Today, quite direct in its offering.  Wine’s role, in my Life, one always Literary, needs to die.  If not, then be mutes, demoted dramatically.  Not running tomorrow, but rather straight to Petaluma Campus.  This weekend, in SF, did something to me, made me focus, re-focus on what I want.  Product of this age, 34.  Rejoicing, celebrating tonight, with this red.  Not getting into vintage, AVA, certainly not which winery.  Just enjoying what I am.. A. WRITER.

Not much rain today, and none tonight.  Grading all papers tomorrow morning, then before 1A, in afternoon.  Plan on stopping by office supply store on way down.  A quick stop, to get a couple boxes, 1 for each class.  Also what I am, an educator.  What’s said, “those that can, and those that can teach.” Don’t agree, necessarily.  Some, very rare, do both.  I’m one of them.  Knowingly.

Introducing Plath to the Engl 5 section tomorrow.  Excited, as I plan to come with more statements than questions, or solicitations for reaction.  Quite confident in what I’m putting forward.  As it’s all diarism, of diarist tendency.  Ms. Plath, although a poet known, also depended upon her streaming new journalism, her nonstop page flutters.  Think this red’s catching me, already.  But I won’t let it.  Will I be sad to see wine go?  No.  As it’ll be there, but when I need it, when I call, when I schedule it.  Not reverse.  It’s to be consumed, period.

The vignette I started last night, to be done tonight.  Only budgeting Self a page.  Love the page limitation, word ceiling, with these radically concise compositions.  Making me a stronger writer, I can feel.  Wine does nothing of such shape for my scribbles.  IT slows.  I’ll say it again: the trip to SF the last couple days showed me that time isn’t slowing.  IF anything, it’s assault’s become more sophisticated, tactical– noticing my son growing, faster than I can capture.  He’s asleep now, that’s the only time I let Self sip.  I need to be animated, alert, fully, when with little Kerouac.  And I have been, since his birth.  I want him to see me as a writer/professor.  Not as one always in chase of a “job.” Like that one character at the box, David.  A bit over 40, newly hired, with a boy in grade school.  That won’t be me.  Ever.  Today, in bad mood all day, because I realized.  Much.  The ruse, rinsed.  I’m awake.

About ready for another glass.  Hoping I wake at 5am tomorrow, like Alice did the other morning to enjoy her spin class, and like I will morning after tomorrow to run.  Need to start this Plath lecture.  I know what the perception of her is, so I won’t even ask.  What I want students to acknowledge.  And her address of death, how she knew it was there, but never knew how to talk to it.  Just find that interesting.  It’s uncomfortable to us all, obviously.  But some writers have the pull to push at its topic.  That need be studied.

Wine.. won’t be at all sad to see you die.  In fact, I’ll relish.  Then re-write, then re-write all revisions, repeatedly.  To enjoy the replay.  I’ve