Monday, 12/27/2010. Feel a feisty. Why? I embrace the reality of the writer. Just writing to write. Studying Pac, Capote, tonight. Need to nestle my notes in the Comp book. Had enough wine: 2004 Stryker Cab, 2007 Passalacqua Zin, from the Maple Vineyard. Closing with a Racer 5. Much of this writer’s life, I find, peppered with predicament. Antagonizing, annoying. Why did I have to be one curved to words? Why couldn’t I have been one to resign Self, not thinking at all, not loving words, not reading?
Tired, but I’m not ceasing session. Reviewing the Capote piece I last night read, impressed, but still critical. Not sure what to do, where to turn next. So many advising me on what to say on Thursday, during my interview. In respectful repose: I’m me, I’ll be me. No self-censorship on this side. Taking another sip, relaxing, with these trip-hop beats, arrangements. Was up at 6a this morning; too tired to expand forward with this state. Time for a scribe to sleep ... sip, sip ...
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