Loved, still love, this morning’s Plath Lab in English 5. Ms. Plath, proving even more dichotomy-ridden, divisive, that I estimated prior. Sipping an ’07 Bordeaux Blend. Running tomorrow night, I promise. I needed some red, writing, tonight. I will do another morning run, just not tomorrow. Back at winery, tomorrow morning. Indifferent. Bringing 3 papers with me, Lecture Comp Book, and ‘Johnny Panic’. Staying in Literary mode with everything I’m touching, seeing, loving.
The book tonight, finished the book. Topped with old entries. My book, just waking from coma, walking through hospital’s front doors, same night. Can only think of the night before Jack was born, walking around the hospital at 2 or 3am, something like that, carrying a Comp Book, capturing whatever I could.
Don’t want to move too fast with Ms. Plath, but I’ll have to I guess. My apologies to English 5. And in 1A, had a profitably prologuing conversation with a student, after class, on everything from writing, to blogging, to Tupac Shakur and his words, to Life itself; wanting to inspire, help people, contribute to society. Oh the student, the many forms he/she takes. What I continue to love about education: the act of surveying text, doing so with the student; the one student this afternoon, English 5, putting the question back on me, what I thought it meant [something in one of the 9 standalones we read from Plath’s text]. I live for seconds like that, pray they weigh to minutes.
May watch some of “Sylvia” again tonight, as I urged, all but ordered, the 5 section to as well. And I need to read to my students, more. Bringing work bag with me, tomorrow. No winemaking stuff at lunch– locking Self in break room for grading, lecture note writing, Plath study. She’s optimistic, I can only say. Not at all “disturbed.” I hate when she’s reduced to such. She made a decision. Granted, one fatal. But she was not sick, imbalanced, or odd as she’s far to consistently categorized.
Need another sip from this blend. Have to say, I love every inch of it– new lover, palate shover. Me, with straying rudder. And to movie, Ms. Plath, how she loves the pen, paper, her poetic form. Let me mimic her, just write poetry. I know, she wrote prose.. thank you, I’m lecturing on ‘Johnny Panic’, I’m aware, thank you. But her ripples stem from verse, rhyme, line. Not paragraphs, formality, some marketable manuscript. Off to kitchen…
winter sticks, no fruit, but I
find something, a scene,
for me.. wine, page, quiet.
losing light, but I’m not worried.
this row, like guardian tower over
population, 1. rotating in solicitation
but not now
thankfully– cutting steel branches can’t
find us here, drinking to closer get to
what’s with dampened valley
ground. eventual shake, feature
blink. season staple.. so certified.
Wish I was in Sunriver, writing as I did in Winter ’09. Need Road, more than ever. This wine world, keeping me from what I want. But doing something for me, my family, I know. Have to stay with mind’s set celebration. Will I get an invitation? Lobby meetings, over my writings, what’s reviewed, or not. I’m a writer. I just show.