7/30/2011, Saturday. This is going to sound pathetic, quite self-indulgent, but I read the first page of BOOK1. An actual edit. Not bad, actually. Was expecting to be provoked to attack it much more, with red pen. Yes, I’m using a red pen. Know that’s too vicious for students, too menacing, that blood shade, but not for me. Need to be hard on Self. Time, 11:33a. Back from long walk with Alice. Overcast. Calming. Can’t say I long for brutal rays today.
My push back to professorhood, in motion, with bold beats. Organizing lectures, writings, thoughts. Have to do it now. These business cards that were littering my desk’s untarnished face, from wine’s “industry,” now rest with trash. How suiting. MY desk, once again a writer’s space, a professor’s. All about me, this late morning, a new kaleidoscopic synergy. Back and forth from Stanford’s English Department site. What’s my focus, or “specialty?” Theory? Poe? Aesthetics? Wine, could I put that as an “expertise?” I merely miss the Exchange of Ideas with students. That would have to be my “flagship.” Hate that word; “industry” modifier. Raising my mocha to them, my tenacious, charged students. Yes, a mocha. First in two weeks, I believe. The last, I believe I documented, gave me unstable steers, wondering scopes and fragmented frame. Three shots, that Saturday, only two 2day.
Should keep reading my book, but it feels ineffable, this morning sipNscibble. Should probably buy a separate Comp book for my Lectures. No, let them lair in present pages. A winery visit, planned for the day. Article for magazine blog. Need to start my small press. Or, restart it. Gave a copy of Letterz to a friend at work yesterday. Speaking of that Comp book... Oh yeah, downstairs in work bag. Too cozy in chair, not moving. Looking back at my shelf of books, heaping. Small tower, leaning, of manuscripts on floor. See Capote, Wolff, countless anthologies. The collective interpretation of Literary works, with my students, now needed.
Started reading page two. Stopping only to realize I should keep reading. This mocha, chanting to me, spellbindingly. Not like two weeks ago. It tells me not to write, believe or not. To let ideas come, with ink ready. Record pen2paper, only. Leave alone the monster laptop. Writing’s funny, with such mien. Hard to tell when you should be writing, how, about what, how about that ‘what’. Idiosyncratic ideality. For me, at least.
Below my left elbow, a schedule, of what to post to what blog. How is that Literary? I just want to write books, really. Going to keep my promise, keep mikeslognoblog alive till 12/31/11, and keep contributing to the magazine’s blog. The total, no more. Photos and video, that’s just fun. Nothing serious, to me. Books, books. BOOKS!!!
Last night’s Cabernet: don’t think I gave it enough attention. Only had 1.5 glasses. Tonight, with its 24 hours of breath hopefully having blandished it to loudest charisma. Not just going to catalogue descriptors, more so document the interaction of juice and palate. That’s wine, that’s purpose, for the page. For the books, my books ...