Secretive [un autre morceau de mon voyage]

Ready for work.  I think.  Depends on

what ‘ready’ entails’.  And how ready should

i be?


Written earlier today, those lines.  Now, timed 10:02p.  About to pour night’s cap.  A glass from the ’08 Syrah bottle I freakishly found upstairs.  Too many writings in too many journals, I’ve realized.  Again realized.  Just watched a writer’s movie.  Even the teenage main character manages to keep all his sessions in 1 place.  Why can’t I do the same, at this age, 34?  Concentration, and WINE, need more.

Glass poured.  Tired.  Air conditioner in action.  Not sure where I’m scheduled tomorrow.  Hoping mountain.  Class launching in 5 days.  Just need to print first day lectures.  Tonight’s movie gave me some ideas.  Reflection in Life, incorporating that into efforts.. we’ll see.

Bought copy of NY Times this morning, at coffee house.  Haven’t read the article for which it I bought, but I will in morrow, promised.  DECLARING NOW:  I conspire to leave any and all time clocks.  I know, I should be careful what I say on this blog, as some may be reconnoitering [they’ll have to look up that word..], but I’m done being cautious.  I want to be dangerous, take risks, be a REAL writer.  Dad has ALWAYS told me, “If you don’t think for yourself, others WILL think for you.” I’m done punching in, out.. waiting for bonuses, rewards, compliments, these bloody tips.  Just want to be in my office, writing.  Poe knows.. he said, “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” That ‘sanity’, the detriment, ailment, being the responsible.  Why do so many view we, the writers, as odd, outcast, weird?  When winemakers are so quickly spotlighted as stellar creators, innovators, impervious sages?  I think that’s wrong.  I KNOW that’s wrong.  What they create is consumable, gone.  What WE create lasts, stays on shelves, many times is re-read, discussed, studied– as it’s right there, goes nowhere.

This Syrah, just amusing me, it is speech.  IT respects the writer, which I appreciate.. encourages me as I closer get to this Fall term.  And I flat fall, wishing for typewriter sounds.  Breaking Self out of my poetry prison to writer freely.. truly free.  Would love to finish this bottle, but I’d rather have a glass of decaf.  OR sparkling water, of some flavor.  No run today as the knee hurt, right.  Tomorrow, no run either.  But Saturday, launching from work.. for Lawndale.  Doing so solo.

Now, need close.  Have to be back on clock tomorrow.  What do I want from 8/16?  More notes.  Took plenty pictures today–  More.  WRITING.  Want to capture the feeling of harvest getting closer.  How the grapes’ll soon be picked, and with how fast time passes, the vines will soon be bare, dormant.  Not sure on my Merlot.  And to be frank, I’m tired of waiting for permission.  It happens or it doesn’t.. I’ll write with both cases.

Just heard they’re [whomever ‘they’ are] going to implode Warren Hall, at CSUEB, where I earned my Master’s.  Another victory for Time.  I earned my M.A. 9 years ago, this year.  IS that right?  2004.. 2013.  Yes.  Want something to look forward to.  Another degree, maybe.  Tempted to pour another Syrah, but that would further stall.  Off this log, to be at ready for descending ideas for Fall, or anything I might write for PhD program [yes, that’s still on mind, but I’m not applying.. they can INVITE me].  (8/15/13)