tour today, unexpectedly, as I was scheduled in the ResRoom. A little tip money, right to business stash. Holding off on book, for a bit. Will still be writing pages for, but delaying publishing. Why? Want to market this blog a bit. People know I post LOADS of confessional writings to this b/log. So, why not continue what’s already in works, working? Part of me hates mySelf for deciding this path, that paperless, essentially pageless. But, an attempt can’t hurt. I’ll still be writing.
One serving, dinner. No more. Don’t want to feel gelatinous, jellied.. mucilaginous. On a word hunt, this evening. My Friday night. Plan on doing some Poe reading, research. Though I have 4 focus Authors this term, Mr. Poe’s my key focus. And no, not solely ‘cause of The Following. I’m springboarding from stereotype, how that can, more than likely WILL, cripple a reader’s interaction with his works. Poe, Plath, Faulkner, Capote, will all be handled with different vessels.
Sun lowering. Twilight’s halls falling to Yulupa. Shaded open. Thinking genre again, my characters. Kim, with her revenge against editors, anyone crossing or dismissing her pages. Want her to grow extreme in her fascinations with answering those dismissals. Want to fall into this character, so far, so distanced I mySelf will fear return’s not so possible.
Decaf after this final beer. No wine. Still very much in opposition to its grips. So, no sips. The cult mentality, in industry, addressed this morning with a dear friend [Mindy]. She, far more tempered than the writer, but it was entirely therapeutic discussing it with a close friend/family. But the strangulation, the occupational asphyxiation, has me indignant. And I feel with warrant.
Can’t stop thinking about Poe, his body of work. How readers, some, and some who’ve never even put a single eye to one of his pages, perceive him, have him so quickly categorized. Have TV on, but I’m not watching, even a bit. Too into this session, which I’ll bring to 1,000 pages. Thinking of entries at 2011’s end, thinking of how much the box was killing me. Now, with composed convergence. We WILL collide, eventually. In time being, between, arming Self with material. And if this is a ‘Friday’ of any kind, I should celebrate, rejoice in new sight.
8:57pm. Now, dark. Days getting shorter, which I love. Waiting for rain’s return. IT’s better for writing, my writing anyway. Still ignoring TV. The reading I do tonight, of/from Poe, shaping me, I can see. His writing, with a grace that I’m not sure many “classic” authors can rival. Now, just relaxed after run, tired from shift, energized at impending opportunities. After 1,000 words, to legal sheets. Haven’t touched black&white Comp Book in days. Maybe it’s retired. No. Can’t do that. Have to fill more of its pages’ sides. Closing blinds. Need to tiptoe upstairs to get charger cord for phone– listen to me, so dependent on these devices, the phone and this devil laptop. Tonight’s run, so fluid, so free, as no mechanism was attached2ME. What if I stopped, cold turkey? Poe never had to deal with these wired toys. SO I won’t. I refuse.
And my phone, not charging. This, precisely what I’m talking about. Feel my mood crumbling, inconveniently contorting. Thank the Craft for this decaf. The other night, the first night EVER I’ve had a full cup of de’. 2nite, the 2nd. Want to run again in morrow. 5 miles. Would be lovely. Planning run. Will only use device for stopwatch, or distance/timing function. That’s it. Music.. the volume’s uncontrollable mode’ll only frustrate me. So, no phone in ears. Planning to only run clear.
Knees, bugging me only a bit. Need to get2 Schwab tomorrow, for house deposit. $500, target. Wine tomorrow night, to celebrate. What should I open? Need something new. Have to look, see what’s available in this home bottle bay.
9:35pm. Don’t even think about getting tired, writer. You have work 2do. This phone, making the writer full of fantasies, wishing it killed. And I’d be the one of proper role. Sounds barbaric, fantasizing in murder’s minute, but it’d be quite the positive change for a writer. I know.
Head quite clear. Love this feeling. Meditative. Like I’m my own follower, following Poe’s orders. Another decaf, much in order, by writer demanded. Fantasizing about the Road, Via del Poeta, think my friend Liz mentioned, where she’ll be staying on her 7mo trip to Italia, where she’s planning on studying the language, culture, customs, geography. Envy her, her commitment, stubborn aim in leaving, netting dream.
10:16pm. Second cup, finished with brew. Letting it cool. Having a couple of these British butter cookies [I think they are], as per Ms. Alice’s recommendation. Only allowing Self to bottom of page, or screen– this screen. MY phone, acting up again. Ready to give it a severe larrup. Now almost wishing I wasn’t sipping decaf. The exhaustion getting to me. Could use some of that espresso I had at the Half Moon Bay restaurant we visited after Grandma’s service. Still hard to accept her absence. Only seeing again how short life is, promises to be.
Another cookie, first couple sips of 2nd hot evening cup. Not getting to Poe readings, but what I can do is see what outside resources I can find on my [current] favorite Author, to suggest to students. That’s a good idea: notify student of the 2 Author focus, day1, then pitch outside sources, so they can further educate themselves at their own volition.
Seriously, what day is it? Not quite a fan of this schedule I’ve been assigned. Four cookies, gone. Near page’s end. Need to finish this cup. And after this sitting, here in kitchen’s nook, not sure if the writer’ll have enough propulsion to pen any poems, onto those tarnished legal sheets. But I have to. Want to write as Poe did. Plath. Shakur, Morrison [Jim]… Need to force self into coldturkeydom. Only way I’ll be what I REALLY want 2B. vinoLit–
NOTE: When I’m gone, nothing “published posthumously.” That infers someone else would print my work, make it more “marketable” for them. No. I’ll have everything out before I’ve left. Please note.