Posts Tagged With: Art

7/31/14–

Tomorrow, Santa Barbara.  And I may have an opportunity at Sonoma State.  Not sure yet.  Will send my materials by way of email, tomorrow, before I leave, while Alice is on her run.  My first Kerouac book came in the mail today, a collection of his letters.  Didn’t know I bought a used book, once in a library, somewhere, can’t remember where.  I will write the whole time in SB, if not tangibly then mentally.  Bringing my Lagunitas Ale into living room with me; not breaking law of no drinking, anything, on the new couch.  Promised Ms. Alice and I will obey…  The ocean, the sand, that view from our Room down there, just waiting for me.  What can I do but be patient.  I hate that.  HATE it.  The power went out on campus today, interrupting a poetry writing activity, right after we began.  I urged the students to write through it, and they did, after two, both vets, walked around the building, outside, to make sure all was okay– their impulse, prompted by a rumble, heard by everyone in class.  But we wrote on, past it.  It was interesting.

I try to relax, but I stress thinking about the fact I only have, basically– no, less than– 48 hours in SB.  I shouldn’t do that.  Why am  I doing that?  Just enjoy.  Have a run, get one page into the book, and enjoy.  And just because you’re not physically writing doesn’t mean you’re NOT writing.  You are.  Living IS writing, I tell myself.  And my writer friends would agree.  Should sent one of them a note tonight.  I will.  But I doubt she’ll return.  She’s free, flying, a flight attendant, attending flights and her flights attend to her, her pages, her vignettes as she recently told me she’s scribbling.

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Sipping Pinot, the one my friend Ed gave me a couple years ago, or maybe early ’13.  Not sure.  It’s a Pinot; earthy, light fruit, a tad vegetal.  But with a refinement I haven’t encountered before.  9:33p, and little Kerouac very much in his little dreams.  Takeout from up the street, Legends, and I elected my usual, the mushroom/swiss burger with fries.  Not the best pairing with the burger, but that wasn’t my aim, anyway.  And now, I’m truly tired, ready for bed, but I want to research the authors I’ll be using for Fall.. no time.  Can only think, and as I research Kerouac, watch that Big Sur movie, over and over, I understand that the best act I can tell is inaction, just taking it all into character.  So I will, without over-thought.

Tomorrow, I hope something interesting happens, anything, some story, some development.  I don’t know.. I just want something, for the story, so I can be with them.. Scott, Glenn, Bob, Crystal, Dav…  But I can only hope, write, write while I hope and hope while writing.. somewhat deconstructive and destructive.  But that’s Art, strange, and liquified, the more Pinot I sip.  Ed, once a clock-puncher now a wine-wielder.  How?  And why can’t I transcend and time-bend?  I’m not with talent like he.. and he has strategy.  I’m just a fucking writer…

Alice’s shows violate my auditory, like bees, or something that stings, sneaking through screens.  I’m hurt, disrupted, I hate the TV, and anything on it, except for Nat Geo docs.  I can’t wait for my marathon, Santa Cruz, May 2015.

And the Pinot’s gone, thank the good of ness.  What if I could sneak in 3 miles tomorrow morning, or even 2?  I’ll see, and then have more coffee.  And if those devils are reading this, they’re probably laughing, or scratching their heads, ‘cause Literature, true Writing, hurts, as it makes them think, and thinking isn’t for everyone, especially Them.

(7/30/14

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Over 3,000 words for the day, and I’m exhausted, but I still want to write.  And my writer friends, can only wonder what they’d say.  And my friends that teach like I do, all of them with FT jobs mind you, never having to worry about pouring for tourists, answering stupid questions about wine that they are convinced are so glowingly important– no sales goals, no threatening, no reprimanding, being treated like a wandering toddler with a gnat’s attention span– none of that.  I sit here, an adjunct, in a shared office, in a noose of malignity.  And I’m more or less prepared to meet with students, those that choose to show.  And my notebook is…

(7/30/14)
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Belling Ruins, 1

Track, leading me to

a question den–

that’s okay, Ithink, otherwise I won’t have

even a slice of solution–

but I have to work, sell, not

think for myself–

thoughts = contraband

(7/30/14)

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29

And to Mendocino I went today.  Wrote about the heat in my new notebook, the one I took from the SRJC Eng Dept copy room.  It was so intense I was nearly convinced, thoroughly, that I was going to get sick on the ride home.  But on notes more uplifting, I only have official transcripts to send them, then I actually exist, or am “a real person” as the HR lady, Nicole, put it.  I did place a tentative book order, though, and did settle on the books just disclosed in a recent entry: Feast, Road, Wolff’s stories, and Me Talk Pretty by Sedaris…  Being on the Road today, as I was when commuting to Solano in Fall ’10 brought back not just memories but values, a world view I haven’t had since before Jack came into my play.  And all in a positive way.  The drive north, to Ukiah, taking a little over an hour at my slow speed, giving me mountains, a little river peek, vineyards, clouds, intense green then the barren…  It’s the Road, or as much as I can experience now.  But I’m doing it again!  I am!  A freeway flyer.  And I used to have the pessimist’s stump in my mental, since I let the wrong people infect me.  But not this time.  I’m in a true 35 Lark, honoring so many of my Laws, my new notes…  And I couldn’t be happier.  Yes, I know it’ll make for days long, so long, torturously.  But I’m set to be more regimented than I’ve ever been.  The days of wine’s world and industry in this writer’s wheeling ward are nearly executed.  Today’s drive made me feel independent…  FREE!  Just what JK would want for me.

Tonight’s session with the ‘100’ section went well, more than “well”.. it was energized, and I know they have to take control of this final assignment in a way they never have with the others, or with anything else they’ve done with other classes.  And that makes me.. I don’t know if “proud” is the word I’d zoom, but something like it, I guess.  Or how about ‘subtly supercilious’?  It made me feel good.  Healthy.  Alive.  And again, after my drives, even more FREE.  Little Kerouac, fell asleep with unusual diplomacy tonight.  Which is wonderful, I want to run tomorrow morning after Ms. Alice.  She registered me for the ‘Healdsburg Half’.  So now there’s no turning back.  Have to get on a training program.   And I love that feeling, the commitment on MY bloody terms.  The sounds this house makes always distract me, and I don’t know why.  I don’t believe in the supernatural anything, but I just get spooked when it’s too quiet.  But then so oddly and contradictorily I only long for quiet, like a couple Saturday nights ago when I was charging at the Reserve Cab, in the kitchen nook–  And I hope I’m awake tomorrow before Alice leaves, when it IS quiet, so I can add to the 40 pages, for the first of the series.. don’t want to call it a ‘penny dreadful’, but something like that, just more substance, more Literary, more hope and Humanness I guess.  And the coffee, that’ll always be in this writer’s morning recipe.

(7/28/14)

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(from this morning’s session, 7/27/14…)

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.

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28

And I was reminded, again, organically, by my own thought stream, to put everything out there– everything I write.  And I’m 35, the journey should have already catapulted, no?  but I can’t get into that again, that’ll only halt me.  And I’m not a genre fellow, I won’t write something that’ll be so conveniently marketed and categorized on Amazon, or at B&N.  I don’t know what set me on this road, but I’m thinking in dismal droves.  For what?  My Beat, my beat, like I’m an officer on my own streets.  Took my first sip of the ’10 Lancaster Cuvée, and I swear it wants me on the Road, in some hotel, writing, finish or just beginning something.  One of the people I took to the mountaintop today asked me, “So how long have you been working here?” That question I hate.  ONE, why do you care, and, TWO, I’m slightly embarrassed to disclose that two of my life’s 365- blocks have been consumed by that place.  And it’s a celestial spot, really, but the job is what ruins it.  The job.. another fucking job.  Dav showed me this collection of articles today, in a book.  I only had the chance to skim through it but none of the pieces, if I heard Dav right, goes beyond 800 or a thousand words.  And it’s journalism, reporting, accuracy or the hope of.  And my character, and characters, still waiting for their placement.  But the wine motivates, like that tree the other day, the one I saw from the gravel lot.  Still not sure why it folded me as it did, with its everydayness, but it was there, and so was I, and we were meant to see each other as we did– or I was meant to see it.  Right before leaving for class, just before 4:30p, I had a huge sip of the SB, the one from neutral oak, and I looked at the tank room, all that steel, and hoses, and puddles, discolored concrete– purple, red, slight brown or yellow or some shade I can’t parlance in this pulse of prose.  But today it took me, and as I succeeded in my gulp, I saw myself there, another direction, on that walkway above the tanks, looking down, or doing additions from up top, or watching the yeast react, eat what they could, but just watch either way.  OR, I could just stand in there, on the clock, find some hidden corner and just write, no photos, just notes, spy on them– these epoch edgers; what they do, how they talk, how they walk around like all of this is because of them; they’re so elevated and sagacious and sterling with their stenches and barreled tumbles and everything they deem an obscure and intriguing subtlety.  I pull label, and it is, ‘buffoonery’.  Comedy, meant for me, but I’ll still sip, ‘cause that’s the point, correct?  I mean, did I miss something, or am I just off-topic again?  My students need one speaking this frankly, so I completely let go, for the first occasion in 35 years.  So take that, devil.. machine…  And on my run tomorrow morning, I’ll recite this all in head, or what I can remember.  And I could care less if it has a SKU, ever.

(7/24/14)

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journal

7/21/14.  And I’m in the adjunct cell.  Wrote my words for the day, 3 full fictive pages, and I’m ready for class, for the most part.  Have to print some papers for Mendocino, so they can have all my materials by Wednesday (I’ll probably drive up, early).  Did my fingerprints and TB fax-over earlier today, along with getting a couple new pairs of bootcut jeans and some black shoes, only to be worn to class.  My old black ones were just that– old.  And beaten.  And bitter.  I’m very easily over 2,000 words for the day.  And I have this bizarre rare species of ease about me.  Don’t know what it is.  And it’s even more peculiar as I’m sipping a mocha, one of my 3-shots.  I may be too relaxed to write, even.  I also blame this jazz, this particular song, “The Folks Who Live on the Hill” by Brad Mehldau.  Walking away from this sitting, going to class, hoping to wake tomorrow, early.  Didn’t go for a run today.  I have no excuse to submit to you, reader.  But tomorrow’s A.M., before that bloody winery, I’ll be scurrying about Bennett’s Valley.

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journal

10:31PM.  Now, my Merlot open.  Running tomorrow after Alice returns from her morning jaunt with her sprinting partners.  So renewing to have my little Kerouac back.  The Mendo classes.. planning for them already.  And tomorrow, with the ‘100’ students.. have to throw them for some beneficial spiral.  But what?  I’m thinking…  Something with writing, something with independent research, and something with them seeking an answer.. an ANSWER.  But what.  How do I frame this?  See..  I never give wine this much thought.  And I shouldn’t.  It’s wine.  It’s consumable.  IT, quickly gone, then forgotten.  And then the consumer looks to the next vintage.  And then that’s consumed.

Rain today.  Renewing.  And that smell, with the pavement, like a new season was coming but wasn’t.  I remember standing there, right in front of the doors, with Micah, confused, like I should be writing but not, just experiencing the oddity of this precipitation– new phase, or year, or me, finally free.  Should put Self to bed soon.  But I fall into sleep aware of what I need to do tomorrow morning, before on MY run.  The class, it’s all about the class, the students, and the sections of Fall.  I’m staging my rebellion, and I can only win.  (7/20/14)

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Generate

The line wasn’t long, just excessively cohesive. He could hear a slight crack in the 40-something woman’s shoulder every time she looked left at the pastries; he could smell the low-budget wonder cologne of the older man in the back of the line. Why did he do this to himself? It was almost his turn, his turn to submit his wage. Why was he doing that? “This corp’ doesn’t deserve my money,” he thought, hearing that shoulder again.
“Hi, what can I get ya today?” the woman asked, pressing two buttons on the new even more digitized register.
He left.

(7/20/14)

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