Didn’t make it to ten poems.  But I did manage to hang 3 onto this “blog.” All day today, while scurrying in that ResRoom, with no lunch, thought of being free.  I’m not going to let this entry be like all the others, but I thought of freedom.  Total freedom, not just Artistic, or financial.  It would entail that, yes, but not solely be composed of such.

9:06pm.  Should grade ten items tonight, but not in any mood.  Won’t be running till after work, Sunday.  And I begin that day incredibly early as I’ll be participating in a harvesting, Petaluma, quite early.  Have to be there before 7am.  It’ll be all Syrah, to my knowledge.  Just finished last Cab glass.  Tonight, that independence thought, still on skewer.  And the only way I can do so.. with books.  what’s taking me so long?  I think how divided I let mySelf be, with projects.  No matter.  Soon fixed, I affirm with Ms. Plath next to me, smiling on her cover, being offered a rose, or flower of some type.

Jerry, my friend, vineyard manager on the estate, said he may have quite a bit of Sangiovese and Grenache left, for me to “play with,” as he said.  Meaning…  I’ll be making my own wine again.  So excited.. wonder how this will take shape.  Should I inoculate?  What portions should I use for blending?  Don’t get ahead of Self.. need to calm.  Need a cocktail.  One of the Little Sumpin’s I bought earlier.  Love this love/hate street with wine, its industry, all the angles.  But.. just for brainstorming’s sake.. Sangio’ and Grenache:  Have GR in lead, only use SG for 5-10%.  But if you only get SG, the so be.  And if you get a bit of GR, then inject 5-whatever%.  You have what you have, you know?  This entire day, honestly, quite victorious.

Wrote quite a bit for Tuesday’s lectures– transition from modern to classic–back to classic–Lit in 1A; then a new approach to Plath in English 5.  Should probably have them, the English 5 group, do even more Plath research, report on findings.  And, their professor should post to teaching blog again for day.

This ‘1 year on blog’ rule.  Should I defy it?  Maybe the blog is just a stable, a temporary till, toll booth, tariff.  Why can’t I use my own writing how I choose?  Thinking of Hemingway, my talks on ‘Sun Rises’ last term.  Need to write more like him: truthful.  And the truth is.. I’m more and more annoyed by people as I age.  I could never attend bar events as I used to, nor could I go to “parties” as I did when in college, or in San Ramon, or as when I lived in the Prospect Place apt.  Only want to write.  Wish I had a cabin in the bloody Yukon.  Rent one.  Use it for a week, then fly home to be with family for a couple months.  Then revisit.  Something like that.  Can’t be away from Ms. Alice, or little Kerouac, for too long.  They’re represent my inner catapult, my existential ‘ever’.

Appreciate the way Ms. Alice wants me to look over her writings, for her class, her students’ parents, just minutes ago saying, “…‘cause you’re the writer…” Appreciate the respect.  Remarks like that, better than book sales.  Especially from my wife.  Should name a wine after her.  And little Kerouac.

Looking through her, Ms. Plath’s, entries.  So much gorgeously contorted vocal, each sentence.  How did she do that?  This one journal entry I’m reading, a question, posing both positive and negative charges.  Proton, electron.. or whatever.  She’s too divided to be simplified– oh!  I should put that in Tuesday’s lecture!


Back from short break, 10:02pm.  Little pages at right, for lecture notes.  Well as night’s cap.  Decaf at ready.  Ms. Plath, left.  Reading through more of her entries.. so much beautiful, horrible introspection.  I want to be her in so many ways.  Then in so many, no.  May be up late tonight, writing.  No way I’ll tomorrow wake at 5-something, as I did this morning.  Such shame, laying there, realizing where I was, what I was doing– debating if I should write or not.  What REAL writer does that?  Need another sip of this ale.  The thought upsets me.  But if I didn’t have those early morning sessions infrequently, then they wouldn’t be sententious, memorable.  So, as they don’t happen so often, quite the boon.

Ms. Plath, explaining troubles in writing so relatable– spelling, titling, structure.  What would I be if I never found her.  Well, I of course would have found her, being the Literary lad I am.  But if I never curled into her compositions as I did…  Who knows.  I don’t want to know.  I’d bring this book with me, on Road.  Read as I sip some unexpected red.  Scribble my reactions, like one of my students.  I am a student, so I completely relate.  Her smile, embodying the mask, concept therein/of.  She teaches me to be more open with my entries, more explicit [much I hate the word], exposed [hate that one, too..].

Think it’s so hilarious how cookbooks have to say they’re ‘books’.  Why?  IS that not loudly obvious?  Why can’t there be some innovative title?  Obviously recipes hold between the manuscript’s covers.. why do you need to tell us this book about cooking is a cookBOOK?  And what made me think of this?  A cookBOOK staring down at me from the skinny, tall bookshelf at my 12, here in the kitchen’s nook.  It also tells me I need to cook more.  Funny, as tomorrow’s scheduled to be my return to this kitchen.  What should I play?  Meat?  Chicken?  Fish?  Salmon?  Ugh…  Why is cooking so stressful to me?  How is it so easy for Mom?

Because she’s your mom.

Oh yeah.

Nothing over 1k.  So, to decaf.  Poetry.  More Plath.  Do I have to watch the news?