3/16/14.  5:37AM.  Everything about me’s asleep, but I can’t sleep.  Crumby feeling as a writer.  But I’m up.  Typing.  About what I have no idea– no plan, aim, nor vision.  Warm in this house.  I’m uncomfortable, and with dry mouth.  Probably an effect of last night’s Chardonnay nightcap.  I’ll say.. I’m quite pleased with these new glasses.  Should have bought more than just four.  And I should have took home some cooking equipment.  Of some kind.  I need to cook more.  Not just for saving money’s sake, but for the creative act, or the new direction in my story.  Or, simply, to do it.  For no other reason than to cook.

Hear my son calling..  Have to cut the session short, I’m afraid.

 

Now, he’s with his mother, in our bed.  Seems he too is stricken with these allergies.  My left eye, the small corner stretching to the forehead’s center, rumbles an intense itch.  That’s usually how the allergy season starts for me.  And it’s maddening.

Two emails to answer.  From students, that is.  Odd not having class tomorrow.  I’m certainly not complaining, but that’s what I’m racking, returning, sitting down here on this couch.  I’m also thinking I need to spend more time in the library between classes, collect more “scholarly articles”, as they call them.. read more.. study…  Be a student again.  And I mean TRULY live as a student.  All day taking notes, reading, formulating my own papers for submission.. these papers will be my lectures, new lectures to be read, submitted to journals, establishing a new turn in my story…  In fact…  Let me look for those Plath articles I found a few weeks ago.

Found all of it.  But I need to add to it, this bay of articles, significantly.

And another author of very recent interest, one with whom I struggled significantly in graduate school: Joyce.  The documentary I watched on him weeks ago, where his prose was called “impenetrable”, frustrated me, made me want to be a stronger reader, frankly.  Battle Joyce again, as he very much defeated me in grad school.  And I will be, living in that library.

Coffee.  The writer needs his coffee.  But I don’t want to wake Jackie.  And there, I hear something from him.  Think he said “froggy”.  Meaning, his stuffed froggy that my sister gifted him a while back is near him.  Everyday, this little Artist of mine develops, offers some new detail in sentence or expression’s form.  This, too, motivates my own character to that library.

 

Wednesday, we’ll be in Napa.  My friends/co-worker characters, that is.  So far, no idea where we’re going.  And as much as I like that, we do need some itinerary, or direction.  What I want to “take away” from the mission: writing material, obviously, but that’s easy [as, my new understanding cements.. ‘if I’m living, I’m writing’]…  Pictures.  Vineyard stills that tell some kind of story, or offer thought provocation.  Something.  I just want pictures.. visuals.

 

In the reserve room today.  I remember some telling me yesterday, right as we clocked out, and I thought they were just joking with me, teasing as it’s well known I despise the reserve room.  But I’ll make it mine, today.  Pocket as many tips as I can, put that into the Self-publishing swamp of crumbled bills upstairs, in that Philosophy Encyclopedia.  Where did I buy that?  I think at Borders on Santa Rosa Ave, right before it closed.

 

Quiet upstairs.  Think they’re both asleep.  Which is interesting considering how hyper little Kerouac was when flew up the stairs to him.