Reserved for skins watered.
Taking another medicinal pour,
after this day.
8:02am. Didn’t wake at six, when my alarm was set. Instead, allowed the writer extra rest. Well, let me explain.. I DID set my alarm, but I woke before it sounding, disabled it, went back to sleep. Now, just out from shower, I ready Self for day. No plans for night, and I’ll affirm that it that way stays. Thinking of leaving a little early from winery, like 3:30. Where I’ll come home, get a few things done for tomorrow’s meetings. Only day I teach this week. And if I wake a little earlier, I can get to the café, as I wanted to last week for a morning session [and as I thought of a couple weeks past, as well].
Looking outside.. beautiful. Should go for a run, but I’m too into my pages– And speaking of, I’m printing tonight. All 41 pages, then sending to print tomorrow between 5 and 1A. And I just had the idea, not sure if I’ve recorded so in this log, but: 202 pages by 12/25/13. A completed MS.. present to mySelf– OH! And before I forget, I received my first rejection letter, by email, for the three poems I sent out. Made my whole day yesterday, frankly. Like Plath said, it lets me know I’m trying. I’ll be emailing them out to another lit mag before I leave condo this morning, for morning mocha. Nearly forgot about that.. glad I wrote it here for you, reader. And the gentleman I met yesterday, Matt, who had quite the Literary affinity, sharing a site on teachers in varying fields, their lecturing styles, areas of expertise… Fascinating.
Don’t have time to submit in current A.M., as there’s this whole database I have to register in. Pain, really, but it’s part of the game. Not a problem.
My desk, clearing. Not bad, actually. Feel like a roaming cat, rather than boxed rat. Coffee almost done. Curses! Was just feeling its beautifully black magic.
Morning, already telling me something. But not sure what.
That I should leave this log, finish a poem before work, or leaving for work.
And dinner tonight, what should it be?
Started the poem. Now I have to leave, follow through with what I want, what I see. And I don’t like emailing submissions. Plath didn’t do that. An email isn’t a manuscript/submission packet. So.. I’ll prepare a traditional packed tonight in addition to emails holding my work.
And where do I go, cuisine-wise? Monti’s? Get that pasta dish that Alice and I have shared before? What wine do I pair?
There it is,
you me caught in OVER
So I stop.
detail: chapped lips, cherry chapstick; that time of year, with the heater running so often.
detail: wine stains, kitchen counter.. oops; looks like last night’s Cabernet remainder; now a reminder.
detail: winds the other day, blowing trees down at winery; debris, leaves, everything everywhere; gorgeous mania.
Mike stepped into soft socks, his khakis, shoes. But he had no interest in going outside. Or did he. A walk, not a run, sounded better. Something outside of pattern, the boxed stack of the expected, normality and responsibility’s syringe. Not into his shell, not today. But he locked his door, behind him. Turn, into cold, to car; in, start, drive.