and the heater going. Alice came home to run with stroller to get the little Beat, and now I have to be awake when I’d rather nap but that doesn’t ever aid in completing manuscripts. Letting it cool.. I breathe, deeper than I usually do. There, I think I’m awake, and I sip, twice. First typed submissions handed in today. Already with stacks. But I won’t let it stress me. And tomorrow, back at the winery. Saw the man behind the counter at the Olivet winery and couldn’t help thinking, am I headed for another of these positions? Frightens and sickens me. I’m not the one to be pouring, why not sure how to word it, I’m just not. So what’s after the winery then? Writing, that’s all I want. Writing. And maybe SOME lecturing, speaking, but that’s it.. so how, how.. the equation again, how to solve it and get to the image. Break habits and routines that only circle.. do differently, everything. So, to start, this entry.. how is it different? It’s not. But I won’t have a drop of wine tonight, only the sparkling waters Alice bought. And the teaching, how much longer should I be expected to– Stop. These thoughts are too much in sameness, too predictable. I want to hike and run and be outside, should have toughened, gone with Alice, she only tried to encourage me to run with her and I should have, she was so sweet and I was so cranky being woken by opening door. Now my mood falls and I want to do nothing but sleep, spill out this goddamn coffee– but it’s too comforting coupled with the rattling heater and too delicious in its palate persistence. So there.. I’m here… Thinking of something significant and meaningful to say about something, even if it’s just me– but I think I did: I just want. to. write. Nothing else. But I have to fine myself and my “skills” and whatever other ingredients in my maddened story. This project, teaching my that I just have to set realistic markers for Self, and try even to pass them.. and singularity, singularity: in this room and in the OFF television, the quiet and the eventual, who will eventually be here with me, little Jack and Ms. Alice, my family, yes I am a father and husband but I want to be better, I want to scribble with more precision, I want to simply scribble more and not type so much but if I’m to have a vendable piece I need type. So I’m stuck, again, and this morning till now the heaviness combats my reasoning; quiet room for collection and jazz and just play, words in play, the playing of words and playing with usage– intricate, the thick and thin of it, I live in its pit, and then I’ll read, I’ll read.. read read sing perform. Where? Have to find one, then schedule that around my running, then schedule everything around between and about the classes, the two I accepted this semester. So where can I read, how can I turn this into a something of Art, something I can sell? I can’t solve the equation– the heater stops and I hope I don’t chill, I’ll keep with this coffee and hold onto the travel thoughts, the images I’m to see in Colorado, New York, Texas, New Orleans, when I’m back in my city (Paris). Mais quand? Quand? (But when? When?) This sounds more like a grievance of sorts and less planning, so I’ll stop. A to-do: go to store and get bread for dinner, to pair with that tortilla soup, lovely. But that means outside, to the market, just down the street (Safeway). Don’t want to be around all those people, disrupt this time, moment, here in the room with the humming fridge and my coffee which is nearly gone. How did that happen? Jackie’s toys everywhere, this is his territory, and I think of his saying “Play, Daddy, play!” Why can’t I? Why have become this sharpened 35 y/o? Change then, do stuff different, anything.. I’ll go to the market, take notes, observe and go into the smallest thing, the bread I’m to get to the beer section to the wines in that locked class cubby, to the people at the checkout, people working the checkout, what isles aren’t open and what items they have in those checkout zones to tempt you into spending more money. Couldn’t do that either, work at a register like that, have to listen to people complain and ask where things are (like I do so many times) to all the messes to clean to the coworkers that won’t shut up, that love gossip and slander more than their checks…
There, I think I’m up. Coffee done. And I’m about to launch into my evening’s remainder. Heater turns itself back on, good, maybe I’ll wait a couple to leave. This thousand word sitting, showing me I just have to keep writing, keep the thoughts motions in splendid singularity till something connects, like what, don’t know, but something will. 4:42, wine and winemaking on my mind, was most of the time I was at that Olivet estate watching the man behind the counter talk to the people there with their glasses eager for the next pour, next pour next… Not sure how much longer I can just go from day to day, whether as adjunct or pourer. Hate that goddamn tag, ‘pourer’. And if I act wrong, I’ll be poorer, right? No. I’m not living in fear, not at this age– Alarm goes off, the one I set against nap. Could use another cup, but I won’t, or not now anyway, maybe after I get the bread. Watch people, hear what they say.. I remember in grammar school, can’t pin a grade for this memory but it was at Arundel, the class watched a movie or documentary, some educational piece, on sounds, and these two kids went out and wrote down all the sounds they encountered, returned home and reported it to one of their mothers while she made lunch. So now I send myself out for everything: sounds, dialogue, images, people, temperature, light, motion, pages, stories.