Easy pace, this day. Sipping some LESB [Lancaster Estate Sauvignon Blanc, 2012]. 8:40p, my time. Going to bed early, so I can wake early, to write, do a little grading… Doesn’t feel like a Tuesday eve. Probably as I’m alone in castle.
Made my own little pages, by stapling 4 pieces of small squared scratch paper. Finished the poem I initiated this morning, along with a character capture: M.A./credential student at Stanford; the way she talked about teaching, that passion, how excited she was to “finally be teaching,” as she said. Then she went on to say how no one went into the profession, started teaching, if the didn’t have passion, that passion.. HER passion level. I laughed to Self, in admiration, envy. This semester.. the first in some time where I’ve felt THAT passion.
Quite quiet in here. Another sip… So crisp, earthy, rich, displaying. Need music. Love nice wine paired with my song type.
Should finish day’s poem. And get to bed soon. Should prepare coffee. Print my pages. Not doing that tonight– I know, I know.. I’m procrastinating, or at least changing envisioned course. I’m Artist, I’m Human. What can I do? Not demand too much of Self, that’s for sure. Too much pressure gives to the scatter. Accomplishes nothing.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this much in love with an SB before. […] Printing the poem, soon. But listening to this music has me thinking of paginated experimentation, changing my Literary shape. Want another pour. Not so much a FULL glass, just something to sip while I transfer what I today scribbled, on my makeshift sketchpad.
9:07pm. Re-read poem, with new SB glass. Edited, printed. Love seeing my words on actual paper. Not some corporate engineered visual vortex spoon. Feel mood declining. Making Self go to café tomorrow morning. To write lecture, put something into narrative, and just relax as a writer, like Hemingway’s character in ‘Midnight in Paris’. Wilson’s character walks in, finds Mr. Hemingway just sitting there, enjoying wine, taking in his scene.
Have to return to my letters. Should write my fiction professor from grad school. That girl today, Emily, the Stanford student.. has me thinking about so much. Wine.. sorry, but I’m done. I’ll only drink you. Not make you. I make thoughts appear.. put to page. I’m quite proud to say I’m not a winemaker. I’m a writer. And we write.
Otherwise we’re dead. And don’t exist.
Need to relax for night’s rest, I’m thinking. Put on one of my writing movies, sip this last SB glass, then to writer’s bed. Balance in all I do, writing.. hopefully. And the heater comes to present present. Love Autumn, Winter.. where we scribblers hibernate, collect a page swamp for arrowing.
Miss Ms. Plath. The ‘Panic’ pieces, her desperate delivery. Don’t write “desperate” as to defame her. I only mean to applaud. She was consummate in her urge to record, pen, journal whatever contacted her.. with what she collided. Need to watch that movie again. Much I dislike Paltrow’s performance.. it’s Plath. Just what I need study. Solved.