1/13.

2014 ~ And I’m off…  With a new semester.  New students, new voices, new reactions. A new set of stories thereby sewn.  Again, back to Zinfandel tonight.  And why, the writer doesn’t know.  Think I found a new writing hideout.  You’ll know what it is when the book’s released.  Still can’t detach from that energy this morning, when it was still dark; all the students, hurrying to find their classes, find their way– in more than 1 way.

9:59PM.  Much more awake than I was earlier.  Just need one more night’s rest, wake well-rested, to persist in purposeful pose, prose.  OH, wait…  I have to schedule my bloody bottling, sometime this week or next.  How will I do that?  I’ll talk to Blair tomorrow, and/or Zach, see what they suggest.  Have to pick up 3 12-packs of beer for them.  After leaving little Kerouac at Ms. Lisa’s.

Couldn’t believe how warm it was this morning, today.  Where is this writer’s bloody rain?  And I don’t care about the wine world– I want it for my sessions, to sip espresso at that bar, writing in journal, while plump little drops assault Santa Rosa’s downtown.  Just this day, this first couple pages of the new semester, have coated me with a confidence that I have never felt.  Grandma ordered: “It’s your life, you have your choice.” Indeed, ma’am.  I have chosen.  And I choose to be free.  The industry, not for me.  OH, but there could be consequence from your candor.  Welcomed!  I won’t be welded to script, pattern.. the expected.  How is that living?  That’s existing!

Writing doggo, but not so.  I want the world, even those that could harm me, to read my words.  Dad said, “If you don’t think for yourself, others will think for you.” He also said, “Everything that you’ve instilled in your students has now fallen into your lap.” Oh how the industry can’t handle someone like me– this cumulonimbus confidence– cosmic candor.

 

10:17PM.  Hard to stay focused, with my exhaustion, which easily muffles any sound rippling from Zinfandel’s bend.  And then, I remember last semester, how the English 5 section, so many times, pulled me from moods.  And now, my little Artist, doing that with just a jog to me when I come home.  He’s more than mystical, magical.. he’s a drawing drawer of reason, uniquely layered to yield knowledge.  This little one, teaching me more than I could ever hope to teach students.  And if any of them are reading, I apologize that I can’t be as skilled an educator as my 23-month old.

10:23.  How is time moving as it does?  I always ask this, and it’s far too cowardly to answer.  But at the same time, it’s a cudgel, always assaulting the writer.  But I still write.

 

Now feeling boorish.  And I blame this odd, stupid varietal.  Should have opened a Cabernet.  I’ve always said Zinfandel’s the varietal for people who know nothing about wine; don’t know how to appreciate wine.  I said that when I cared about wine.  Now, I just don’t like Zin.  Or wine, for the most part.  Love when I speed across the street, Hwy 12 rather, for a beer at Kenwood.  Beer, more my present poured passion.

 

Going to finish Zin, then watch this episode.  Poe, though I’m not relaying his works this term, very much on the writer’s mind.  I’ll forever be a Poe-ian.

 

I know it’s time to re-read, edit.  But I don’t want anything typical, akin to.  I want to skip into irresponsibility, that’s much more fun.

 

1/15/14.  In the middle of January, already?  5:53AM, leaving for campus, shortly.  Love these early hours.  I especially love the feel of the day when English 5 ends, I walk out and it’s 9, or a bit after, or before.  The day’s so young, and the sun’s a faint shove for us to start the day.  I’ll leave after Alice & Kerouac are up.

Approaching Hemingway today as someone we just met.  What do you think?  Does he seem happy, sad, interested in something particularly?  What did these students observe, is what I want to know.

 

9:17AM.  And that morning air I love so much, right after I left the Room, greeting me, like a coach of some kind, telling me to fall forward, directly into my day’s layered nature.  Had to get a cup from the caff’.  Straight black.  Great discussion this morning, with ‘5’ on Hemingway as a character, writer, Human; how he seems to never be satisfied, always looking for a new shape of moment.

This coffee, too hot to sip.  Just remembered this morning that Monday is MLK day.  And on that day to Self, I’ll work on Wednesday’s class.  Later today, finishing, or all but, the SRJC full-time app.  Will do so after meeting with writing mate, 1:30p.  So much for today planned.  Can’t be tempted with nap when home.  Stay caffeinated, I’m telling mySelf.

 

For 100:  Start them off in a journal freewrite, about anything they saw in Orwell’s piece.  Theme, narration, objects, people.. doesn’t matter.  ANYTHING!  Just get them writing.  And talking.  Will have them read some poetry as well.. poetry, exploring its problematic attributes; writing as a recipe.  For what?  Expression.. much else.  Can’t let mySelf slow.. keep moving, teacher!  Want to walk around some more, drop this laptop off in car.  But not yet.

 

Waking so early, different tax on my person than in ’07.  This, much more costly.  Has to be my age.  How did Dad do so all those years, waking early to drive to airport, then fly across the country, or internationally?  I guess discipline, and sort of strength set I don’t have.

Going into winery, after meeting.. what will the wine taste like from its bottles?  Can’t wait to write something to that first bottle I open; of both the Merlot and that Grenache-based blend.  It’s all for this– the work– the books.  Going to take my time with the English 100 section, today.  Go slow through Mr. Orwell’s work.. I’ll have them read, as I said, but I want them to read aloud, asking each other questions about what they observed.  With the students interacting with, and challenging, or simply responding to each other, creates a true classRoom– one of Life.. the words; the book: a story being written.

 

Have to organize this book I’m writing this semester, by the day; don’t fall behind!  What happens, what I like and don’t– or moreover, what engages me and what doesn’t.  But that’s difficult, as it all keeps me writing, typing.  By the end of the semester, I’ll have some sort of reasoning.  I’m sure.  I

hope–