Posts Tagged With: Art

journal

My night’s cap, ’11 Syrah.  Not in anyway conforming to the stereotypes and misnomers of the 2011 voice collective.  I’m connecting to this wine and hearing its intent.  Looking through past blog posts that were altogether centered on wine, and with a palpable forward in a pursuit of wine, consumption and production– giving wine a last chance.  Was going to write “second chance”, but this is more of a final attempt to make wine my own.  So where else does the writer start?  Well, drinking it of course.  But I sip slow as tomorrow’s my long day.  Drive to Mendo, then back to SR.  FOUR rough draft workshops and a Hemingway introduction.  Already have the quote decided that I’ll use to introduce one of my most followed fiction authors.  He won the Pulitzer and the Nobel– truly dedicated his Life to fiction.  Fiction.. fiction.. the story, and they’re everywhere, I was thinking tonight watching the first game of the World Series, Giants winning, I think 7-1.

Alice with a cold, my poor sweet…  Me coming back from my 7.01 mile run and hearing her sniffle, sneeze, seeing her lowered eyelids, I can tell she’s in discomfort, and it bothers me just as intensely as when little Kerouac ails.  Still have some of that Syrah in the kitchen, should sip soon.  Saw Sam doing a punchdown of some CF in the tank room, guess it was skins that were going to be disposed and he, Sam, halted the removal, decided to use it himself.. the color was intense as was the invisible thrust to the nose.  Have to make wine again, I told myself.. next vintage, for sure, ’15 will be mine, in so many wined ways.  Ordered some wine today in addition to my wine club shipment from AV winery.  Not much just a couple extra bottles, the cuvée that Alice likes, some SB that I and Mom & Dad love, well as some ’08 Cabs that are mindblowing.  Making wine everything right now, yes now I need a sip to get further into this character, and I drink not to feel intoxication but to prompt and provoke sentences and visions and dreams, further the wishlist.

Lots of grip and ricochet on taste sensory; cherry, cinnamon and a little green but not much; none of that expected gamey Syrah song, not here with this ’11.  Mom and Dad scheduled to come over Saturday night for pizza.. will open something dastardly delightful for them, like one of the 08’s, or maybe that Hamel Red that Alex and India gave me– either way something strong, something artful and a bottle that rallies writing.

9:56.  Should be in bed soon.  Not editing cuz I don’t have the time and I still have one more sip there in the kitchen.  Everyone’s going after the 12’s.. I’m beginning a quest to pin some expository and resplendent 11’s!  How’s that, wine critics and bullshit bloggers!?  Feel like a wine monster, wanting to examine every character that me crosses– but oh!  I need change the character, of ME, as races approach, so I can’t sip too much.  If I want to do that ‘full’ in Santa Cruz, it’s less that 7 months away.  And I should, to show everyone and mySelf that I can.

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Blueish

2,395 words so far today written.  Wrote Dav, wrote my daily 500-word standalone.. feeling like a professional writer, whatever that means– well, one that can actually live from their craft.  Hungry, will eat the PBJ I made for myself this morning.  And when at SRJC, another black coffee– no mocha.. save for publishing and Jackie’s college and vacation with Alice and our next dinner date.

Two more quick meetings when in SR.  Want the students to arrive next meeting with strong drafts for this Wolff paper.  I’m hoping they surprise themselves and me as well.  I’m trying to hold onto faith in the American Scholar, but it’s been hard this semester.

1:10, time to go.  Can’t wait for my Road snacks, and the jazz, and the additional writing I’ll have done on campus, at my base campus, the mainland!  Joy!  Missing my little boy, though.. trying to work and write and drive through it.

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10/20/14–

typing in mendo class.  First section done, met them briefly and sent them to write their second papers.  Student in the 11AM section, with her short story– more literary might than I’ve exhibited in some of my recent bouts but I’m back into my usual rampant marathon prose, with this nov 1st deadline for whoso and the novel’s draft being done by the end of today.  But then I have to print.  Where do I find the time to do that?  On my November break: 3, 6 & 7.  I guess that’s when.  Quiet in this room.  Handing back the papers for the 11AM section and meeting with the authorial student and hopefully some of the others so I can better position them for submission.  Less than 20 meetings for the term left.  How did that happen?

Want to get home early, spend time with Jackie, Ms. Alice.  Driving up this morning, sipping my coffee– black, no mocha– I watched rain, that extending arm of fog into that valley, to my left, north on 101 just past Hopland.  Wish I could have stopped, to write or take a picture or breathe some of that air, but I couldn’t– times, deadlines, constriction– that old position.

Need more coffee, but the cafeteria on this campus stresses me, that little shop far too crowded and loud for a write that’s for sure.  Love when this classroom’s quiet.  Should back up my work on this goddamn thing, this laptop.  One of 35 Laws was to use it much less, to actually WRITE more.. so much for that.  Dav before he left was going to give me his typewriter, but that never happened and I don’t blame him, and the story behind how he acquired that is amazing– on the photo mission in that abandoned SF building just off of Fell street I think.  Still need to read his letter, write him back.  I’ll do the same, print the letter and send some 500-word pieces.  Started my new streak: 500 words standalone a day, see how long that lasts.  Uncomfortable in this chair, at this desk at class’ head.. feel my shoulders rising while I type and my posture adjusting unwantingly.. ugh!

Coffee, coffee.. more more more.  Glad the rain’s come back.  Need it for the writing and my temperament lately.  It calms and evens this writer, unlike this commute lately, and the winery.

I want to track my stats again, this time be incredibly “on top of it”.  So I’ll start with yesterday– two standalones (500 word piece and the poem into whoso), and some journaling.  Think that’s it.  And today so far, just this, this sitting in the Performing Arts classroom.  Look left, map on wall of world so much I haven’t seen and I don’t want to travel too much as I don’t want to be away from Kerouac too much, my wife.. so what to do, no idea have to work it out but how.  Add that to the November days off list I guess.

And the first 11AM-er cometh in– time to change character.  MY character that is.

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Seen Likely

10:52PM.  Mom and Dad’s house, Jackie asleep, me done from day, delayed and decayed, energy-wise, and I enjoy my cap, an AV Cab.  But I look forward to sleep, deep rest to recollect– the day only annoyed me, all the questions and looks and remarks and overanalysis of wine.  It’s only bloody wine, I wanted to yell at them, gawking at the vinaceous puddles, why do they do that, have they never had red wine before?  What’s their deal I ask myself just watching them sip then looking back down at the menu, just dizzying in their spins and things, revamped in my core– poems now, like the three I wrote today on their dime– first sip of this AV Cab that Dad was sipping, me earlier enjoying the cuvée I made in ’12…  Typical AV bordeaux; leather chocolate cigar box espresso, just what I need after a day like this.  Was tipped $100 on a barrel tasting tour, which made me happy, that not happening often, if ever.

I’m reaching a point where I’m hesitant to tell people I write, which scares me, I never used to be like that– am I ashamed or afraid?  Why is this age, 35, contaminating my cognition as it does?  Kerouac didn’t let that roar so.  So…  What am I doing?  Publish anything, and everything, as my character Glenn recommended, as he did with his drawings on napkins– you’ll read when the novel comes out.

I’m dreaming of my coffee in the morning, already, and when home my mom will watch the little Artist and I’ll shower and dress and then write for I hope about an hour, I hope.. with more coffee than I should probably have.. just keep writing till another book’s finished, and another and another.. and Self-publish everything.  Had a conversation with someone recently about what publishers do to the writer’s work, and it’s devilish.  Ball for one begun, and it’s all me, completely with this release sequentiality.

And then, I feel relaxed, just in the moment, a Zen, an Equalized ride piling in my personhood.  Love, shores, views, celebratory scream in me.

I see me as a professor as leadership or I’m leading something and I don’t want to anymore.  I want to be completely sovereign, Autonomous, I only want to lead mySelf, no one other, river in tow with my flame and I go.  And the Cabernet’s gone, a fellno, and me alone, with thoughts and worries and what-I’m-gonna-do’s for Monday.  I’ve seen nothing, I haven’t shaken faults, and not anything chopping..I need to be more Beat, BEATEN.  I could go in tomorrow and quit, just leave, but I wouldn’t do that to Mary or Dwight– I can’t do that to characters I value– well I value them all, but there are few, FEW, I spare my fury.

Lunch today, Palooza, a beer and that chicken sandwich– and I had a whole half-day ahead.  Why have I done this to me my character my story my waves and standing or sitting.  They’re snakes, all of them!

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10/14/14–

8:22 in Kenwood lot, unprecedented.  I feel realization and revelation everywhere, from knowing I won’t teach at Mendo next term to the magazine to the novel and the shape it takes to my new column on blog about adjunct life– adjuncted.. adjunct’d…  adjunct ed’–  Everything’s speaking to me this morning.  Cathy driving up earlier than early, almost so much that it worried us, Alice and I, in fact it did, but she did come up to care for little Kerouac, and me here in the lot looking at the clouds that promise rain that promise a slow day in that tasting room, fine with me– should be grading right now but I’m not anywhere near a mood for such.  I will grade on their dime, bring the papers in with me, in the room and have my blog in the long thin closet where everyone else keeps their character items.  Was going to get my usual burrito and sparkling water [really Dr. Pepper], but decided on small coffee, only 1.50.  Save, save.. what the writerpubisher has to do.  And what John the full-timer, the only full-timer I really like or enjoy talking to on campus, told me yesterday about a student of his last semester, who blogs and posts everywhere on social media’s twirly highway now having an apprenticeship as a sports journalist.. I think, why am I here, doing this, at this age, why can’t I get some kind of “break” like that?  I can, I just have to change my strategy, throw words and my lit everywhere.  Another sip.. oh caffeine working for me and the Bobby Hutcherson plays loud in this Suburu’s cabin.  Think the mocha my mother-in-law brought for me had whole milk.  Horrible.  Not her fault.  I blame me.  I should only drink straight coffee.  Of course, saves money, but as well and more importantly better for the paragraphing fluidity.  Don’t feel guilty at all about no grading getting done in this sitting.  I deserve this.  Two months from today, a Sunday, before finals week.  Can’t wait for this term to be over, and no more commuting.  I do enjoy the qualities of the drive up there, but once there, I feel that mood and reality constrict.  Work, the workplace, the overseers: a hypogeum.

Only 8:35.  I love this, this freedom in morning to write and be what I want to be, disposition-wise.  These clouds, looking like they want to say something, but are waiting for the right time.  Now’s fine with me, but it’s not my call, at all.  Jeff, the Palooza owner, expanding his business, answering only to himself, and so many others I know with their own business.. and me, still trying, rushing for Autonomy.  I stay Zen, practice its personhood principles, and relax, collect, introspect.  And now I feel stuck in thought, but not a thing to write, truly parked, broken down like a rent-a-car on 12, some tourist on a vacation where everything’s not postcard-y.  Rising above all stress and predicaments, noble Truths in this moment, all around me from the parking lot itself to the dead tree to my right to the Mayacamas to all the passing cars– this is a scene, a moment, and there’s no time with this, just thoughts.. and I find it, my Equilibrium.  Much of it in stories, the recounting of not counts but instances, reflections and reactions, the moment compilation we all just label simply, “Life”.  I forgot about the grading I have to do, how lovely, how lotus, how Peace-ing.  Sugarloaf [if it’s one word.. I could look it up on my phone but I don’t want to touch that devilish thing] looking down at me, inviting me for a walk.  Wish I could, but I’m chained.  And I have no fear of getting let-go, if the winery would be so kind, but it won’t, ever.

In tantivy.  Going after what I want, and what I want are words, more words, and sentences and images and people.  One student in a class this semester, won’t say which campus or time, has a literary eye, and lens, uses it in every session and has no problem looking further into the text to find what she or he needs, wants to see– interpretive, yes, but lively in a way I’ve never seen.  Wish I had the free time to just read, not even leisurely but because I want to, and write and not have to think about the papers I have to grade, I don’t want that guilt.  This session, I now realize, a meditation with no anchors or fixing objects.  More and more into my Zen practice, my character re-shaping at 35.  In this year of age I will perfect the character I’m to embrace for my remaining days, however many I have left– and don’t get worried, I know very well I have many, many to share with little Kerouac and Ms. Alice.  Over 30 minutes till I have to be on property, free, freeing, this entry, the jazz and the coffee– requesting days off for November: 4, 6, 7, and 22.  I’ll email the inept commandant today.  Will be more than nice to have a series of days to Self, grade and write and run and breathe.. breathe…

As writers we should only focus on our own character, how we develop, before constructing others, and who I am, today and forward, is somebody tired of orders and expectations and the circle, the opportunistically immoral overseers.  They’ll always get their bonuses, rewards, while we starve.  I won’t stay quiet, and I know ‘it’s a small industry, you don’t want to start trouble’, people always say that.  But the decided absoluteness of it all: I. Don’t. Care.  I’m a writer, and I reveal truth, and the truth is that I’m not willing to compromise anymore, on anything.  I’m too old to just roll over, not hit back.  I know, that’s not very Zen of me, but that’s my character, at the moment and forever.

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Heart Field

Naturally pensive, I just
look, and that’s what i can
only do, halo, she walks over waves to
a spot by a saved rock,
look to the Roman reality, I’m not
divine not at all, go to the Embarcadero,
erased as if the patience had eroded,
and I think it
has.

the to-do
of cinema, I watch by that’s all,
crazed on Embarcadero, the post
season, leading in the something imaginary,
right now I don’t know.
Where am I an expert.
I don’t want that title.
Strategy special but knot so–

10/14/14

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I should just

start an adjunct log, for other adjuncts– start a real movement, maybe I’ll then get “picked up”.  Yeah?  Or just detail my details of my barely detailed day.  Right now, I’m in the cell, the shared office they let us adjuncts use.  How generous.  And yes, I wonder what it’s like to have one of those rooms, those offices to myself.  But I’ll just keep thinking.  Had to take a break from a stack of papers ’cause the writing hurt me so horribly– ears eyes mind and stomach.  But I can’t blame the students for the ill-prescriptions of high school.  And I won’t let this cage, this cell, this shared office I’m in drive me any madder.  We adjuncts forage, but only from letting them, letting them do this to us, and letting US do this to us.  What if I said ‘no more’, that I would only write about the adjunct life, that I don’t want to do it anymore and that I want to write about it to be a voice for us, the ones who aren’t complacent and distant and self-anointed in our cozy little corners, decorated to expose our biases and agendas and be a selfish advertisement; and so many of them are like that– when you’re full-time you sigh, you exhale and you lay down, relax, and if students don’t like your ways and methods and ideas (if they offer any innovative ones, anymore in their career, or even teach, speak with sincerity and connection), then who cares.  You’re full-time.  And if you’re tenured, then fuck the world!  What can it do?  You could light the quad on fire and they can barely engage you in discussion or ask why you did it.  I have too much shape and color for such a fluff cloud.  I’ll stay an adjunct FOR the adjuncts.  For my students.  And if I’m ever full-time, then I’ll still work for them; offer to be voice for them, for us, even if I’m one, technically, of THEM.

(10/13/14)

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8:27AM, 10/13, in my Mendo office, or the shared adjunct hole, and I can’t get the rubric sheet to print.  Another tech scuffle.. the other computer wouldn’t work, either.  Tired, mocha already wearing off and I’m making today a quick day, one entirely quick as I’m needing to get all the grading done, all of it, get completely up to speed.  Tonight, a no wine night, I won’t be slowed, I’ll sip that decaf I bought and grade fiercely, at least 40 items.  Yes, across the classes.  The next big paper lands, or is handed in, on the 22nd.  Stresses me to think of all the grading I have before me.  Not next semester.  Right now I’d be at home with the family, watching Jack run around with his cars and planes and trains and whatever else he finds.  This morning, Alice said in a message, he woke sad, asking for me.  This layers even more conviction that I’m doing the right thing in not teaching here next term.

Still feel yesterday’s 13.1.  Upper legs, right knee, right foot, lower right of back.  Need a break from it, definitely, running that is.  This laptop, low in batter might, so I’ll be using the new Comp Book for entries today.  No contributions to novel or magazine, just journaling.  Maybe that’s what I need, frankly, just true freewriting…

12:08.  And now, I don’t wait for students to not come to the office hour but rather take the time to further collect, and think of the design I want Life to take for me, and how I plan on writing it.  This laptop’s going to die, with only 19% left in its Beats.  Same plan I think for  the 1A sections.. office hour and workshop whatever ideas they have on the next paper.  Just made an add to the novel, now I return to the new Comp Book, to list my wants in this design I speak of–  The campus here feels strange today, like there’s not too many here, like I don’t belong here, like I’m too removed, like it’s over.  And it is.  And Alice and I have talked about this, the centralization of my teaching.  This is just too far.  SSU though, if they ever contact me, could work, but only for one section I’m thinking, not two, no more of this 4 class blizzard while I’m still at that winery.

Think I’ll survive the day.  Just had a couple of the items I packed for Self, snacks at Alice’s insistence.  Could use more caffeine, though, and right before the 1A.  Right now, I hear nothing, no students or teachers or janitors or anything, anyone.  I don’t like this feeling, this desolation.. but it puts me beside and into Zen.  Moments like this are where I can more understand Self, what I want and how I plan on playing the next day.

Not sure I’ll run tomorrow, maybe will start again on Thursday.  Maybe.  And if I want to take a week off, or just short of a week then I will.  13% left.. leaving for paper, the realest writing and means of discovering dimensions to Self that I know.. what real Lit is, the realest or scribbled practice.

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10/11/14–

Just woke.  Short bathroom break and now writing.  Again, I feel safer writing here than in the magazine, or starting some new book– not yet, not time.. yet.  Going in late for club event, home a little late then half marathon tomorrow.  Landed fall classes for SRJC: English 1A in morning, early (7AM), than a 1B in Petaluma, I think 12-1:30.  Then done.  No Mendo.  I mean, I could take classes there, but they haven’t offered me anything official yet, or what I deem official– only ones tentative with the observation contingency, which we haven’t debriefed yet.  They’re moving too slow in Ukiah, and even if they were more motivated, motioned, I wouldn’t take them.  I want more time to write and more time with little Kerouac, who was again coughing last night, my poor little Artist.  Tired from yesterday in the reserf room, and tonight’s event better not even be the least bit demanding, not stressing or straining me even a little.

Tempted to get a little more sleep, but I needed to write.. something.  Jackie’s up, going up to get him…

7:16AM.  First sip of coffee, poems I wrote yesterday, may blend them together, but not in the same order they were scribbled or typed on phone.  I’m not in any way about “order” these days.. just writing and releasing, the moment and the Newness, the knowledge that Emerson said I need to find, for myself, and the Equilibrium that Dad said one day I’d find.  And I think I have, or at least I can see it and I think about that watching little Jack play with his toys, with two batteries in and out of the airplane piggybank, he removed the front portion with the propeller, puts the batteries (AA) in, jiggles them then removes.  He has a system, a pattern, methodology to everything he does and I just sit here with candied envy.. and I’m not an agelast, I do giggle a bit but I also analyze, see how I can have some of what he exercises.

I’m basorexic with words this morning, language, spinning it however I want like a turtle in the pacific riding some unexpected or known current for amusement or transportation or both.  I’m just holding words then returning them to the world in a more libation-like layer.  Tomorrow’s run, visible.  I just have to start slow.  I can still feel the 7.2 run from Thursday.

$4200 in account, putting $150 on couch, then it’s paid.  That leaves $4050.  Put $200 on cc, 3850.  And there I’ll stop for now.  Want to put around $500 toward the house fund and maybe $250 or $275, maybe $280 to my publishing stash at Schwab.  And no new camera!  I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a new device for pictures.  Eventually, maybe, just not yet.  I’d rather write and at this point anything that intercedes with the pages is punishable obstruction as I see it.–  $280 to company.  and I stop.

Jackie plays with a couple pennies, nickels and dimes I gave him.  “Dada, that’s my money, I pu’ i’ here!” he says, turning back around to focus on his arranging.  Feel like xenobombulating today, make up some excuse.  They have plenty of people, right?  In the speed-walking wine club member frenzy and dogma of entitlement and somehow warranted overconsumption.. I don’t want to hear their requests and hear how they’ve been club members for years, or a little over a year, or they just signed up and are already acting like they own the bloody winery.. I just don’t want to hear it.

More coffee.  I hate it when it approaches the Siberian stage of staleness and it loses its courage.  Excuse me…  Second cup cued.  Blankets on the floor just in front of a puddle of toys.  Very much looking forward to only teaching two classes next term.  And, I have to be honest, the drive is something I won’t at all miss.  At first it was exhilarating being a freeway flying teacher again, but I’m calling it, it’s over, no more, more centralization and that pertains to vocation avocation and geography.  Flying for adjunct assignments is a young person’s pursuit, and I’m an aging writing stuck and even further harnessed to my ways, practices.  “Less is more,” a full-timer at Napa Valley College once said to me, addressing quality vs quantity with courseload.  Now I get it, now I see…

And the morning is much in motion with Alice up and out for a walk.  No running with her recently paining knee.  And laundry upstairs, groaning and circling and throwing water and soap all over its insides.  And Jack, jumping from snack to snack, seemingly never full and never bored and never, never exhausted with his surrounding.  Never with mulligrubs.  How does he do that?  He’s luminous always, even when he wakes in the middle of the night like last night, he had a question: “Where mama go?”

He rises from his recent snack and goes to the table where his cars and trucks and trains and one plane situate.  The winery on thoughts, the vent, but I won’t let it stay long.  I’m like a photographer walking around looking for the perfect shot, like that guy yesterday that I saw roaming around the Syrah hill with his camera and stand, standing with folded arms deciding when to push his button.

Hoping to get a haircut today, not that you needed to know that but I’m looking for anything to note at this point, anything.. I’m running out of fuel, ideas, thinking of the past; Arundel, my grammar school and Serra, the high school– seems like two lives ago.  And how?  My goal for tomorrow, on running’s note, is to feel better than I did on the last ‘half’ at mile 10.  Mile 10 is where everything started to wear, pain, pulsate about me.  But not tomorrow.  [8:18AM]

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journal excerpts–

The weather, hot.  This has to be Summer’s last song, I guess– in technical coding, it’s Fall.  But it’s very much a summer song outside.. no clouds, sun, heat, and the air that warms you even if you’re in the shade and want to be left alone.  I could use more coffee, as you probably already guess.  The drive this morning, long and tiring like it hasn’t ever been.  And of course on the day I’m observed, right?  I don’t see luck as anything real, just an excuse that certain characters utilize to generate.. something, not sure what, empathy and sympathy in and out of themselves.

SRJC next.  I need to get to the library, write and research teaching and those models and modes I mentioned.  I think I’ll start them off with a freewrite prompt.  What?  Don’t know, need to find one.  I want them, the students, or I hope they go outside themselves with thinking and the assignments and what they write, ALWAYS–

Done checking campus emails.  OF course nothing that immediately if at all concerns me.  That happens as a teacher, you’ll see…  I’ll have my sparkling water on the way back to SoCo, and think of new directions for the 1A classes.. first, writing, then talking about the news and current events, connect to sympathy and empathy, the group them up explore the short stories more– but I want to do something else.. what…  WHAT?  Not enough time.  Already 1:03.  I’m relaxing, breathing like the article I read yesterday urged.  Yeah, I breathe, but not like this.. I need to do this more.  THIS.  Really breathing, and for me.

prompt for students, SRJC:  Something society needs to pay more attention to is… [make an argument for why we should care]

There.  That’s how I’ll start.  And I’ll pull up a couple news sources; CNN, CNBC, New York Times, BBC…  Still with the journalism bug, me, always.  I want to report, and I think that’s what much of teaching is; reporting, ideas and writing directions and “rules” I guess, but conveying something to the student, something they should value, and carry forward with them, or “walk away with” as I say.

1:08.  Leaving in 7.  Not enough time, like I wrote yesterday for whoso and the entirety of my writing Life.  No looking back, with anything.  I read the news and see all this despair and tragedy, death.  Life needs to be lived, not quarreled over or stressed within.  If I didn’t have these Mendo sections, I could be writing, or I would be right now.  There will be no more four course semesters, not as long as I’m on hwy 12.  Should leave.. I’ll finish this entry in Santa Rosa.  Stay ahead of Time and your schedule and your commitments and projects.  Then everything works and creates music.

4:53PM.  In library, more exposed than I’d like to be, at one of those four chair study tables in the middle of the floor.  I won’t listen to anything but I own wants.  People walk by, they could rad my novel I guess, or some small sliver of this journal, but I don’t care.  A student sits at the table, left, by self, opens a binder, breaths heavy as if he ran here, I’m sure he did– but I can’t pay attention to anything other than what I type and what I think and what I have to do to get on the university campus– and whoso will provide that bridge.  After posting to the blog I’ll contribute something, something, some thought or entertainment from day, like the drive and the low intensity to the Sonoma/Mendocino sun driving on 101’s northerness.  An older man at one of the computer terminals, right about fifteen yards.  Wonder what he’s looking up, or studying, or just casually looking into.  Two ladies, older, at the table at 11 o’clock, reviewing each other’s answers to something, I’m guessing some math assignment.  They speak fluent spanish and one tells the other that their assignment is ‘loco’.  I almost laugh, as I’m sure some of my students think I or some of my paper prompts or ideas are a bit crazy as well.

Haven’t touched the novel in days.  What’s wrong with me?  There…  Just opened both documents containing its pages.  Need to stand by my deadlines, finish ALL projects.. creep through my old writings and ones not so old 300 pages at a time– that will be my life strategy, my life’s work.

There…  I’m up to 194 pages of content in the novel, with recent Spring ’14 adds.  There there THERE!!!  I’m back in my novelist character!  This is addicting, these adds.. a novel, mine, my story as writer father teacher winery drone wine drinker runner and roamer– on page, for readers, or maybe just for me, and who cares if it’s just for me?  Isn’t that real writing?  Idea for vignette– for whoso.  I’ll keep it internal, save it for later, and if I remember it then it’s meant for page, right?  Thinking of the presence of death in Wolff’s stories, and in Kerouac, and how that makes their material so much more REACHING, generating more sympathy.  I can only find it interesting, I have to say, and beautiful, not the way Poe saw death as beautiful.. different than that.  Not sure how to phrase it or articulate it, but that’s something I could pitch to the 6PM-ers for a paper topic.

Already not in the mood for the winery tomorrow.  Not in the mood for the people and what they ask and how they sip the wine and how they over-over-over-think it– battery low, need a charge.. to the 4th floor.

4th.  With a view that I’ve never been graced with– the quad, the bookstore, the trees and students rushing to class, some skateboarding, walking, just wandering– envy the life.  Forgot cord in car, so this laptop will die.  Well there you go, death in this writing session.  10% left– posting…

Internet down.  Writing in Comp Book.

10/9–  Payday tomorrow.  Good.  Need to somehow find time to go to Schwab and move some money around, for house and company.  This morning’s session in the Kenwood lot will be for whoso– feeling slow this morning, and guilty as I haven’t run in a while, and I have the ‘half’ coming up, three days away.  At this time on Sunday, I’ll either already be there or be on my way to Healdsburg, to that starting point.  I’m just looking for finish in under 1:50:00.  I’m not even looking to beat my last ‘half’ time.  Not at all.  Want to have a nice run and enjoy my day off.  Right now little Jack is enraptured by his toys, arrangeing the smaller trucks in the bed or back-bin of the larger one.  “Dada, sit down!” he orders.  And I do, but I have to spackle this page, my pages my journal.  Need to do some word hunting, pack the thesaurus– have today be a day of words, empty the work bag of all those papers that were handed in yesterday, all the short reactions, and the students delaying or playing games with their instructor, like the one in the 930 section will only lose, to themselves, not to me– this semester has already tried me in like instances of students trying to skirt the system, trying to compile excuses into some impenetrable defense or rationale to where and which I have no explanation I have to either pass them or give them the grade they want.  No, sorry.  7:21– and I think about the day ahead, have to make it work for me, who am I with in the reserf room? Back from a sip of coffee Jackie says “Look a car, my Dada!” I walk to him, situate on one knee and once stationed, hug him tightly, let my little Artist know I’m not ignoring him, that I see him, that I see him playing and love what he’s doing.  Kiss on top of his soft knotty blonde head, back to keyboard.  Oh…  And to my delight, I’m not in the res room.  I’m at the bar, lovely.  But no tasting today, even if Blair asks me to the bbls.  And if he does, I’ll only smell the petite Sirah, that’s it.  The wines are developing rapidly and I don’t want to miss any of the transfers or “rackings” as they call them, from tank to bbl or bbl to bbl.  Now 7:28, need another sip of coffee, trying to be as axial as I can in my plan, this morning’s scribed map.  The novel, another racking at some point today.  MY friend has the day off so I won’t be distracted to lunch or some other type diversion on my lunch “break”.  I’ll go to the Warm Springs park and write, work on the novel as I haven’t touched it in a while– that’s not true, I racked about 10 pgs yesterday.  “Dada, wha’ doing?” he now asks, little Kerouac.  I stop, will make a recrudescence in about 5 hours.  For the novel, magazine touched in Kenwood lot.  And poems and words an odd phrases through out the day, glacial pats and Yukon-like contemplativeness–

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