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Feeling this early morning’s waking.  In nook, after long day.. kitchen writing.  Attended end-of-harvest gathering on southern part of property a couple hours ago.  Made visit on lunch break, with friend/coworker from TR, to another tasting Room.. one small, more eased noise.. could hear their playing music, was nice.  Took home one of their blends, an ’08 (my favorite vintage in a great many past).

Sipping an IPA I found in the fridge of the complex’s pool house, while I stocked it with sparkling waters for a Halloween party Alice’s hosting for her “mommy friends.” Tomorrow, the pumpkin event at the estate.  Should probably clear some space on my phone, one of the cameras.  Want to capture people, see how they sip their wine, interact with each other around the pumpkins.

First thing this morning, another coworkers, from the third floor, complimented me on this morning’s early post.  She conceded that she didn’t read the whole entry, but that much of it found its way to her light, gentle eyes.  And, many times more than money, that’s what I want.. a true reader.  Rather well-pleased, I voice valiantly, in what I did this morning, so early.  Writing, not going back into that pillow, lowering lids.  All I know, would have done so.  But not me.  The serious writer.

Chardonnay I took home tonight, in freezer.  Will be pairing that with the salmon Alice is preparing.  And in being so prepared today for work, with my papers to be graded at lunch, I did nothing.  As I visited that winery with my counterpart.  Will get all done tonight.  Grade the 4 items I brought to work, well as post to teaching blog for both classes.

And Kelly, my favorite envisioned, concocted character, speaking to my fingers while they bounce around this board.  She tells me to stop planning, altogether.  Don’t plan at all.  She didn’t.  And that’s why she is where she is– Autonomous, altogether Artistically living, comfortably subsisting.  In no way does she boast, as it seems in the latter part of the previous sentence.. that’s just what I realize, that she has her own clock, lives by it with surges of smiles, from setting herself in a free-falling frame.. that’s where she creates, lives.  The only way she can do both.

8:44pm.  Late dinner, like when we were in Paris.  Want to watch another writing documentary tonight, about a writer.  Which one?  How about Kerouac?  Or Jane Austen?  OR.. Dickinson?  Not sure.  Either way, I’m watching something about a writer.

 

Am I making wine this year?  Anymore, I’m thinking/hoping no.  I have too much in my cues.  And quite frankly, I’m tired of waiting to find if I get fruit.  As a writer, you site, you write.. you have your product, your result, your project.  Writing is my mode, not winemaking.  Making wine, a hobby, at best.  Speaking of sippable bottle contents, I should probably open the ’11 Reserve Chard I took home this evening.

10:20pm.  And the writer drinks his Chardonnay.  Moving slow, then fast, then sluggish once ‘gain.  Price of an early morning session.  If I stay up late writing, I’m the next day drained.  Then, if I wake early like Hemingway, Plath, and whomever else.. same.  Guess this is one of the “hard parts” of my job as a penner.

My topic.. writing, teaching…  And I guess wine, to a much lesser point.  Should be posting to blog, but I’m not in the mood.  And the students may be thinking, “He said he was going to post to blog.. so where is it?” Then need learn that you don’t write when you’re ‘supposed to’.  You write when it feels RIGHT.  […]  I’ll post tomorrow.  On the Poe Project, well as something for the English 5 crew.

Wine.  Its world.  The stories, the stories…  All I’m thinking of.  And I need be honest.  The lady in the tasting Room I today visited: from second 1, giving me attitude, attempting to one-up me with every remark, motion, observation, innocent sentence.  What did that do for her?  And yes, it all pertained to wine.  I have to again pose.. she gained what from that, doing that?

When on the Road, I’ll isolate Self in hotel Room.. write about everything from the way the wall heater looks, smells, to the way the pillows have been on bed set, to the way the coffee maker [probably the cheapest one the owners could find] is set on the tall, thin table by the bathroom.  I’d plan my talk for day next, what I’d say as soon as I’d enter that conference room on the 1st floor, to how I’d end the event.

Need another sip of Chardonnay.  And why am I not evaluating it, or analyzing it?  One: because it’s only wine.  And 2, it’s Chardonnay.  Don’t mistake, I like it.. but it doesn’t sway me any one way.

Next Friday, from today one week, I’ll go to mainland SRJC.. do some planning, grading.. and a continent of writing.  By then–again, NEXT FRIDAY–I want this chapbook DONE.  And one copy sold.  I don’t care if it’s to my mom, or Alice herself.  Just ONE copy.  $10.  In envelope.  After that Poe doc I showed the 1A class, last night, I am in fervent refusal to be, EVER, the broke Artist.  We writers.. too brilliant to be broke.

Reading in newJournal, the session from the Redwood Café, from last week.  Need to make that my new Hemingway spot, like the restaurant Mom and Dad took us to, really for me, their writing son, in Paris.  Next time.. have breakfast.  It’s served all day.  And coffee.  Have2have coffee, most obvious, expected.

Another yawn, I’m tired.  One more glass?  Why not.  The night’s capping.  When I think of Chardonnay–or when I think of it fondly, which isn’t often– I think of the tasting I did with my family, in Burgundy.  Dad driving that car, with the navigation system that spoke.  Dad, calling it “babe.” OVer 2k for day.  Just think if I wasn’t in that Room all day, what I would’ve done, written.  Next Friday, I’ll find out.

10/26/13–  Busy day, with pumpkin event.  No grading, nor writing done.  Nearly had a glass with crew upon day’s close.. BUT, decided upon run.  First time I’ve executed that kind of discipline in a while.

Final count: 6.76 miles in 53min, 54sec; avg: 7:58/mi.  Dark from start to end.  Even with first steps in initial jogging pace, I said to Self, felt to Self, “Uh, this feels so good.” Not many other runners on streets with me.  A few walkers, most young, early twenties, teens, but no one my age.  The only runner, connecting with me on Summerfield, matching my pace, pretty much the whole way, from across the street, till I passed him, after Summerfield and Hoen, crossing street to be in front of him.  I could hear him breathing, from probably twenty feet or so, maybe more, away.  At one point, he turned hard left, into one of the small neighborhoods.  If he would have continued to follow me, he would have passed, as my knees, especially the right, was beginning to sore, quite loudly in fact.  Eventually, I stopped, just past the condo, not reaching my targeted hour.  I was at more than 6 miles, for my first run in nearly 2 weeks.  I was pleased.

Surprisingly warm outside, especially on the upper part of Summerfield, almost at Woodview [where Kerouac and Alice used to walk, she pushing him up those hills, in his stealthy stroller].  Completely dark at that part.  Street lights electing not to work tonight, I guess.  Could only hear crickets, other bugs, frogs.  Again, reminded of Sunriver.  Felt like I was running past those houses by the river, past the North Pool, down the streets, where I always used to ride bikes as a kid.

This coming Friday, only 6 days ahead.. a writing retreat.  All day.  Planning on being at keys from 9 to 2 or 3-something, hopefully.  May drive to Petaluma, get a large load of grading, planning done.  Then, to Redwood Café.. write in newJournal.. in new section I started last night, dubbed “New Book.” Not sure why I did that last night.  Must have been the Chardonnay– just what I’m sipping now.

Slapped with ANOTHER, my 2nd, ticket for using cell phone while driving.  Was calling Alice, at home.  Saw the cop look at me.  He was in right turning lane, while at red with me.  Knew as soon as the light turned green, he’d catch me.  So, I raced to road’s side when seeing green.  The officer was quite nice, actually.  Of course he gave me the ticket, but was quite apologetic, saying, “You seem like a nice guy, but we’ve been seeing a lot of incidents involving cell phone usage while driving.. so I ticket the good guys and the bad guys.” I told him it was fine, that I appreciated what he was doing for the city.  We parted.

Tomorrow at lunch, up in break room.  Grading, writing.  NO.  MORE.  BLOODY.  DISTRACTIONS.  I’ll grade more than what I brought today, the 4 items.  Shooting for 8, now.  And writing.. in “New Book” section of newJournal.

Tonight’s run, worth a book.. same way they say a picture’s worth a thousand words.  Can still feel that vacation-esque air on my forearms, face’s right side.  The dark morning run I did nearly two weeks ago, or whenever I did it [forgot, now], more harsh in temperature, feel.  Not as many cars to dodge.. but the placement of the writer on those bare streets– dark, silent, confusing– unsettling.  But I need to do it again.  Maybe my first run & write.  Run for twenty minutes, write for ten.  Over, over.. repeated.

Poe…

Chapbook prominence…

Tomorrow morning, was going to go for another sprint set, but Alice is going for her class at gym.  So I’ll guard the little Artist, do some writing, exercises here in home.  Write in 1 place, write in one place, I was just thinking, washing wine glass.  Glad there’s no more of that Chard left.  Could get the writer in trouble.

The morning, coffee.  One cup.  Two.  Whatever it takes to move the manuscript-er.