I sat in the nook of my kitchen, our kitchen, and thought of the day, what I would have shaped or molded or sang differently.  But that does nothing; with the cricket outside the window here in this cluttered kitchen, mind escaping what’s known– I go to work tomorrow, to the winery.  And all I want to do is plan Fall.  Ordered the SRJC books, done, now Mendo’s up.  Have to type something for students tomorrow, in morning, early, so I can give them a note to entertain whilst finalizing their final papers.  Another room change tonight, can you believe it.  Because of the power issues they’ve been having.  I focus on this new room, in Maggini Hall [sp?], now while sitting here, and I think of the class I had there last semester.  Not my favorite, and I blame myself.  Tomorrow’s lecture; all about prose, poetry– or poetry in prose I mean.  Going to read the first chapter of Big Sur tonight, see what else Mr. Kerouac has to teach.  I see him as an instructor of sorts– whoa, just had an idea, several, all at once.  Scotty and Glenny, and Dav would be proud.  Crystal, too.  And Bob.  Ugh, when will we all get together?  Remembering what she told me once, don’t second-guess myself.  “If you did that as a winemaker, you’d never make wine,” she said, when I was talking with her in the lab once in 2011.  Tomorrow’s lecture: about timing, timing with writing, how images and narrative can drive a page– true there’s no formula, but those are the two worlds with which writers often tussle and skirmish.  And I’m not finishing the 800-word piece tonight, as I’d hoped, nor did I get a chance to write Amber.  I’m a mess.  But that’s my genre, I guess, messy MSS…