journal’s continental coursing

Thought about writing on Poe, for application’s writing sample.  But I’m staying with Sylvia.  Plath.  No other writer reaches me as she does.  True, I love Poe’s work, but I feel he’s more of an expected Self-genre, whereas Ms. Plath changes shapes, multiple times, even when you read certain pieces a second, third, fourth time.  How she accomplished that?  Honesty.  That “truth” Hemingway so wholly heralded.

Good, so I have that decided.

11/28/13–  Good day, reader.  Been viciously productive with the writing.  I easily have more than a page prepared–well, written, not so much “prepared” for submission–for my app.  And, with that short story I began so many nights ago, about the old man walking around Big Sur, looking for waves: I’m at word 475.  So I only have a 25 word allowance remaining.

Alice and Jack, upstairs in collectively individual rests.  And I, of course, down here writing.  Just finished a cup of the Italian Roast Alice bought last night for me.  Was re-reading Plath’s poem “Mirror”.  Forgot how visual and introspective that poem was.  I mean, yes.. all her work is, to a degree.  But not to this level.  She poses question atop question, never really reaching an answer.  And, I have to ask…  Is an “answer,” or conclusion, even her goal?

Would love another cup, but I don’t want to wake the little Artist, nor his mother.


513 words.  Done.  Should I allow mySelf to be 13 over budget?  I’ll think about it.  I’m walking away from my piece, letting it breathe, like any wine.  Or Human.  Wonder what tomorrow holds, at the winery.  Not sure if it’ll be busy like retail locations.  Hard to say.  I’m sure that tourists in town visiting relatives will come by for some tasting, approach the bar asking the all-too-famous question, “How does this work?”

So funny, I just want to work on this writing sample, the entire app.  The bug has not left, and I’m so thankful…  Would love to be in a classRoom, a student again.  Taking notes, reading, meeting with colleagues, exchanging ideas, cutting up Literature on campus.  I am a student, I’m telling Self, with this app.  This paper, yes, not do for another year, but it WILL be the best writing I’ve ever put in another’s hands.  Easily.  Ms. Plath will help.

In fact, going to read through some of her verse…  Will write you later…  (12:50pm)


8:20pm.  Back from dinner at sister’s.  Didn’t have a single sip of wine, nor any craft beer.  Strictly sparkling water.  Currently, Alice braves the first shopping rushes with her friend, L.  MySelf, quite safe in this castle, beer at left, my session ahead of me.  Trying to calm Self with this application, the writing entailed, but it’s hard.  You know me, you know how much I write.  Tomorrow, I’ll stop at the drugstore just down the block, pick up a new little notebook to carry.  And I’ll devote all my thinking tomorrow to my position on Plath.  Inconclusive Self assessment…  And what a joy to read her poetry, revisit some of my favorite pieces, some new ones as well.

One of the items on my project list, a collection of poems.  I could gather certain pieces, then bind, sell.  Yes, but not before the 41-page piece.  By the time I re-enter grad school, I hope to be a self-sustaining writer.  Another list to be scribed into journal, submission packets (what I’ve sent out, and what pieces are involved, collectively and individually).  So far, I just have those three poems, making submission packet1:  Owl Loop, Tide Wearing, and Title Under Hood.  Another poem I wrote, printed upstairs actually, will make packet2, by itself.  Then, next, I’ll group 5 poems for packet3–  OH, and the 500-word piece I finished today, finally.  4.  I can play around with those for a while, see what happens.

My writing’s divided, I know, but I have a useful “war map,” you could call it.  One thing at a time.  Think all writers struggle with that, to some degree.  In the mood for some wine now, after my beer’s very short life.  Bugger!  Left the leftovers in the car.  Doesn’t matter, it’s gloriously glacial outside.

Not letting Self touch my Plath article.  And I’m isolating all future notings on a single page in the journal.  Have a vision of how I’ll enter my program: an already-accomplished writer, doing something he’s always wanted to.  That simple.  Frankly, wine sounds lovely right now.  And I’ll make mySelf write through this blockade I’m feeling, currently.  No, another beer first.  I deserve it.

Journal on top of TV armoire, so I’ll type a little further.  What my sister tonight fixed, I don’t think I could ever do.  Used to have the urge to learn cooking, but I need to devote all energies to the writing, getting mySelf to true Self-sufficiency, Autonomy, my Equilibrium, before grad school.  Ideas for poems, spinning around me like crazed hummingbirds.


This new character of mine, difficult to read.  She’s open, then closed, difficult to engage, a bit confrontational, rejectionist.  No matter, I’ll just watch, observe, as we penners do.  What are her goals?  Hard to say, but something in the way of minimal supervision.  I see her one day owning her own bar, something small.  In her spare time, she reads.  Only novels, some nonfiction.  She likes worlds fabricated, written; especially the fantastic.  And she reads in parks.  No coffee houses, not at home.. always in a park.  And she’s quite persistent in finding new reading spots.  She’s driven as far as Half Moon Bay, from Napa, just to get reading done on her only day off (as she works full-time for one bar, then one day a week at another in St. Helena).  She loves the money, but hates the pace.  She started planning, saving her tips, putting them into certain funds advised by her father.

But where is her real propulsion?  In what?  Even I don’t know.  And I don’t think I want to know.  Not yet, just what has her vessel forwarded.


9:10pm.  Opened a Reserve Cab, 2010, from the winery.  What Poe would recommend I do.  Just thought.. why am I not writing my paper on Poe?  Frankly, he intimidates me.  I enjoy his writing, his self-assigned genre, style, imagery, tone, but we don’t speak the same language.  Ms. Plath and I however, very much do.  Every sentence of hers is mine.