[1 year, 28 days] In Safeway parking lot, again. Didn’t make it up for 5AM sitting. The writer’s body must have needed the stillness. Don’t like where I’m parked. Moving…
Better, moved a couple dozen spaces down, away from other cars, and by a solitary tree. Woke this morning, with Jack’s first sounds, around 5:30-something, thinking of my Plath article for app. Plath is… Plath is… Plath is…..
Don’t want to venture into more detail here, in this parking lot, but I’ll make one of my makeshift notebooks today, jot what I can, as I’m nearly assured a slow day, with Thanksgiving holiday over, it being a Wednesday, and the current temp reading 30’. Smelled someone’s chimney tumbling this morning, that winter percussive euphony. Remind me, of course, of Sunriver. The vineyards now, not giving me much. They really don’t, anymore. I’m too used to their presence. They’re in a stalemate of staleness, expected bland rant. Teaching, however, experiences resurrection. As do I, as an educator. Have Monday and Wednesday of next week off.. and maybe Friday. What to do with those days: ready Self for next semester.
And gather some of these poems I’ve been writing.
Poetry, always rhythmic, always singing; always alive. Perfect for me as an Artist.
Some of next semester’s lessons, written in verse form. Maybe.
8:46am. When should I start editing this entry? Soon.
Was just thinking: want to go on a Road trip, actually drive, write along the way. Truly a TRUE, truthful, Kerouac. New everything. More than ever, before the year I turn 30-bloody-5, I require Newness. More than just “stimulation.” Life. Challenge. Something encouraging. Wine’s world fails to offer that, anymore. I love my position at the winery, wine itself of course, but how far can someone like me take it? What’s the end? And, is what I currently do a ‘means’? Well, financially of course it is. But beyond that.. beyond being “responsible” is what I’m addressing.
This music, perfect for my mood. Finally, quiet. I’m rested. Yesterday’s opposer. With my morning mocha, as always. Entries from years ago, divulging my habits. At least I’m consistent. But if this narrative’s to compose a novel, what’s the end? How does it end?
Well, let me ask you: How would you like it to end?
With me living by my pen. Completely sovereign.