Summary Sixteenth Notes

Did quite a bit of work towards PhD packet, today.  But, more importantly, I was able to taste my wines this morning, for the first time in probably two months I’d say [and if not, pretty close, maybe more].  Entered the caves with Sam and Sophie, where we tasted not just my Merlot and Grenache-based blend, but their Carignane and Grenache, from Sophie’s father’s vineyard in Mendocino.  Loved their Grenache, but was captivated by their Carignane.  Interesting, as the last time I tasted from their barrels, I had an antithetical lean.  Was in quite the wine mode today, frankly.  Visiting and re-visiting much of what we in the TR pour.  Yes, I spit (sometimes), but was always able to appreciate revolving layers in the bottled content, composition.  Just like reading a novel, or short story a second, third time.

Look on a calendar counter, and I have one year, one month, and one day to finish my application packet, have everything submitted.  I even went so far as to download a GRE app to my phone.  I won’t let that bloody test scare me.  Going to read a couple pages in the big study guide I bought last week.  This one poem of Plath’s, really fixating me, sending my thoughts to atmospheric levels not even named.  Love it.  I’m more than confident, short of completely sure, that my writing will get me into one or more of the targeted programs.  Just had an idea!  Not going to write it here…  Be right back.

This morning’s session, still on mind.  And I’m not tired, even a little.  Staring down the barrel of a branch, the small xmas tree on this nook table.  Alice went out, purchased it today with little Kerouac.  Love this annual portion.  Makes me think of all the holiday of my youth, in the Bayview house.  And here I am, approaching 2014, the year I turn 35.  Time, waging a newly charged assault against the author.  So I sip this Zin, scribble till I win.

A poetry collection, I’m gathering.  And tonight’s the first night of hunting, gathering.  How many pages?  21.  20 less that the chapbook that I’ve had on-deck for weeks.  1mo, 1wk, 1day…  Within 90 days, I want to be seen as a writer like I never have before.  And, making respectable money doing so.  And how I do so.. with poem.  No prose, to start.  The 41-page piece, back in hanger.  For now.

Wrote two standalone poems this morning.  One in home, other in parking lot, before starting shift.  Proud of my 1,000+ words this morning, in 5 o’clock’s hour.  But I wish I would have typed three poems, alternatively.

This tree, with scent that I could never erase.  I’ve met it before.  Sweet, sharp, tight, bright.  How would Ms. Plath have it worded?  The math portion of the GRE, pleasurably riling me.  Can’t believe it.  You know, I’ve always wanted to, for the fun/self-appeasement, retake Algebra, then Intermediate Algebra (in which I earned a ‘D’, because I didn’t try).  Math is NOT smarted than this writer.  Interpreting Literature, forming your own position and explaining it within the confines of word count, structure and fluidity, demands much more of a Human than a simple calculation, to which there may be only, often is ONLY, 1 answer.

1st glass, done.  Time for contributing to collection, poems.  Journal, right.  What would Ms. Plath do?  She’d want me to do what I feel’s right.  Self-doubt kills Creativity, she’d say.  And she’s me leading.  I gladly, proudly, lovingly follow.  Now, 9:18pm.  Would love another glass.  But I want to earn it…  Oh, her language, unusual phrases, tags, nouns.  How did she do that?  So glad I stay far from television.  It’s an assigned commercial death.  And so many to it run, subscribe.  Poetry, saving us both, Ms. Plath.. you AND I.

What will I do tomorrow, if it’s as slow as I forecast?  I guess write.  Bring my Plath text, ‘Colossus’, into the Room.  Read, marginalia.  What’ll bring me to the grad school classRoom, again, for the first time in over 11 years.  This road to my doctoral campus, a writing project, I’m feeling.  Why not?  Think of how much I could write, in such a focused narrow trek?  Why not start now?  But where?  Only write with ink, no typing.  ME, chasing a PhD, finally…

Already thinking about New Year’s Reso’s.  1, drinking much less wine.  2, running much more, at least 4 days a week, 20 miles minimum.  3, writing for a living, by 35th.  That’s easy.  That deserves my second glass tonight, surely.  Oh, and… 4, 2 half marathons, before 2015.

May be feeling the day’s length, finally.  But I need to get further into my work, finish the other poem I started in that dirt parking lot, about highways vs side streets.  Going to find the poems that’ll make this first aggregation propel to readers’ thinking.

Ugh.. just pushing Self to 1,000 words for the night.  Writing shouldn’t be like this.  Want to write as Plath, Hemingway did.  Paper, ink.  Badly.  Need a break, even more feverishly.  Looking at the Zin large format (thinking a 6L), that Katie brought Alice’s and my wedding, for guests to sign.  That was in 2007.  Over 6 years ago.  And time, with another finished invasion.  It keeps in its advance, and there’s nothing the writer can do to repel.  I can’t even retreat.  I can only capture what happens.  Report, record.


10:07pm.  TV off.  Me, back on couch.  2nd glass, as always, in kitchen, so I sip slower, make my wine last much longer.  Need the total freeness of journal.  This laptop, boring me.  And it makes me feel like I’m being led, leashed.  Not me, please…  Have a strong hour down here, to finish the poem I this morning began.  Can’t forget to bring Plath to work, make one of my makeshift notebooks, stapling 3-5 pieces of scratch paper.  Did so yesterday, and today.  Beautiful, saving me the $0.99 for a little drugstore notebook.  And of course, I fly to fantasies of my coffee.  Love those A.M. cups.  They, my Ariel.