mood this evening. Have to write and work my way out of it. First chance to write all day. Even the little journalist pad has barely been touched further aggravating the writer. Allergies attacking, and my mood further drops. Need some type of, I don’t know.. excitement, or charge, activity or enlivened sense. Something. Looking at the Kerouac letters collection right and— You know what, forget about other authors, even those I study or more or less idolize. Just FOCUS on my story. Wine.. winemaking.. the bottle and this Ox trapped in it. Tired but fighting, wanting a glass of that Pride Cabernet I unearthed from the wine closet (notice I didn’t state ‘cellar’, as it’s anything but a cellar of any kind of tier, magnitude). This entry as I’m now measuring is about removing one’s self from a mood. But can I, can I? Sick of my writing and I won’t decree this is writer’s block as I’ve always stressed to students there’s no such thing but I’ve definitely hit a wall, precisely why I need travel so horribly. Those waitings in line, the flights, the meals, those hotel rooms and the lobby bars at which I would scribble about anything and everything from napkin design to lighting, to what’s on the menu and a portrait of the waiter, or waitress. This is a mood, to be sure, and one surprisingly formidable, wanting to take me down with it to whoknowswhere. Need write more performance pieces and read them wherever, I don’t care if it’s the Healdsburg Square, that park in the middle of it, like that guitar player I saw a few weeks ago just playing and not really caring if anyone was listening or putting money, tossing money, in his pot. I want to be that guy, that player of the instrument though I play nothing only write and maybe I could trick myself into seeing this mood as some sort of instrument, how instrumental it is in my form. But I’m tiring, of this day and these allergies, need that something, the IT, but not tonight, it won’t happen tonight. So I fall into sleep when I do planning and dreaming of the dream which will be material; me on a seat in some plan headed to New York to meet with a publisher or someone who wants something with the book that I self-printed. And if it works for me then lovely and if not I don’t mind telling them to go fuck themselves. That’s the just the writing I’m becoming, frankly. So then I pose to Self: “Is this all about the travel?” No, not all, but much. And why? The Newness, the lessons out there. You won’t learn anything just sitting in one spot and doing the same thing being so safe and polite and formalist, creatively obedient— no, you have to break shit, I’m finding. OR, better typed: the writer need disrupt if he’s to be seen as one with lasting touch.