me:  6/21/16.  Tuesday.

I can just feel today over my head, ready to take a shit.  Not sure why, I mean nothing bad’s happened yet today, it’s just a feeling.  The ‘Check Coolant’ light came on in that fucking Passat, there was a line at Hopper (no surprise, and that’s my fault, as I keep going there knowing it’s going to be a shit-show).  So a mood me befalls.  I have to pull myself out of it, I know.  I’m too old for this.  This stress, this worry about money, dealing with the Passat.  Money would solve everything, I tell myself, but I know that’s not entirely true.

Tonight’s class:

“I will not take ‘but’ for an answer.” -Langston Hughes

1 – Reading:  Identity

2 – Writing:  Identity

3 – College:  Identity

4 – Freewrites

5 – Reading from Short Prose Reader

6 – Argument vs. Story, can you have both?

7 – Technology, balance (‘I Think, Therefore IM’)

8 – Short Reaction Approaches… quotes, explanation, thoughts, personal experience…..

Should be ready for tonight’s meeting.  Only Night 2, so I’m not too worried.  Woke this morning at 6:20-something.  Way too late.  Woke before, at 3-something, as Jackie fell out of bed in his sleep, poor bloke.  I of course shot upstairs to check on him, put him back in bed, J saying “Thank you, Daddy, I love you.” Almost started tearing.  No, I did.  Went downstairs, remember looking at the clock and thinking, “I should just stay up, write…” But I didn’t, and I’m glad I didn’t ‘cause today’s going to be a long one, and only the first of these T/TH stretches.

Teaching… everything comes back to teaching, a lesson, self-education, some accrual of knowledge.

writer with 2 computers, in the office …

Tiring.  Another coffee.  Soon lunch, where I’ll work more for tonight’s class.  Again, not that much to prep for.  My head’s in more places than I can manage…  But I have the weapon of breathing, and awareness that there’s only so much I can do, right now or at any time.

2:40.  Hotter than kettle fury outside.  Jumping back and forth between projects here…  Yawning, sipping water, may have to switch to coffee.  The day so far has been kinder than I thought it would.  Maybe that was just my usual pessimism, earlier, don’t know.


10:17PM—  Home, tired, but wanting to do nothing but write.  Hearing my wife speak about how volatile it is at her school, and how certain teachers are saying the climate at their institution is changing… and people wonder why I won’t pursue a career in education, try for the full-time/tenure track scam.  Never.  I’m happy going after what I see for Self, like my sister on the Road, being invited to offer counsel and opinion within my purview of passion.  So much on my desk again, the atmosphere of this home office reminds me to consolidate, to simplify, minimize, and don’t stop writing the expressions of a writing and tirelessly working father.  I’m home, I shouldn’t be stressed, and I’m not, this writer’s tireless, and I will free myself and my wife, my family of supervisory grip.  Our family trade, operation, in the creative, publishing, media and everything else telling a story, is our only concern.  The only “supervisors” will be us, true Autonomy.  Need another glass of my ’12 Merlot to celebrate, rejoice, elevate further in this story and

at lunch

subsistence in what I self-sustain, growing and reaching for the sun as the vines do.  Pictures at lunch, walking in that Dry Creek heat, then retreating back to the office much I didn’t want to.  Shouldn’t say that— not that I DIDN’T want to, just that I needed time to walk, stretch, breath, meditate, collect, introspect… but I had to work.  Fine, they recognize me as a writer and professor which is much more than the other dimwitted wineries have.  Kenwood, only seeing me as something to barely be seen, just a number and fucking clock-puncher.  Russian River spot, so spun and suffocated in their own silver-spoon-ed-ness that they often times, or most of the time, wouldn’t even be there.  One of them would act like an owner, but then go off on some business trip to sell wine, or so we were told, then come back to office for a couple hours before skid-addling off to who-knows-where.  Like I once wrote, the wine industry is so desperate to be taken seriously.  I finally do take it more seriously, because of Dutcher—  Or rather, it’s Dutcher I take seriously.  The industry still has quite a bit of selling to do before I even lean at a buy.

that hill, those trees, those vines …

Today, rather kind, I must say, after an incredible meeting with my 100.  So please forgive the way I started this entry.  I was seismic this morning, an irritable fault just eager to quake.  But I’m home now, saw both babies, now I’m composed, about to adimpleate my Govino with more vino, become truly nonpareil.  This is a poet’s night, with the air conditioner adulating (relaxing the writer, complimenting me after my endless day), wife in other room watching her “trashy shows”, she specified.  The words I collect, like that student tonight showing me all the quotes she writes into a notebook.  I need to be more singularized.  Why don’t I?  What am I doing.  No more, even if I want.  If I get an idea for a new project, blend it into this log, or blog, or log.  Hate the word ‘blog’ again.  But I’m a blogger.

The wine now syncopated, jazzlike in its perambulation— perfect palate suddenly contrasting earlier impression.  Think I angered it.  Why did I do that.

Looking again at the lecture, or more so plan, for today.  Freewriting.  Writing freely.  Writing for freedom… Acquiring freedom as a result of writing.  Not just some precursor to an essay, like they want to impress upon or just flat-out teach students.  There’s more to freewriting.  You’ll be liberated.  I, will be liberated.  And in Italy with my sister, or maybe meeting her somewhere else on the Road.  A writer and winemaker, intersecting in sakes of devoted doctrine.  Wine, literature, thought, history, aggrandizement—  Soon.  Then I’ll really be free, no ‘buts’…