9:35AM.  Love writing a day’s thousand before 10.  Thank this semester’s schedule.  Still thinking about the ‘5’ papers that were read this morning.  All the pride they took in their first draft for my class, for the assignment I set before them.  When home, after the café session, I’ll organize even further, everything: all writings, books, odds, ends, items.  Throw away the unneeded.  If you don’t need it, it shouldn’t be part of a clutter blizzard that could distract or even worse stress you, ruining page focus.

34% battery left on this bloody thing.  Good.  Let it die.  I’ll bring only the semester’s Comp Book, where I’m writing the term’s novel, with me while I sip espresso, or coffee, or some differently drawn mocha.

Sent letter to writer friend, finally.  Meant to send it last night, but was lovingly distracted by family, for sister’s birthday.  We had a bottle of my ’12 Cuvée, which continues to show nicely; more voice, evolution, energy and presence.  And Mom’s cooking, those crab enchiladas.. unspeakably ambrosial.  But I think I’ll be distancing self from wine, and my beloved artisanal beer for a while, to see what it does, the distance– not that I need to, and I know I’ve said before I’d just this very thing attempt, but I’ll follow through, this time ‘round.  I want to wake early when I don’t have to, days I don’t teach, to write, get at least 500 words into the book, the capture the rest of day.  Wine, beer, only slow the writer.  Especially at this age…


9:47AM.  How I love this schedule, this semester, my students, the books I selected.  This is my life, educating, exchanging ideas as Mr. Coleman said.  This is what I was meant to do.  My Life, MY choice, as Grandma said…  I AM going to print a poem or two for the 100 section.  One from Plath, then another from Kerouac.  See what they see…  How they read them.  And is there a message, or clear theme in their poems– or dare I say, ‘thesis’.


I’m contemplative in this room, at this long conference table, currently situated as horizon, the other vertical, extending to my 12, making the ‘T’.  Yes, a bookstore stop very much needed: copy of New Yorker, look for Hemingway short stories.. and literary criticism.

Oh, a nap sounds perfect at the moment.  Just push yourself through ‘100’…  Maybe I should go for a walk, wake mySelf.  And that wouldn’t be difficult, not with today’s chilling air.  Rain’s said to come, tonight, but you know how that goes.  Would love to see more moisture.  And I don’t care if the vineyards need it.  I want it for my writing, for my eyes’ appeasement.


now I’m hungry

can’t let self eat

then I’ll fall even further into

imaginary bed

go walk

in the cold

it’s beautiful

painful but


a painting, this morning, a

gallery, just on

the other side of

the door

go see

it’ll help


stopped with sensory slivers

yes, that’s what I ordered

a new story, chapter

dessert– and no I didn’t mean

to write


icy intent, over icecream, idea