Have to leave in a bit.  Hungry…  Printed 11 pages of book, my adjunct memoir.  So to cafeteria to clear head.. think.  Then to haircut, then to home to work more.  Short class tonight as Ms. Alice and I can finally have a dinner date.  Going to—  HA! (in case she’s reading…)  A nice place.  One of my favorites.  And close to home.  Shit.  Probably already said too much.  Either way,  walk…

Back in office.  Cinnamon-raisin bagel, and banana.  And i see I have to leave in 5 minutes.  Need to breathe…

3:36.  Adjunct cell.  Ready for class.  Only meeting for hour, reminder to Self.  Send rec’ letter requests to colleagues here at SRJC.  The switch now starts…  Bought two books at Barnes & Noble on teaching and thesis writing.. huh, just gave myself an idea for 1A meeting.  Going to Room—  pen ready.. evidence prepared.  Teach.. teach what… about ideas, the authors and ours, the synergy between Author & Reader.

I’m the tireless Professor.  Writer.

9:24PM.  After dinner, nice wine, time with babies, time for the writer/professor to get back into mode.  But then I’m called upstairs by little Kerouac, to tuck him in again and get some of the animals off his bed.  Interesting day—

Back downstairs after going back up to Jackie’s room to reassure him I’m in the house to keep him safe.  If only I could have the eight hours I spend at the winery tomorrow to be in my adjunct cell, writing— hmmm, should I?  NO.  Write throughout the day.  No struggle, no progress…  Meditating under the ambient light in this living room, Autumn Walk Studio—  wine making typing more difficult.  But I continue, hoping to wake early, write something to sell, propose a new course, on blogging/journaling, the more specific, uncomfortable specific the more readable, I’d tell student.

Took another sip of the Zin I opened the other night, under this low light, and just think, think, more honesty, stop caring like HST advises, and just write.  How wine has lost its entreaty, for me.  NOW, I just want to teach, write, teach, write about teaching and writing, writing about being a teacher.  I love how people love citing the ‘those that can’t, teach’ apothegm.  Only assures me they’re in no way qualified, ready for, or mentally able to teach.  Again, soon, have to leave these keys, to sleep, get up early like my blogger friend, this morning posting how he was up at 4-something, in an airport, seeing his book on some stack in some shop.  If I’m truly tireless, I’ll get to where I need be, where I see the readings and immediate prose bleedings…

Wife comes downstairs to do something and I’m annoyed but nit so much cuz she has to do that, something for Emma, make milk or what—  And I’m tired, can’t drink wine as I used to, old man, Mom and Dad told me not to fixate on my age but how can I not when I’m just plainly bloody old.

Tireless writer/professor.  Yeah.  Well, I’m plainly tired, and over the day over the plainness, over the pattern.  Sipping decaf now, picking at peanut butter M&M’s— relaxing finally.  Was done with wine, don;t want ot endanger my early wake.  IF I’m out to sell my writings, I need to live like a salesperson, live like I’m commission-only, but working for myself— no, no ‘but’, working for myself like a real estate agent, or insurance ass like Roger, or any lifelong seller.  That has to be me, empirically.  This decaf, my savior.  No more wine, can’t wait for my early wake, for what time, I ask myself now at 10:56PM— what, maybe 4, yes?  Imagine myself seeing my book in a store at the airport, about to board a plane for Paris.  My city, I miss it.  Even though I’ve only been there once.  I’m not fearing a thing, even though I’m getting old.