Written Love Person Blood

img_2915Having a little wine tonight, but not much.  One of my ’12 NDC’s that I made at K——.  Not in the mood to write their name.  Been thinking about that place, of late.  How I was treated, how I was weaker then, how that devilish hole forced me to not care, be in this HST mode of just writing and not giving a fuck.  My glass, in kitchen.  Need another pour.  Not so intent on waking tomorrow at 4.  Whatever the story intends is what will happen.  MY story, elevation increase.  True altitude.  My wife in the other room, relaxing after a long day with little Ms. Austen, both babies now asleep upstairs and the ‘rents down here for collection.  Have to force myself to write, right now, tired and attention wandering, ideas circling me then flying away then coming back to taunt me— “Write about me!!”—  “NO, write about ME!!!” Too much to now decide, but why do I have to decide now?  What does the story want?  What do I want?  What Wellness is to me is utter absence and imperviousness to stress.  Someone wrote me recently and said that stress is part of what makes life, what builds character, and I believe he said something like “A life without stress is not a life at all”.  Something to that lean.  Either way, I agree.  But I don’t like it, stress.  I will avoid it, and I’d rather not see, hear, taste or have it touch me.  I need be composed for the Road, for travel.  Which, do know, is my apexing aim.  And to go everywhere, see this globe and record everything.

This morning, the rain, on my car’s roof.  I couldn’t refrain from taking a picture of the miniature puddles atop.  Just staring at them after that one picture, reflecting the clouds, the tall light of the lot.  Heading to class thinking about my lecture but all I wanted to do was let the clouds humble me, force me to calm, collect, be somewhat composed and more of a Human than an obsessive and creatively compulsive composer.  Huh…  just thinking about the morning and how quickly this day by me flew quakes me to rise, go to the kitchen for my night’s closure, red puddle, large bowl, so large puddle, larger sips, calm Mike at this desk with papers and change, books and other foolish documents I’d be better off throwing away, enclosing my locale.

Again, my lectures today, in my thoughts’ throws and narrative internal.  The quotes I offered:  Douglass, Faulkner, and I don’t know who else… makes me want to stay up, this entire fucking night, and just read.  Call in sick tomorrow, stay home and read more.  But, no.  Dutcher’s been far too kind to me already, and the pushes penned and impetus from those grounds and inbound characters are far too fruitful for me to pass, take lightly or dismiss.  My walks through those rows, my lunch breaks where I should be eating but would rather stare at the hills, that tree-line, the soil makeup.  I sip my wine again, read the Douglass quote, recite it to myself, cultishly—  “No struggle, no progress…No struggle, no progress…”


In adjunct cell.  Done with syllabi composition.  Just posted to teaching blog.. now, I’m headed to bookstore to get a new thesaurus and MLA handbook.  Thinking of doing some Comp Book writing at Russian River.  Never done that before.  Not sure if I should as I have some things to do at home, concerning the writing, the chapbook.  I’m up to 30 of the 35 Laws, written, finalized.  A bit too quiet in here, but I need this, this collection, to be in this character.. the professor/writer.. more of a writer than academic, though, but I want to be here.. and I’d prefer be here a billion of any kind of measurement more than behind that bloody bar.  So sick of the repetition.  Honestly, I begin to feel sick hearing myself repeat the same words, over, over.. and about wine.  Wine should be fun, right?  Having dinner with Mom & Dad tonight, and that will be nice.  Want to get beer now, yes, and I blame the weather.  I remember watching one of the Kerouac documentaries and he described going to Mexico, having tacos and beer at some cantina, where the people were so welcoming and friendly, and smiling, and unfamiliar spot to him, which is much of what kept JK writing.  And I need to be kept writing, so I’ll soon leave.  But before I do, I’m rather proud of having such a nicely noted syllabus for my students this semester, coming.  Maybe this will be the term that gets me out of the tasting room, away from that bloody industry, forever–  Well, I don’t want to be away from it forever, I just don’t want it to be my full-time post.  It bothers me when guests say that, after I tell them I teach at the college level.. “Oh so this is your part-time thing…” I have to respond, “No, I’m here full-time,  I teach on my days off.” It just bothers me, I don’t know how else to put it, like there’s something wrong with me or something.  Now I do need a beer.  I’ll walk in with this Comp Book and capture everyone and everything I can, possibly even just list what greets me.


With the night’s cap.  Tomorrow in tasting Room, but what if I called in?  It’s something I’m entertaining, or at the very least leaving early, or pretending I’m sick then leaving to write.  Don’t give me that reaction.. you know how many do the very same thing?  First sip of my night’s cap, a Lagunitas ale, and I feel like I’m on the Road already.. and not as the broke Artist like my friend B—y.  I’ll be comfortable.. and that’s it.. comfortable.  I don’t need be clamored in cash.  Just stability.  Living by my pen I said in the other day’s entry that I’d do something or everything different in my day.  And did I?  No.  All was the same.  Shame.  So tomorrow, I just MIGHT leave early.  Yes, that’s right, actually do something for my Self.  Not going to touch 1,000 words tonight, and I’m glad.  I need to do more living, ‘cause as I do that, I’ll be writing more.


6/10/14.  Timing, 10:15.  Was on mountain, and with nothing for record.  Another regular day.  And how many more of those can a writer take?  Sipping from a bottle of my own Merlot, and I remember the question the lady from south Jersey asked me, on the second tour: “So do you want to have your own wine label one day?” So again I’m brought to this boat.. the one sailing in wine’s straight.. and I have to say ‘yes’, eventually I do, much I criticize the business.  Tomorrow morning, I promise early rise, on my last off day before the Summer session starts.  Summer, such a funny concept, as so many view it as the season for detach, the loose, no contingencies.  But me, the writer, working two jobs, finding way to a certain life, or total way, of life.  I’m over-thinking, and maybe reaching a little with.. I don’t know.. thought itself.  My wine, showing much more dominance of palate and overall grip, palate gallop.  I’ll be honest with you, I hate that word, “palate”.  So what else would I put here on the already-bullied page?  I don’t know.. ‘receptor’, maybe?  This has to be my own wine getting to me.  Is the writer Self-girding?  Hard to tell.  I can’t tell anything tonight, certainly not a story.. but I thought yesterday, while running with Alice and Jack, that I should explore my curiosities–such as Astronomy, fishing, cooking, gardening and whatever else–through fiction, short flash pieces that would take me somewhere.  One character I thought of, always going to a local observatory, logging his discoveries in a notebook, dreading the day those pages, each one, are full.  My glass, in the kitchen.  Wonder what it’s doing now, how it’s developing.  My character, my own character, ME, needs readjustment, a certain atmospheric augmentation.  And how is that achieved, for me.. I guess through writing, more, more…  Time for bed soon, but not before I do a little research.  What can be seen from Earth, tonight?  The quiet, its own elevator, lowerer.  Time, 10:39, and I will wake at the cruelest of hours, at a Barleycorn hour to just write, freely, and finish the MS that I’ve been touching for the past few months, and finally be done.  I want to be seen a poet, and novelist, one not following any trends, or roads, but mine own.


6:38 the next morning, and little Kerouac went to sleep with his mama llama.  Today’s my last day off till.. well, July 4th when I do the Kenwood race.  I’ll quickly finalize and copy my syllabus, make some notes for the first lecture, then go write somewhere.  Like where?  Somewhere with a colony’s worth of coffee.  Peet’s.  Done.  I also have to go into the winery, finally write those club letters–  This is boring, what I’m noting.  Need a different story.  Hot down here, downstairs, and I sit on this couch shirtless, in boxers, no socks.  Outside, cool-looking, with a thick gray sheet over the terrestrial.  I hear Jack playing, making sounds from our room.  What’s next in my story.. coffee, then a run around Spring Lake with Alice and Mr. Jack.  And like that, I stop typing.  I’m stuck, illy unmotivated to sentence.  This doesn’t happen to us, right?  So I skip over to another form.. my poems, the poem a day law, one of the 35, anything to destroy any semblance of predictability and/or pattern.  The new experiences I need for my fiction aren’t getting here quick enough.  So I shift gears, accelerate to what I want, what I want to see, from sailing to climbing mountains, or at least hiking them, to fishing again, studying space, math, history, the culinary, everything.. my curiosities will be explored and satisfied through fiction.


11:29AM.  Back in the cell, finished with syllabus, now writing the first day’s lecture.  More than in the writer/professor character.  My living will be made from the pages I provide, and the teachings of Literature, theory, and plain ol’ thought.  I am an academic, I guess, but I want to be seen as a writer, reader, thinking, Human.. not some putrid pedagogue.  Have the jazz on, and Kerouac’s poems to my left.  Want to be back home with Alice & Jackie by 3.  So I have about 3.5 hrs.  More than enough time to finish what I need to.  And I don’t need these schools in order to lecture on Literature, how I see it, and how it invites openness, not rigid interpretation, response.. conveniently condensing some “curriculum” into a prescribed amount of months.  Like that’s enough.. after these 18 or 19 weeks, you’ll get it!  What a farce.


Sitting, 8:14AM. Alice out for a walk with another of the young mothers, her little daughter, Lily [love that name]. Yesterday, as I predicted, madness in the tasting room. Luckily, most of my day was consumed by a VIP vineyard tour– four people from Baton Rouge, LA. Nice group, great humor, and we all seemed to have a proclivity for the same movies from the 80’s. And when they left, I lunched, upstairs in that putrid break room, reading some poorly-composed wine publication. Didn’t have a chance to be the journalist I set to be, but I will again bring those pages, and be more evasive with people, not pour as much, move around more, hide.. and WRITE!

This second cup, telling me that I need to keep with coffee all day.. write in smaller sentences, single words even.. just record whatever and whenever you can. Tomorrow’s lectures, both will be written out– going to surprise the students with my fire. And as I tell them to keep writing, I will do the same this morning.. keeping with my logging of items, objects.. the tangible.. made into the elemental, metaphysical. Ms. Plath’s collection, ‘Johnny Panic’, to right. She writes of neighbors, people, everything she optically ingests.

CHARACTER: My friend Melissa’s husband, Troy; painter, tattoo Artist; selling painting for $400.. I so very much praise and admire him; needing not a publisher or even gallery, but only his own abilities, pushes internal, and what sales savvy he holds.. which is obviously enough to vend his pieces. Vow to mimic Troy’s practice.. starting today. Not saying I’m going to sell a piece by day’s end.. but… By week’s close, I’ll sell one copy of the poem collection.. which I plan to re-title.

Two classes, a novel.. the novel being my class, for my Self.. I’m both instructor and student– independent study. And the ultimate goal.. be in MY office, away from pattern, unneeded voices, ‘weights’. One character, the looney wedding planner from years ago, for whom I did some blogging work, owning her own practice. How? She’s bloody mad! She told me, though, one time, over a glass of wine at Monti’s, “You need to let go of what you don’t want and focus on what you really want to focus on.” Wine, no longer a ‘focus’, as she specified, but ingredient, sometimes.. if all these people around me can land these new promising opportunities, then… Well, you know where I’m going with this thinking…..

No coffee yesterday– well, none from the SBUX on my block. Did that impede my character? Slightly. Had to settle for that vile coffee type on the 3rd floor. This morning, I WILL depart enough early so that if there is another line like 4/12 then I’ll have enough ticks and tocks on the devilish clock to get what I want.. what I need for my journalism assignment for day.

When this is past, it’ll all be a book. Sold.


Saturday. Mike knew it’d be frenzy, from early till after 5, when people started prolonging their tastings, probably afraid to get in the car and drive, he always thought. But he made time to write, finishing the short story he started yesterday in the lot of the Kenwood Market. He read it again.. noticing a certain appropriate candor to the gruesomeness of the character. He’d never followed-through with a short of this literary shape; exploring tones of vengeance, revenge, justice.. or karma which he didn’t believe in.

Today, a run scheduled. Up Lawndale, and maybe a bit past the winery once he was back on the valley floor. Everything today had to be recorded. The piece he wrote yesterday, which he intended to send to The New Yorker, still on the little pieces of scratch paper. He hated how those so quickly collected, piled on his desk, or on the kitchen table, in that Literary nook of his. He needed an office offsite, and he wanted to be somehow pushed to it– He didn’t know where he was going with that thought stream. And he didn’t need to right away– Or maybe he did, he knew, turning 35 in 1 month, 17 days.

He’d target the New Yorker piece tonight after work, after his run. And he’d cap himself at 500 words; on the truths of the wine industry, the misperceptions, the horror of the fantasy that they sell– OR, he could write it in fiction, have two characters behind the bar, on a slow day, talking, sipping, going against the custody. Yes, commit to fiction, he thought. “The New Yorker,” he wrote, “I just have to write that one piece, that one piece.. everything will change. I will use them as my voice propeller. Journalism.. voice.. perspective… TRUTH. Nothing will be able to hurt me. I’ll show everyone…”

8:30AM. The second cup, done. He was tempted to fly to the kitchen for another, but that’s what the mocha was meant to do, keep his inner catalytics luminous. He brandished the little black notebook from his teaching bag. “No stapled scratch paper sheets today.. this is what journalists, REAL journalists use,” he wrote. His new writer friend from yesterday.. he couldn’t remember her name.. saying how she “only wrote in a diary,” and how Mike assured her that such writings had value from their unfined truths, that she should develop them, send him a page or two if she were comfortable, wanting ever a reader. After she left, he wrote ten lines in his makeshift tablet, in the back room next to the kitchen, where he wouldn’t be bothered. But today, he’d write while in the trenches, while the people were right in front of him, asking their colorful questions, that always, nearly every time, either made his eyes roll or core untie a giggle.

He took a second to think, gather what fragments of poise he could assemble before his leave, before going there to clock in. He went to the New Yorker’s website, started reading, whatever he could. Then, to the History Channel’s site.. see what happened this day in history, just to see if there was something there to push him. Civil War begins.. okay… FDR dies, first man in space– “AH!” Mike said, “Galileo guilty of heresy… Beautiful!”


3.22.14.  And I wake to allergy onslaught.


3.23.14.  Same.  As if the once-deflective sphere surrounding me had left.  The allergies and I are certainly engaged in an angry tussle, this season.  Just made a cup of coffee.  Tried to get some more sleep, but my thoughts demand immediacy.  Yesterday was maniacal at the winery, only incensing me, pushing me deeper into writer thought.  I WILL lock myself in library tomorrow, between classes…  And there, 3 pages will be written.  All fiction.. pushing characters towards final chapters.  And I have to ask myself, as I urged my students ask themselves:  What do I want, at this book’s close?  What is the intrinsic intention behind this semester?

Another goal for library:  Push more poems, any you can find, into chapbook.  It’s time  my label finally launches.  The waiter last night asked me what my label was, after disclosing I’ve made wine in the past.  I politely, but firmly, stopped him, told him I only make wine for fun.  That I’m a writer.  But, I also thought, putting foils on my friends bottles the other day, as he has his own “label”.. My brand needs a shove.  And it starts with tomorrow, tomorrow’s library session, the writing.. and anything else I can bring into momentary standalone.

Time to get ready for work.  But I need to finish this coffee.  I need energy.  And I need today to be much less cyclonic than yesterday.  And I also need to hold myself to the standard of writing more at work, then transferring those notes into the fiction.


The morning was gaining, he had to rise.  But the scene demanded defiance.  He couldn’t, he thought.  Mary would be there today, Sunday, her Monday, and he wanted to help.. But he knew he needed to help himself, more.  If he was to ever get out.

9:41PM.  Sipping some of my cuvée.  Momentously more savory than my last visit.  Was inclined to post to teaching blog, but I’d rather enjoy the freedom of type such as this.  Rain outside.  I hear it on the concrete just past the front door, and galloping down the gutter.  Tomorrow, in that other mode– that industry pose.  Order, orders.  But you know, there’s no fear about me.  Not that there ever was, but now there’s a certain cementing of certainly about my ability, my unique acuity.  I know what I am, and I won’t be stringed; puppeteering isn’t an option for anyone around me.  I walk with the eagle’s ease.

I started thinking this the other day, how so many are afraid of losing their job, and what would happen if they did.  This must be one of my successes in Life, as I don’t feel that.  Not even a muffled glimmer of such.

Computer moving slow.  Frustrating me to the point of wanting to toss it out into the rain.  but that would be a compliment, allowing it to enjoy these drops.. an undeserved reward.

This week, 8 of 18, for the semester.  Next week, I start printing what I’ve written in this term’s novel..  Hard to say how the story ends, precisely.  And that’s because the story itself hasn’t yet told me.  I, nothing more than a character.. I need direction from this story.  I know how I’d like it to end, but I have to see if we, the story and I, agree.  I has a similar discussion this morning with the ‘5’ class, concerning Ms. Plath, The Bell Jar, and how she ended her Life; one of the students said that it was the only logical ending to her story.. or the necessary ending, which I thought was fascinating, of course, as I’m writing this novel, hoping my own story, this semester’s novel, will end as I wish.

Need another sip from the ’12 NDC [New Dad Cuvée, case you forgot].

The rain seems to be more vocal at the moment.  Need to run tomorrow, after work.  didn’t today, as my lower back, and knee, bother the writer a bit, still.

But I need to keep writing, keep running.  Finish this bloody novel.  And my character, the other character, C——, still developing, but with foundation, direction.  She, wanting change.  And me, just as well.  I’m listening to this rain, and just wondering, becoming emboldened, more fearless than I’ve ever been.  Poe mode, again, like last semester.  (3/5/14)


Tonight’s types– Chardonnay, Cabernet.  Not in a novel mood. Tonight’s one of those evenings where I just want to write freely, truly enjoy my truest of styles.  The chocolate accent’s more present tonight than 24 hours past.  Keep forgetting tomorrow’s my “day off.” Wish it truly were.  Teaching in eve.  Have papers to grade.  Behind, just like times old.  Keep stressing about writing this Kelly book.  Why?  How will that get it finished any quicker?  She wouldn’t want that, I know.  Compelled to take another sip, but resisting, holding in my types.  Looking at one of the pictures I took today, of the leaves, clusters.  Love this time, during vintage.  But they have to be picked.  Why is that tearing at sensors under shell?  Hard to tell.  Need music, but don’t want to wake little Kerouac.  Just the reason I need my own office, why I strive to one day one be obligated, EXPECTED, to write 8 hours a day.. not subscribe to clock spots, another’s druthers.  Now I’ll sip, celebratory, knowing certain curtains don’t dictate what’s the version certain.

A photograph I posted to the winery’s site received quite the response, today.  Photography, something I surely need pursue.  Like Kaz.  Speaking of my brother, sacrificed my lunch to pay his base a visit.  May not be making that SB with him.  May be a Cab, or Petite Sirah.  Not sure I want to produce a PS.  I’m not passionate about the varietal.  At all.  Has to be Cab.  And I’ll do the Chardonnay with Professor Kate, I hope.  Have to make wine where I can.  Maybe I can get a handful of leftover clusters from the winery, write a barrel or 2.  Has to be Syrah, that’s what I’d want from that estate.  Have touched my books in some time, only been tasting, toughening my palate, if you will.  Still don’t feel like it’s my Friday.  This Friday, in home by Self.  Not meeting coworkers anywhere.  Staying in castle, opening an SB, Chard, Syrah, Cab.. a mock-whoso tasting Room flight.  Can’t wait.  And food?  May simply have apps.. some cheese, crackers, veggies.. but I have to get writing done.  SIGNIFICANT progress.  I want some substantial cemented in 1 sitting.  Like all the artists I admire.. Poe, Pac, Plath.  Feeling reflective by this empty glass, wondering if I should add 1 more varietal to my lineup.  But is there another I enjoy to such a point?  What about a blend.. of Cab, Syrah?  I’ll do whatever I want, I’m thinking.  I know, I should be working on a book project, my novel.  But I needed a freewrite.  My former students would understand, especially those from that Fall ’09 1A section [peace, love].

Then, the night ends.  If I wake early tomorrow, like 5AM-something, I could have that session I did months ago.  The Barleycorn effort.  All for the novel.  That Self-published paragon manuscript.  Glad I’m done with glass, and that I filled that filtered water carafe in fridge.  Done typing, again.  Not natural.  Long 4 pen, ink.  What Plath grabbed.. what Pac stocked.

(9/16/12, Sunday)

With, Out

9:55a.  Early Clock-in.  Off to novel…

1432 words, 3 pages.  Logged.  Productive morning.  Time, now, 11am.  One hours left in sitting, just like the Lit Lunches in Napa.  Wined instrumentals playing, but they’re tainted a bit by the coffee shop’s speakers.  That acoustic whinny nonsense they deem musical.  Sorry.  Just hate when my moments are disrupted, are less than perfect.  [Who’s whinny?]  Didn’t taste any wine yesterday as I’d hoped.  But that’s fine.  Probably will tomorrow night with Mom and Dad.  Oh, I mean tonight.  What the rest of the day holds, have no idea.  Think the air conditioning’s breathing on me again.  Mocha almost gone.  My sitting’s deteriorating.  Not sure what to convey to page, now.  Still feel last night’s run.  Tired.  Coupled with my early rise this AM, I may need some siesta later, of some length.

Standalone’s, for performing, collecting in my new Comp Book.  Plan on reading within the next couple weeks, once I solidify and have practices a spoken word set.  Always with poetry.  With-with…  Thinking four pieces.  Or 3, as I haven’t performed in some time.  Again, I want it to be musical. Of the instantaneous nature.  Written & edited in short spans.  Those are the pages I want to orate.  Moment-to-moment writing.  The bursts, blurbs.  Have to use the restroom, and don’t want to surrender my seat.  Again.  Have to push through it, no matter how painful.  With focus on the moment, as Mom urges.  This freedom, this Artistic Autonomy.  Me, this seat.  The music through the earphones.  How I’m not in a box anymore.  No more wine labor camp…  How I’m not intimidated.  How I wasn’t ever, when there.  How I’m Mentally Alive, more assured and Defiant than I’ve ever stood.

The shop is crowding, quick.  Maybe I should leave, return home.  Or write in my car for a bit, by that lake.  Watch the ducks in their leisured struts.  More in the mood for verse now, anyway.  Done with the mocha.  Surprised how quick I’ve been this AM, considering…  Clocking out.  Another sip.  One more.  Bye, mocha, mocha manuscripts.  Where are my keys?  Oh…

5:13p.  Home.  Writing till dinner.  Have till 6.  Well, giving Self till then.  Was just having one of those what-should-I-write moments.  Can’t afford it, I realize.  Hate it when I read something from Capote, or King, Updike, Shakur, Plath, Poe, whomever, and think “I should do something like that.  Or, worse, “I should write like that.” Can’t second guess mySelf, like Katie said.  Just going to write my moments.  And I know not all will want to read.  Fine with me.  Don’t really care if anyone does.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  I do have to eat, at some point, no?  I just engage in sessions like this, with this tone especially, to let other writers know it’s okay to write just to write, or to stay in the habit of writing by keeping WITH the typing, staying in the chair.  While sipping Cab, Merlot or whatever wine touches my palate tonight, there need be scribbles.  Just the mood I’m in.  My inner-Hemingway’s out.

2/10/12, Friday … NewMike [NObox]


12:58p.  Left office at 12:47.  Just now sitting to write, as I was confronted with stalls.  But here I am.  Read through the first three pages of my book at my desk.  Not as bad as I was expecting.  In fact, the prose’s consistency and thematic progression is surprisingly engaging.  My mocha, in a pint glass.  Hot, like it wants to be heard, seen, like it’s angry that it deserves more attention.

Quite a few cubeNOTES scribbled.  My thoughts this morning, till now, tidal waves of sight.  Like my visions multiply, promising proximal tangibility.  At the back table.  Think this may be my new favorite writing spot in the café.  A young woman sits, sips in my usual seat.  She types on her laptop, but not at a pace which indicates anything Creative, reflectively Literary.  More like the composition of an email.  I could be wrong, though, as I often am.

The Cabernet, still on concentration’s operating table.  Know just how I would market it, if I was to sell.  Not this first vintage.  Shame, as it tasted sovereignly sculpted to my palate, the particular palates of Mom and Dad.  Tonight, printing three more pages.  Have a drop-dead due date for my ms: 3/19/12, exactly two months from today.  Will keep this promise, as I did the countdown at the end of mikeslognoblog, and as I fantasize about receive acceptance from a publisher.  Yes, I boast as a Self-publishing writer.  And I am.  But, this first book I want to disseminate and market traditionally.  Going to prove to my Self that my writing’s at such a level.  Going to show everyone the same.  Want to see it on shelves, do signings, TRAVEL.  Write while I travel.

That winemaker I met on Tuesday, his words, following me, my scribbles, following me to this small wooden chair, here by the bean bar.  He went ahead and did all his way.  Took tremendous risks that paid, brought what he envisioned.  Fruitful fruition.  Now, he travels with his bottled projects.  His stories.  I’m not far behind.  I’ve written too much, far too much to be stationary, for all my pages to just be stored on some “doc,” or shoved into that plastic container in the closet, under far reaches of work shirts.

1:12p.  35 minutes.  Is that right?  Typing fast, so math’s a bit strenuous.  It’s difficult when I’m relaxed, still.  Haven’t touched the spoken word yet, today.  For when I’m back at the desk, between tasks.  May have found a couple readings, casual open mics of interest, here in Napa.  But, my exhaustive ridiculous commute, how it squeezes my time like morning oranges, has me wondering if that’d be optimal time use.  Of course it would, it’s Literary.  Time, just passing, but these entries, shorter works (yes, that includes my novel, as it won’t be some trashy Twilight book-length effort, an aircraft carrier or tanker’s anchor of paper).  Brevity, where wit sits.  Is at my table, or that girl’s, over there?  Now I’m certain she’s not a writer, as she’s mousing around some site, with her left index finger skating around.  Am I a writer?  How do I know?  I don’t have a book out.

But I will.

[1/19/12 – Th]