With the day over, I’m tired. Another no-wine night and I’m all write’d out. No topic interests me, certainly not my indecisiveness. The teaching blog, dying in 15 days. And the main blog, bottledaux, staying alive but becoming more image-rooted, not giving away as much free prose. Singularity, keep telling myself. Just submitted grades for Mendo. So now I’m officially done. Not sure I evaluated as best I could but they only gave me a week, yet another flawed facet to that place they call a legitimate higher learning center. No rain, but a little wind. Yes, I’m done for day. Ran an hour on belt and feel drained, and motivated for marathon exactly 6 months from today. Could I do it now, I ask myself, probably but it would hurt, it would definitely hurt, and I want to do some race, maybe a half, around 90 days before my Santa Cruz return. But I have to find one.
xmas is next week, can you believe that? Time.. just moving, not caring about the writer. This picture I took yesterday, of the stream or creek or water run just by the Chardonnay block, in early day, telling me to relax, enjoy images, embrace them, write to them. In this particular piece, the light looks shy but the water looks rushed, nearly knowing it’ll be gone soon, evaporated, taken by season change. But I kept staring, yesterday morning, knowing I had to clock in soon but didn’t care. The water and its sound against the banks and rocks I couldn’t quite see promised me peace. So why would I rush to be on THEIR clock? Water moving, water that’s not muddied but italicized naturally by light and thinly glacial air.. just what a writer needs. And, the rain comes back, I can hear it on this front door’s other side.