10/6/13– Spicy pasta from Alice, tonight. Tired from day. Sipping last Ale, and the writer’s about finished. Want to wake at Barleycorn time. Not to run, but to write. Still very much feel yesterday’s Lawndale jaunt. Today, party of 42, handled by Ed, also a teacher, and mySelf. All from Norway. Interesting group. Not many questions, but still.. considerable interest in our wines. Opened a random 375 from downstairs stash, just a minute ago. On cork, in permanent marker, “EP”. I opened it, thinking it was ‘extra pours’ of Lancaster Nicole’s Blend. But… Extra Port, from a friend’s [Lauren’s] boyfriend, who works for, I think, Fritz, in Russian River. At my age, I’m convinced, I can’t do hard alcohol, or Port, or anything Port-like.
Was finishing this last bowl of pasta, imagining mySelf eating it on an overnight in some hotel, east coast.
Visited my wines today. But only to top them. Didn’t taste. Only tasted the topping wines– a Grenache, for NDC [New Dad Cuvée], then an incredibly dark, smokey Malbec for the Merlot [MMFM Merlot]. Have the winemaking bug, again. Making wines as a writer, not winemaker, if that makes sense. IT should, to writers.
Distracted, by old videos I shot around estate. Would love to go for an early early morning run. Maybe I’d see a mountain lion– Oh! Maybe I would. Annadel, promising such interaction. They wouldn’t hurt the writer, I’m sure.
So pleased to be in base. Ready for bed, I feel, after today, that group Ed and I had. This entry: 300, no more. Words conserved. Need days off. Don’t I have some “professional development” day, soon? Yeah… I’ll develop professionally.. with these pages, nothing to do with that JC, the activities they have planned, on how I can be a better educator.
The umbrellas, at work.. labor symbol, excess.
10:04pm. Sipping sparkling berry water, preparing for early rise, a Barleycorn session. Need the Road, my Newness.. sick of waiting, already. Little Kerouac, crying. Think he may be excessively tired. Turned off internet connect, reducing–or rather improving–this device to a typewriter. Can’t wait for morrow’s morrow, the harshest hours. Setting alarm for 5am. Want at least 1,000 salable words before Kerouac wakes. And his crying, stopped. For now.
Quiet. Not elevating the TV’s volume even a millimeter. Oh, just, remembered.. out of cups for machine. Will have to brew own cup. Not a big deal. Having trouble focusing on any details, as the exhaustion gifted from day’s more persistent that I can handle.
Finished water.
Watching advertisements, muted, screened. So many colors, promises. Interesting, to us thinking types. The semester, nearing its halfway point. Not fair. Should I start composing the book, for the term, that’ll ‘do something for me’? No. Not yet. Not rush. Wait till morning, when head’s clearer. No way I’m touching that ‘EP’, Extra Port. That has to be what it stands for, right? Doesn’t matter, ‘cause I’m not going near that poison.
What if I just stopped writing, for the night? Should really be playing with words, rhymes, ‘stead of this run-on prose. Decreed, then– in morrow, poetry, solely. Caffeine, in doses mean.
Want another water, but I don’t want to wake the little Artist. He seems especially sensitive this eve.
journal, 10/8/13
Jack, exhausted. Still with cold. Me, not so. Second cup. Larger than first. [coffee] Want to remain home, write. Print. Not as upset about losing long verse on phone. Printing this morning. Not losing anything else to devilish tech. Annoyed by more systems.. not getting too specific, or at all so, but I’m in revolt against pattern. Artists don’t engage with such. And certainly not of my form– fiction, diarist, poem.
7:40pm. No evening class. Home, with sick mini-artist. Red wine, Cab. Tired, after 1,800+ words. Still need to post to teaching blog, answer student emails. When Thursday comes, I’ll be a dragon of diligence, direction. They’ll never know what hit them. No, I shouldn’t say it like that.. I’m just anxious for a better day. In English 5, felt heavy, soaked surreally, with lower inner light, bent peddals. Better now. And after I read some Plath, I’ll be even higher, standing more straight.. more Literarily.
No social media distractions tonight, as I’m turning devil phone OFF. Not giving to the chutzpah. And no TV. That’s just as bad– no, worse. Thought I heard the Artist upstairs. Poor little man, with his sniffles. I’ll never get used to seeing him sick, or even slightly desensitized to it.
After these however-many words.. to newJournal. Why don’t I have a bloody book out, already? Honestly, with as much as I write. This is truly laughable. OR pathetic. Or maybe both. Can I have another glass now, of this fabulous Cab?
Getting annoyed with doors of other units I hear closing. Don’t they know my little boy’s sick, trying to sleep? Irritated, angry at Self for earlier weak state. Should always have Self in militant, vicious Artist mode.
At home, all day with Jack tomorrow, taking care of him, making sure he defeats this system bug. Have to get some reading, writing done. The three boxes of k-cups I bought, little over an hour ago, maybe more, just behind this screen. Should be set for month. Maybe less, knowing me, how much I drink in morning. Sure I’ll go through more than a few in morrow’s skatings. So quiet down here. Little Kerouac, finally getting some rest, poor bloke. And his father, hoping to shift everything. Won’t go on some wishing rant, but there will be reconfiguration. No more nonsense.
More of the spicy pasta leftovers from Alice. The writer needs a break from his page. Some laziness. We’re allowed to do that, right? OR maybe I should lookup a Plath quote, post it to some social media site.. see if any of my “friends” respond, or “Like” it. So contaminative, the whole thing. That’s why I’m stopping.
Another glass, Professor MADigan? Why yes, thank you. I look at it, after a sip & .5, at my right, moving slightly, the purple puddle, as I type, slapping keys like a recommitted journalist (aren’t I?). Want to watch a movie tonight, with a writing theme. But what? Ugh.. what was that Sylvia Plath movie, starring Gwyneth Paltrow… Oh, “Sylvia.” Why didn’t I know that? Anyway, hoping to watch it tonight. Or some of it.
Keep writing, Mike. Don’t stop. Don’t let this devilish wine catch you. Decaf is starting to sound good. And I can’t get too diverted, as I want to be ready for Thursday’s class, by day’s end, tomorrow. Thursday morning: running, the only priority.
***
And this moment, here at table.. just re-collection. The wine, respecting my pace, my aims, what I want done tonight. That I want to get poetry onto ACTUAL page, later. Looking at this tower of coffee boxes behind laptop’s screen. Find it funny, honestly. I truly, and quite quietly, laugh to Self, as to not wake the little Artist. The writer surely loves his coffee. Why do I find this so comical?
Glass, empty. Good. Leave it that way, for a bit. Need to fill the untouched Comp Book I recently bought, with notes on ‘Johnny Panic’. What Ms. Plath is, where she’s going. “When in doubt, put it back on the author,” I’ve always told students. Time to practice while I bloody preach. Drat! Left her book in car. No surprise, with this crazy day. Tomorrow, off, but not. Little Kerouac, his little sneezes, sniffles. Would take it from him in a blink, nevermind a heartbeat. Reading some of her poems online.. should bring these, or some of them into class. “Blackberrying,” just read for first time. Beautiful imagery, language, voice, temperament and tonality, stanza balance. One of my students, making her journal a gallery, each entry with prose, painting.. showing the most vicious of ownerships. Mimicking, starting tomorrow, with my reading journal, the new one I mean. Putting Self in role of student, in own class. But I’ll be with Kerouac, THE Kerouac, as well, for Thursday. His form, style, voice, veritable page journey.. only massively applicable. How can people not read him, admire each of his writings, typings?
Cutting Self off at 1,000 words. I’ve already gone on FAR2long. Kerouac.. what else can I find from him, online… Only poetry. Was hoping for some prose, or journal entries. Maybe I can find them at bookstore, if I have a chance to go, tomorrow. Probably not. Should keep little Kerouac inside, with Papa.
24% on laptop. Tired of this machine. On couch now. With this little buttoned monster charging. Nightcap in kitchen.. ON kitchen counter, make it longer last. Looking back at day, knowing I need not let Self get so frazzled, worried, stressed, depressed, what have. There’ll be a day after, theoretically. So calm, writer.. calm. Peace. And I’ll have true peace tomorrow with Jackie, sipping my coffee [one of the 3 types I bought tonight] while he zooms about this condo’s lowest floor.
umbrella tops, tickled by
polite fronts, pacific and
wherever.. picnic by houses on 19th–
oh the city, busy with its tempestuous
tizzies, lamp moths, fixate on
gas station drizzle, hoping to
square their dares. hope they fly,
flee west.