But, anyway, from my tangent, re-focusing on today’s mission: objects and dialogue; the guests, anything.
Coffee, ready to be made. I’ll start combing through old entries this week, possibly tomorrow, after Mendo. And the students, my ‘100’ group, in their final 8 sessions. And Santa Barbara approaches… Already looking forward to my runs on the beach with Alice, writing about it afterward, or to some ocean frame, just sitting and enjoying the sounds. and I won’t write full paragraphs– object here at home, empty beer bottle by sink last night, just one, rare for me. Wasn’t in the mood for beer or wine last night, what happens after a boring day in vindictive heat. And the phone here, the house line, hardly ever used, it just sits over there under Jackie’s play table, bored like me behind the bar yesterday. But I carry a phone with me everywhere, like everyone else; I feel like a cutout character, no voice, no distinction. What if I left my phone in the car today, in the parking lot? Only wrote– a different character today, me, one only writing, not talking as much, and no sips. Short phrases and if I was to practice now: ‘Jackie’s humming, song snippets he’ll maybe put together but indicative of contentment, peace, his ever-smiling bursts/This new couch: already seen enough of me, read enough of my prose–’ This will be the practice today. EVERY OBJECT. The stapler, the pen container, the water bottles in the fridge, wine bottles empty with DNC written on them, meaning ‘do not count’.
Cup two, and Jackie and Ms. Alice go for a walk with one of her friends, the more consistent of the aggregate, Lorielle, with Addie the daughter. Already after looking at these pictures of SB and the resort at which we’ll be lodged, I want to change my story, the surroundings for Jack.. Santa Barbara, my next chapter, I’ve officially targeted it, and this will be my logging of the journey there. Why there? Well, I’m an ocean lad, don’t forget, having being born in Santa Cruz. And the runs along the beach the writing in water-bordered cafés and the dolphins my sister used to tell me about… And UC Santa Barbara. I will write my way onto their grounds. The motivations buzzing in me this morning like some opaque haze of mutant bees, just out to sting. Now on the website of UCSB, English Dept. This will happen before 2014’s end, or I’ll all but give up.. Alice, Jack and I will move to UCSB, my writing will have me on the Road and I will have lectured at enough arenas and multi-purpose rooms to afford the relocation. Down there I will finish my second novel which will lure me invitation onto staff. And I have no problem leaving this, all these vines and tasting rooms and over-exaggeration of something I fucking sip behind.
8:15.. need in shower soon be. I have a vision, a target like I haven’t before. And all because of Nick’s wedding. Can’t believe he’s getting married, and I even more disavow acceptance that I haven’t met his artful bride-to-become. Everyone tells me how sweet she is, and I very much trust their words, but I need to meet this character. Guess I’ll have to wait for the day of wed. Should be hot again today, and if I were on the beach, in my new home, SB, I’d go for a family walk, with little Kerouac and Ms. Alice. They’d stay at home afterwards while I go to my on-campus office to get a few things done– well, that’s what I told Alice. I really went in to finish a chapter for the second novel.. I do that every then and once more.
A bird outside the condo, here, singing in repeating rolls, like I’m not listening but I am. And he’s not recording himself, he’s just singing to sing. Maybe it’s a blackbird, or a Jay of some kind, or who knows what. I have to keep writing, all day, log everything.. another aspect of Mike Madigan which makes him marketable is his obsessive qualities as a penner, always logging, capturing, unconcerned with form… Good. Then that’s how I’ll be today. So… NO. SIPPING. Wine is what I want I want, NEED, distance from. So coffee only. OR, those new sodas that Jillian ordered– the root beer, Stewart’s, so far is my preferred. Have yet to sip the Izzy sodas, have my eye on the blackberry or black cherry– can’t remember which flavor she ordered.
8:21AM, and Time rushes, like the flood Kerouac wrote about. But I don’t care, the priority is thought, and my lack of vulnerability now. I’m a bull, a bullfighter… Hem would be so proud. Declaring mySelf the best writer this zone has ever known. And it seems that these “wine writers” or “wine bloggers” really do think of themselves as people of the pen. How? You write about the same thing, time and time again. Yes, there’ll be a different bottle or ‘terroir’ or producer or winemaker, but it’s still wine. But, let’s be honest, how often do I write about writing or teaching or struggles of being a writer, or… wine. There, I lose. But I was honest, true with my thoughts here in this morning nook/coffee session. Not sure if I’ll have time to edit. So maybe I should just have the Kerouac attitude, “There will be no editing this MS”. My wallet, right, only with a few bucks in it. Should take one out, restart the dollar a day habit. Will need as much cash as capable for the SB move, 14’s end or 15’s liftoff. Can’t wait to see that water, hear the waves, smell them, close eyes while painted terrestrial mist lightly brushes my face like a lover from one of my forgotten notebooks. And the clock reminds me again… So the rush is hushes, but I’m still ablaze, buzzing.