Home a bit late this evening as I had some silly tasting to host. And now that I’m here, on couch, after second Racer, I only think of the completed book.. this semester. What shape it’ll take. But I still have those other pages to edit through. And the poetry collection, behind which I’m scarred quite far. If I can leave just a touch early tomorrow, I’d be so very much helped, in so many manners. Have to write letter of recommendation of student from English 5, TONIGHT, which I already noted somewhere.. think in that new notebook I carry, the one I bought for $3.01 [one cent over budget, for that overhead’d item].
Remembering one of my English instructors from Foothill, Denny, how he taught American Lit, introduced me to Ralph Waldo Emerson, Thoreau, Melville, Poe. And even the letters between Emerson and Whitman… With as much as I write, and how passionate I am in these lines, I should be somewhere else in Life, frankly. But I’m waging a war, against the current conundrum. Which is? The clock, what need be every day punched. Or swiped, in my case.
Behind on the verse. And I can’t afford to be. Like Shakur, right out of jail, I need record to stay alive, Free. Now I need a glass of my Merlot, opened last night. But I think I logged that as well, earlier, in Annadel. Love writing where I do, there, in those unpaved lots. The morning, those trees, the bullying sun, always does something to me.
Envy Mr. Hemingway, not distracted or even slightly pulled by tech the way we today-writers prance. It’s maddening.
Constantly thinking of what to do next in class. What I can offer the students. Have to post to their blog tonight, at some point. Invite them to more dialogue on the paper topics, keep the conversation in collusion. (1/31/14)