Posts Tagged With: Art

4/21–  Especially tired today.  Onto 3-shot mocha, had 4 this morning.  Quick meeting planned with ‘100’ students.  Sending them to library…  Need nap before Fountaingrove hills.  Presently in Adjunct cell.. sipping this espresso, but cautiously.  I’m starting to wake, and quicker than my mind can process, decode.

Still surprised I wrote 3,000 yesterday.  Days off yield the unexpected, often, even though I don’t have them that often.

12:35PM.  In library.  Students looking for topics, researching.  I’m on the fourth floor, trying to keep Self motivated, awake.. difficult to clearly think.  Week 15 we’re in, and I’m ready for break, a break, of any length.  What the author could really use: a nap.  All the students around me, motivated by deadlines, thinking of my deadlines.. don’t want to be dead before reaching.  And I remember what I looked for when I would research.. which was–  Too long ago, once in graduate school.  And here I am, exiled in the library.  Hungry, but ignoring those impulses.  Hear students laugh from one of the group study rooms to my left.  The novel, my novel… under some type of construction.  So tempted to rise from this chair, leave, go get something to eat, take my nap.  But what if I didn’t?  What if I actually practiced what I preach; “Stay in the chair,” I’ve always told them.  I mean how else will the novel finish?

Around me, quiet, concentration, panic with the semester closing.. all these students facing their last days in this semester’s story..  Asking reference desks where books are, ‘where can I find, where can I find…’  There’s Life in here, pursuit of what one wants from Life..  You can build your Self here, in a/this library, in any library.  But I’m here, wanting to be a student again, but I don’t want to spend all the time, money, in some institutionalized program, where I have a questionably competent professor.  Am I talking reinvention?  Maybe a little, but more of a simplification, separation.  A “new era” for me, indeed.  One of the page, constant typing, writing…

Those students in the study room, doing anything but study.  Just laughs. “We were just talking about how tan you are,” just heard one of the boys say to the returning girl, back from restroom visit.

Kerouac, the poet (not my son) in thoughts.. thinking he may be my new focus, maybe something to read with students in coming terms.. ‘On the Road’.  I so very much want to be on the road, just for a week at a time.  Here and there.  Travel, Life, seeing, observing, recording.  The stationary day sets will not be permitted in this “new era”.  My ‘new era’ embodies rebellion, defiance of convention…  POETRY…  BOOKS…  revolutionizing the Self-printing platform and plight.  Publishers, I’m knowing now more than I ever have, are wildly evil.  And they can be defeated by Us, small presses.  And my journals will be the starting salvo in this period of my Life.  What in here I look for.. affirmation, not from outside sources or articles, necessarily, but some kind of lens that assures me what I’m doing is needed.  8 days, one month, till 35.  THIRTY.  FIVE.  Time, easily my greatest enemy, but it too will suffer tremendous setbacks in this “new era”.  Hate that wording.. meant to be so profound, emphatic, when really it’s hyperbole– flabby and false.  Allow me to hold, “Illustrating and cementing chapter”.  And it’s been in motion for some time, as I’m tired of regularity, expectation set upon my character without my permission, or any sort of negotiation.  Who do you think you are, fool, devil?

1:13PM.  Wrote a poem, one easily destined for reading, recital.  Think I’ll submit it tonight just for laughs.  The poem is meant to capture me, in this library, my moments in this place that’s supposed to be quiet.  But now that I’ve finished my criticism, I’m glad, quite pleased actually, that it’s anything but quiet.  Talked mySelf out of the exhaustion I felt before ‘100’ and much of my presence here.  Ready for lunch, some sustenance.  And I think I’ll submit the poem right now, here from this fourth floor.  The volume has declined, and I’m in better mind, finally.

Not submitting from here.  Have to set up some account with an online submission manager and that could take a little time, so I should leave, go home, enjoy lunch and a nap.  Then, ready Self for run up hills.  Yesterday’s jog, or walk/jog, through Annadel/Spring Lake was so fruitful for my thinking.  Need to enjoy that same course more frequently.  And now, I make the leave.  Should count Self-publishing funds once home.  I know I’m over $300, which I said I wouldn’t do.  So I’m stopping, sealing the envelope, and not digging it up till I have my MS printed, ready to truly publish.  I’ve been in this circle for years, I was reminded last night reading entries from years ago.  But in these new chapters, it stops.  And I finally can begin.

8:14PM…  As tired as I was all day today, and after the broken nap I took once home, I can’t believe how well I did with that Fountaingrove run today.  No intervals this time, but a 2.25 out then back.  So 4.5 total miles.  I’m pleased, and that’s all that matters.  I still very much plan on sending off the poem I wrote today in the library, and I begin a new log of my submissions.  Sipping a Little Sumpin’, as I always am anymore when it comes to beer.  I’ll open one of my wines for dinner pairing, but I need to stay alert, sharp in this ‘new era’ of MINE– like the beat generation; rebelling, confronting conformity at it stands so bold, sure of itself, convinced it’s so witty and invincible.  And I start with this poetry collection.  One title I thought of, while running up one of the first hills, was ‘Oblong Ode’.  But anymore, I’m beginning to have an aversion to alliteration.  And how poetic is it, really, in its obvious commercialized slouch?

Sipping my Merlot, so very re-laced.  My story tonight, about the moment I’m in, as will be all my work in this new stupid era.  I’m in a new character’s suit, and it feels lovely.  That would be the reason this writer still sips.  I won’t be in my late fifties, or sixties, just celebrating the publishing of a book-length work, a novel.  Why, ask you.. as I publish my Self.  I only need approval from myself.  And I’m not like all other Self-printed penners..  I’m fanatical, extremist, militant.  Publishers kill writing, except when the publisher is a writer, and his only Artist is himSelf.

The re-inventive chapters begin.. tonight, and tomorrow.

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1:20PM.  So nice to have a day to Self, off, free.  On my second 3-shot mocha.  And I’m feeling more awake.  The mimosas at Alice’s friend’s house definitely slowed me.  Thought I was going to need a nap or something.  Have to prepare for tomorrow’s classes.  I’ll do that later.  Yes, I still have the pull for a nap.  Little Kerouac, upstairs, very much asleep.  This morning’s run, a little over 3 miles.  Would like to go for another, maybe 4-5 more [miles].  But I have to remember that I have Fountaingrove’s hills again, tomorrow with the running group.

A bottle of wine, taken home from yesterday’s shift as a gift to us all for what sales we tallied, and our wine club domination…  Just behind this screen.  2010 Reserve Cabernet.  Another bottle of it, open on counter, by sink, nearly full, also taken yesterday, as it wouldn’t be poured again till Monday, since we’re today closed.  So we all took bottles home, the open’s.

Just thought.. is the bookstore open, any of them?  Well, I bought a New York Times from SBUX, on the coffee run just about an hour ago, for some “propulsion”.  While running, I thought to do this.. thinking of the scene in Capote where Truman looks through the newspaper, morning after a party, and has the inclination to go to Holcomb, KS to investigate the Clutter killings.  So, in a few moments, I’ll be opening this paper, hoping to find something to valuably lash at me.  A true story, one riling me in a way I never have been.  I once posed to students, years ago: “Can inspiration be sought, or is it always happenstance?”.  Not sure we came to any finality, but I’m seeking it today.

My mocha, dead.  Now, just a cup to my left.  Oh, and where do I write?  The nook, FYI…  Skimming the paper, but feeling lazy.  Conflict in Ukraine.. Cholera…  Interesting; a restitution claim, from Nazi-era Austria; a man possibly wrongly imprisoned.  But what can I do?  I can’t fly out there like Truman did to KS.  But I soon WILL be able to be about, with my freedom come term’s close.

Yes, I’m getting quite tired.  I’ll explore this paper more intently later in the day, or tonight.  But for now, I may follow Alice’s lead, to an afternoon siesta–  “NO!” the writing orders.  But I’m tired, I respond.  No answer.  Should just keep Self in the chair, work from within head as the bloody internet just died, or stalled, or did what it always seems to want to do at the most dastardly of times.  Why is that?  Because it’s the internet.

Older writings, I’m going in, quite deep and far, tonight.  Adding some pages to the novel, responding to them for the sake of my character.  I know that’s what I, and HE, want.  Those pages can’t just be let there to die, wherever they are– upstairs in that plastic tomb, or in some “doc” on this ugly monster laptop.  What would Mr. Hemingway do, right now?  He’d probably have some of the Cab, I’m guessing.  Or maybe hop to the Keurig, brew a cup.  But what do I want.. ME!  What is Mike needing at this moment?  An adventure.  Removal.  I can always write it.

Character:  Man quits his job to fly to eastern European nation in crisis, near civil war; he wants to document it through photography and writing; carry the truth of what’s happening THERE back to HERE.

Tomorrow, stay in the Library after ‘100’ class.  Research everything; the Ukraine conflict, National Geographic locations; Art, New York, Joyce…  Everything.  Stay there.  Don’t even ponder what would happen if you left.

Kerouac, Kerouac…  Have to keep writing.  Forget editing.. do that later.  Now I’m moved.. coffee, coffee, life on a Sunday.. Easter.. remember when I was young, all the plastic eggs with candy of some kind inside.  Now it’s Jack’s turn.. my little son, my little Artist, my little Kerouac.  All day today, so happy, smiling just because he can.. he doesn’t have to pour wine, recite the same words to people invading the overcrowded room, interact with the impatience; greedy, gluttony.  No, he’s just him, above all this.  So do I want to regress?  I guess a little.  Regress but ascend, you could say.  Freedom isn’t an immature aim, or want, need.  How could you say it is?  To be an Artist is only the most respectable aim, as I’ve always seen, I have to say, since Mr. Sullivan’s class, my last semester of high school.


just want to speak in song, now

do whatever the wind wants–

no rain, but that’s okay

on a concrete sleigh, avenue

yulupa, lavender up the road, preparing for a show I’m told, long line to get in

west politics, unwanted daughter–  potential

health just

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Sam I’m sure has been up for at least an hour, working in his garden.  When he told me of this extremist practice, working with him yesterday in the res room, I felt like I was lacking, in my overall habit.  So I sit here, on the couch–after moving Jackie into bed with his mother, as he always likes to now do–try to catch my friend in his garden.  Wonder if he has goals, missions specific, or certain standalones he wants to see come to fruition (pun, yes, meant).

The fridge hums from the kitchen, as if to relax me, telling me to just calm, enjoy my writing session.  Going for my run after work today.. failing isn’t available for entertainment.  I need that run, and I need to time Self, try to match what the running group’s doing now, more or less.  Someone told me that last Saturday they had an eleven miler.  Won’t hit that today, but I could easily catch them.. if I wake early to run, go to bed earlier, like Sam told me yesterday.  He said that some nights he prepared for dormancy by 9-something, sometimes before, I believe he said.  That’s the Hemingway practice I want to forever have in motion..

Coffee…  Just remembered, none in house.  I’ll go to the store, get some after these 500 words.  Wish I had my own garden, what a new thing for my character, and to cook breakfast as some do.. so early, so creative.. but I’m not one for breakfast.  I’ve never been able to enjoy such a sizable plate so early, not sure how some do.

This couch: needing replacement, eternal substitution, soon.  Old, too old, damaged.. this we acquired it–or Alice did, years ago, before I was in her story–from her uncle Mike.  I don’t mind it, I just feel its miles.  Hard to write, not much greeting me in the way of symbols.  Or–  The pillows, tempting me to lie back down.  “No!” I counterfire, “I’m a writer!  Bugger off!”

It just stares at me, knowing I want to rest a bit more before a promised day of lunacy in that tasting room.  The tasting room:  (formerly tasting Room) Where wine sits, looks back at people, then they respond with bizarre remarks, comical questions, or display no interest at all; where these club members dance around like fat cat shareholders of a company; it’s confusing, it’s lovely, it’s maddening.  Why do I keep mySelf there?  1, I have to, for bills, money, and all other obvious.  But, 2, it’s fascinating, what a zoo it becomes on days like Saturday.  And how serious some take it, approach the goings-on.

6:48AM.  Fridge still running, thought I’m sure it’ll soon stop.  Not sure where I am in comparison with my gardening friend, but I write on, unswayed by anything, really.  Can hear Jackie upstairs, playing around, not at all interested in sleep, much like his writing father.  Should go retrieve him, give Ms. Alice a chance for more rest, my lovely wife…

Little Kerouac, down here with me, watching a new movie that Mom bought him.  A little was watched last night at their house, can’t remember how much exactly.  Mom, Dad, a couple of their friends from the old neighborhood will be coming by the winery today for the mountain tour.  I’m not on the mountain.  Positive I’m ‘TR’, where all the nuttiness will only surround all my senses.  Yes, it’s material, but incredibly difficult to document, especially with how fast it happens sometimes.  All I can do is live, write, write by living, not actually writing.

This train show Jack watches has me wondering what it would be like to cross the country on a train, and not just write, but truly experience the contrast of that travel to others; plane, driving…  My run today, a travel to itself, outside like my friend, wrapped in purer elements, atmospheric ingredients.  Just want to run, like I have nothing else obligated.  And I will.

The sun, with more elevation now.  And Jack, with more energy.  Tomorrow morning, I’ll easily rise at a gardening/Hemingway hour.  And much of that will be feasible with an irregular bedtime this evening.  This will be my new practice– no, life– no, ME.  Would love coffee right now.  Am I dependent on the caffeine?  Of course.  I’m a writer, but I need to be more farsighted with how much I need, my house inventory.

Not sure what to write, now.  The trains movie, its singing narrative, distracting me, with the obvious British intonation.  Feel my momentum crumbling…  And that’s most assuredly from coffee’s absence.

Jackie rises from the couch, walks around.  It’d be incredible to have him helping me, in my garden, early, as I used to Auntie Linda, Uncle Stevie in Sister’s, Oregon.  But I have to acquire our base, first.  And I will, soon, following the printings ahead; the poems, this novel.  But I’ll need coffee, coffee…  COFFEE!

Sam very well may experience a peace in his garden, so early, that I may never be able to palate.  But I can get close, I was just thinking.  My thesis, again, ‘I will be free by this semester’s close’.  The 19th, today, which means 1 month, 10 days till 35.  I will have my books streaming, I’m thinking.. I’ll release books, shorter and larger, like singer/songwriters have new “tracks”.  My Literary speed will never be caught, or equalled.

Can’t believe I’ve shouted this much onto the laptop’s screen without coffee.  Maybe that’s meant to tell me something.  Jackie releases a moderate yell, sounding like a warrior call, or that’s the first thing I thought of for comparison’s court.

“Bye bye, Dada,” Jack says, driving his car into the kitchen.  Then, he’s off one car to work on the other, or that’s how it looks, like he’s inspecting the other vehicle, testing the sounds it makes, taking the cargo from the hidden space under seat.  And now he watches the movie, again, analyzes what the trains say to each other, how the narration contextualizes the characters.  -7:36AM

Just saw.. the 19th.  That means the novel’s due in a month, all 202 pages.  Need to write with the ‘5’ section, more, build the pages, the story, my trail to Autonomy, Equilibrium.


10:13PM. And madness it was. My glass, ’10 Cab, in kitchen– usual route, having to rise to sip, then come back for character contribution. No run today. But for my permission: we left late, quite late, from those just wanting to sip more, and my friends demanding my being at Kenwood Bar & Grill. Tired? Of course. But I need to more write. Will be running tomorrow, in devoted dives. Keep forgetting the writer has the day free, tomorrow. And I can’t just shove C——’s notes into some file. Have to keep her in this MS. But then what? I’m overthinking, just what I tell both sections NOT to do. [...] Distractions… But they die where they breathe. Should be in bed soon. And I haven’t risen for that Cabernet. I think of Poe, the Pendulum, Pit, what they both forward. I’ll be frank, I’m disgusted by the modern pop lit, what you see on the wall by cash registers at the market. How is that Literature? What happened to Compositional Cubism, the Art, the whim’d? This must be the wine talking…

So why not pour more? But this be the last of glasses for the dire diarist. Stopping.. perception, object near, about…..

The phone. Plugged into the wall. That should be the only in this penner’s Life. Why do I need this cell? Society’s hold on me; a modernist tech wreck, unavoidable. So funny how people ask me, “So you do this for fun?”, after I tell them I teach at the college level, like what I do at the winery full-time, is somehow tattered, disreputable, lowered. I won’t lie, I think, as I know what I truly want, need, AM. I just get annoyed by the question, but maybe I should reveal as little as possible from here forward.



remote controls

Jackie’s toy train cars

wine corks

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Drinking Cabernet, 2010. Think I’ll have another glass, but I think of what Sam told me today, about waking at 5-something, to care for his garden. Sam’s dedication to his Craft, to his Love of the Natural, should only be mimicked. I’ll enjoy one more of this ’10. Then into subconscious outlyings howl. OR maybe I’ll stop, sip no more so I can early wake, like my friend Sam.

Now, realizing that night’s here, I mean truly here, with its attendance and backing, I can only look at wine like a promotional tool. IS it true? My thoughts, on the semester’s ending, how the story’s finalized. And after today, a second in the reserve room, I’m encourage to rebel further. My Literary Holy War’s landed, officially. The shadow soon repeals…

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Was in a mood, but now I’m out. Sipping one of the Lagunitas Ales, then bed. Want to wake early. Could have started writing early this morning, around 4:40-something, when Jackie woke, but I elected more sleep. Shame, but I was set on writing in that small Annadel lot.

Nothing to report today, from res’ room. Not a single bite of gratuity, but I don’t expect much from club members, or new club members like the last visitor set. So divorced from the industry, it’s funny. Should be posting to teaching blog tonight, but I’m too tired. Bottom line: English 5 Final: a creative piece illustrating their change as a character; highlighting growth, evolution, discovery. ‘100’: A paper on Gatsby, on why it’s so relevant today, or any other direction they wish to take it in.

Could I teach Poe for ‘100’, over the summer? No. It’s too much. And I don’t want to soil my joy with Poe in such a rushed, confrontational corner, which is just what a summer ‘100’ is.

Wrote a short piece of fiction today, in my little notebook. Won’t type it now, but I will tomorrow morning, should I wake early enough. Objects… The umbrellas on the front patio, at winery; always afraid there’re bats hiding in them, and that they’ll fly out right before or after opening; the ’13 SB.. could sip it all day, and would by a pool in Miami– My sister, about to go on a torrential road trip.. need to tell her to write me, give me details for C——’s sake.

I’ve decided to drop the New Yorker aim. Just going to publish Self.. this will be, as well, part of my acclaim, or appeal, distinguished dent as a writer. And this beer loses its glimmer. Time for sleep. Hoping the Craft lets me wake at the Hemingway hour. For more poems– CHALLENGE TO SELF: 3 standalone poems. IF I do wake that early.

(4/17/14, 9:52PM)

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Mike kept writing. He wouldn’t let himself stop. He’d probably finish the novel, which was beginning to be more of a collection, vignettes and scattered shorts more than anything, before term’s close. And that was fine.

Second beer. His mind meandered, in and out of teaching, wine, his conversation with Craig.. fiction, everything was material. And he wanted to turn everything into something psychological, something that stayed with the reader– like he said last semester, concerning Poe’s work: “He [Poe] doesn’t want to scare you, he wants to be in your head, your thinking, and stay there.” That’s what made a memorable writer, one worth reading.

The semester vs the wine world.. so funny, the contrast; how much depth there was in one, and the other a dull dust bowl. He left all those thoughts where they stood, floated, and swept himself to his stories; one about a man at a conference, discussing what he had to discuss; he tried to talk about something other than work, what he was supposed to talk about, but everyone around just wanted to talk numbers, protocol, expansion, uniform, “business”. This was death, he thought.

Mike poured himself a full glass of the ’11 Meritage, which was anything but impressive. He kept drinking, and his prose went to blood, in streets, in apartments, something the police couldn’t decode. Worry warped the city’s aorta like a dust storm upon an outlying town. People hid, knowing there was quite the feasibility they’d be located by the hunter.

10:19PM. Quite drained from day, but rejoicing in what I’ve done, the writing. Thinking of rebellion, challenging instituted dogma, theology; the corporate theocracy. Like Dad said: “Everything you’ve told your students about thinking for themselves, and freethinking, has now fallen into your lap.” Why can’t I speak? I will. Through my fiction. I will be expelled for my probity; professionally cremated for my creativity, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Oh no, reader, this isn’t the wine talking. This is the aggregation of my dreams, visions, openings of insanity. And how beautiful… What is living, but TRULY living, thinking, speaking, expression? There’ll be counterarguments to this, I’m sure, but they’re only as legitimate as I permit. And yes, on this page, I’m the ultimate authority; I decide whether opposing opinions live, or die. And on death’s note: I would kill this entire bottle of ’11 Meritage if I had my envisioned fluidity for the night, if I were in a hotel, on some overnight, hours before lecturing out-of-state.. on Poe, or Plath, or Hem. I find mySelf more connected to Poe, all his remoteness, calculation. He doesn’t need to be “understood”, or accepted. He’s there, just as I am, in opposition to all with a noose.

I’m relaxed. No more tail rattle. Should sip the rest of the blend in glass. Getting late. Praise the Craft, as I’ll always be “saved”. I feel that in the morning, I’ll be with diligent armament, eager for interaction with suits… It does well for the book, so no matter the outcome, I’ll have pages. Bonne nuit…

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1:21PM. Three pages of fiction, done for day. But I want to keep writing. And I need to keep printing pages if I’m to have the entire book printed by May 19th, a Monday. So many characters around me, now, in this 4th floor reading room. Getting hungry. Think I’ve had too much coffee today. But how can THAT be?

Need to research something while here… Joyce, of course. NO! I’ll go by the bookstore, get a copy of Ulysses, take him head on, without consulting critical articles first. There. Done. Joyce, I’m coming for you, sir…..

Hate waiting for these colleges. It’s quite ridiculous, actually. I’m at their mercy. Fool… And what if they all reject me? Am I supposed to stay in the wine industry? Never. I’m writing mySelf far away from all this. With these shorts, vignettes.. and the poems, of course.

Steve goes out on his boat. It’s just after 6. Maybe 6:01, 6:02… He doesn’t care. He’s retired. All he needs to do: enjoy the quiet. Hopefully the fish don’t bite this morning, he thought. He just wants to hear the water against the boat, hear whatever gusts decide to race through those old branches of the trees on that far bank, near where he always parks. Where did the time go, he wonders. To him, it seems like only a few days ago he stood at the front of that classroom, trying to convince seniors that Shakespeare meant something. But not anymore. He doesn’t need to ‘mean anything’ to anyone. Not anymore. He listened. There. ‘Gluck… gloak’. His coffee, tasting better than he can ever remember. Before casting the line, he looks around, sees the older trees, wonders what they were doing when he first started teaching. Was he older than them? It doesn’t matter, he thought. Casting. And almost instantly, a pull.


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14APR, 9:41AM. And I’m done grading, or retroactive grading, for English 100. Now I can write. This feels amazing. I will say.. the one thing with which I struggle as a professor: assessment. I don’t enjoy doing it, and not ‘cause I’m afraid of student reaction, I just don’t like being a judge– okay, you don’t like that word.. then “evaluator”– Don’t like that one either.. well, then assess-er. I’m in love with the Exchange of Ideas, with the conversation, with the exploration of text. Grading elevates me to something I don’t see my qualifications reflect. Even with a Master’s Degree…

I’m on the fourth floor of the library, and have more time than I thought I’d have to write. Looking left, out that panoramic window, loving the low clouds, light drizzle, and I guess what could be qualified as fog. This is what Joyce would do– lock himself in the study, the library, surrounded by books, no devices.

Writer friend on my mind, as she’s still about the map, training for this new job of hers, a flight attendant. Being one’s son, I know all about the role, the stories that accompany, and what’s seen, felt on the Road. But she told me something interesting, and a bit disturbing the other day: that she has not even a second to write. Not that I doubt her.. but how can this be? Writers–it’s my stern conviction–always have time for their pages. But maybe this break from her written work, to fully immerse herSelf in the new role, understand what it brings, and enjoy the Road, new friends, challenges, will build her character, strengthen her paragraphs.. bring her to a finished work.

Students all around me in this room. I sip a gradually chilling coffee, the Sumatra blend they offer in the library’s café on the second floor. [...] Just took another sip, and yes, it’s much cooler. Hate cold coffee, or a temperature that isn’t motivating. Can’t believe this is Week 14. I’m preparing both classes for their final projects.. the English 5 class having to write a story, or narrative, or whatever shape they want, about their growth this semester, actually being encouraged to minimize any emphasis on my class, academia.. but what did their Life teach them? The goal of the assignment is that they realize they taught their Self something.. and that readers, anyone, can learn from their story.

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C—— had the last glass of Rosé. She thought about opening a bottle of the blend Rosie made a couple vintages ago, but thought about the meeting she had in the morning, what they wanted her to present; budget, projections.. How do you “project” how many people are going to visit the website, buy wine.. visit the tasting room, join the wine club, which was becoming more and more humorous to her. Whenever she had her own wines, or tasting room (which she was more and more against by the day), she would be that label that didn’t have a “wine club”. She hated how that sounded, the whole idea… Wine club. Rubbish.

“So are you gonna quit?” Mikaella asked.

“No. Not yet. I’m a ways from that, but eventually I have to leave. This is just too much for me, all this pressure to sell, the constant threatening.. it’s ridiculous.. this isn’t wine, the wine industry.. this isn’t why I got into this business,” C said.

“Are you headed home after this?”

“Yeah, I have to study..”

“For what? Are you trying to be a sommelier?”

“Oh, no. For making wine.. I’m just looking into different wine styles, yeasts, oaks, and whatever else I can learn.”

“You don’t want to be a sommelier?”

“Uh, no, not really.” C poured the rest of her SB into the sink behind the bar. Everyone else saw her dismiss her wine, and thought she would say something, but she just walked out the front doors. Why was it so odd that she wanted to make wine? Her own wine… What did anyone know, especially Mikaella. She’d been in the wine industry for what, two months? Once home, she’d study like she were going for the bar, or something else.. no, she wouldn’t compare, because there was no comparison. This was for her.

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Roundup End

Confusion, like painted shells,
and I can’t rely on translation.
Using my place to have said one
release. I’m having to watch, so I’m
sipping this as fast I’m able.
Turn the ethics to wharfs, where
I’m actually encouraged.
Dancing to what rhythms escape
beyond branches. I’m list, lost,
glorified, imbibed. Wishing for
intent weather. Blank cups in A.M.,
that won’t help. Already eager for my fly,
Hours away, find me a forward button,
one that works. Edges roughed, picture lux.


Categories: poems, songs, SPRING2014 | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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