9:12PM.  Mendo tomorrow morning and I’m not looking forward to it.

NOTES:  overwhelming urge to write, finish novel and magazine.  Tuesday, I keep telling myself, Thursday, Friday.  But I have to grade, last semester like this I won’t let this happen again.  And I festoon in late hour with my words and thoughts of tomorrow and the semester ending and the next run, whenever I can fit that in.  Grading certainly takes from the writing but that’s my world now, my role, an English teacher, but as I dive garrulously into the journalism world, and HST, I find that I need to be devoted solely to story, the reality of what I’m finding.  And now, with the GOP gaining more ground in Congress, I’m following, I’m checking reports– wish I was in Washington.  HST was right, it’s much better than sex, MUCH better.  This urge to write and report and do something and travel with my notebook and come back to type it all, keeping me awake, what made me pour out the Lagunitas so I can focus and dream more clearly.

Last night with that Red, interesting how it’s tasting now, and how I’m responding to wine, especially reds like that, and why everyone likes it, meaning people coming into the TR, members or new characters.  They love it, what I was sipping last night, and I mean true love, as in they can’t have enough, and when we sold out of the last vintage, ’10, they fitted, hysterics, nearly lynching the teller, me, behind the bar just being a journalist of sorts, delivering fact, reality.  Time for bed for me, the tired writer, with only dread for my commute and destination, but loving that I have no winery appt come Tuesday.  This is only good news, beneficial development in a way that makes me accelerate in written spinnings.  Love.  My dying tort for the sui generis, left in the parking lot, I don’t need it anymore, so I can only be honest, what’s the worst that can happen I say to myself.

8:54AM, and I feel I’m behind on everything.  Luckily I have the day off tomorrow.  Have to take Passat in.  Again.  Always something with that bloody car.  Letting students go early, having them finish some Hemingway readings and start on their longer reaction to his work.  Rest of the semester planned and organized, for the most part.  Tired this morning, as I always am, but I’m waking more directly and with more gemness than earlier with that mocha.  Cold this morning, my car temp reader showing 47 degrees.  Hate the sound this office’s keyboard makes when keys are pressed, like hollow thin plastic, small and clerical.. I just hate it, plainly.  Behind on all projects.. the lit mag.. will be done tomorrow, I swear.. “Deadlines, Mikey…” Nate said the other day, when I told him I hadn’t finished editing down the issue.  Shameful, really.

9AM.  There it is.  That time.  I should get to class before the students, I can pick up this entry and edit– there, I edited the first few lines of the first article in the issue.  I feel anxious in this office, and I blame the office, and this campus, and the drive, not the mocha, and not me.  Tomorrow, all mine.  Going to wake early as I did the other morning and start grading the Wolff papers, and further planning the rest of the term.  December 17th, that’s the magic day, which is…  44 days away.  14 days, 1 month.  I can do it I keep telling mySelf.  Dav was right, I was doomed to get burned out.  Good thing I put in for the days off this week.  Going to do the same for next month, 12/2, 4 & 5.  And that should seal the semester sufficiently I think.  Going to class, giving them instruction, then leaving.  It’d be lovely if I could get this whoso issue to print tomorrow.  And why not?  Okay, done, scheduled, that’s what I’ll do.