Posts Tagged With: Art

Late Punch-in

10/28/14–  5:37AM, couldn’t sleep, kept thinking about freelancing as a writer, or journalist, or diarist.  Woke about 25 mins ago and all I’ve been thinking about is how my interest in teaching, if you could call it that now, has suffered.  So what else to do, write, standalone to standalone.  And I start with the magazine, MY magazine, whoso, and the other pieces I send out.

Fridge doing its usual hum in the dark and I wait for Alice to wake up, around 6 or 6:15.  Not sure if I’m staying home today, even though I’ve pretty much assured that in yesterday’s entries.  Running today after Alice, it’ll be in the dark which I don’t particularly care for but I have no choice this time of year.  Should be healthy for me to get outside any zone of comfort and go out there and “get the story”, right?  As a journalist would do.  Already gathering material for the next issue, starting with that longer short “No Notice” and the Palooza piece.  That’s about six occupied pages of material right there.  Of course, last night I had one of those moments where I second-guessed the whole idea of the magazine.  No, not now, not at this point, I’m sick of me doing that.  Need a brief bio for this new lit mag I’m targeting as well as others that demand or expect the same from their writers– and just that, “their writers”, like we’re their property– but I can’t think like that, not now.

I love these early sessions.  And my battery eroded so I have to scoot to the other end of the couch, left, where the charger is, my wife’s.  Hear someone upstairs, turning and stirring.  Sounds like Jack but I can’t tell.  Can they hear the keys as I touch them?  Trying to be as quiet as I can.

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9:05PM. In nook.

Day over and we had one group, Nate and I.  Nate’s words, describing over-oaked wines, “wood water”, and something else I won’t put on this log’s lappings.  Or maybe I will, as he said it to one of the group members, “Every group has an Amy.” Thought it was funny and worth writing, simply.  Sipping what’s left of the sparkling wine Alice bought the other day, relaxing me and focusing at the time same, how odd and how new, how telling.  So tomorrow, grade quick when at Mendo then print whoso issue.. edit during office hours then to next project– releasing everything, everything, each page.  Not aiming to be “prolific”.  Hate that word.  I want to be inescapable as a writer, everywhere, confrontational but unintentionally.

Tired from yesterday and today just has me in all the curvings of a knot.  Doing more research on winemakers and winemaking and what harvest does to a winemaker, the early morning and late nights and commuting– if they commute– and the stress and demand, even if they are a one man show like my friend Kaz.  2014 has been interesting, both in terms of grape character over drawing board in addition to all surrounding wiring.  And I realize life is too short, too short for worry and nonsense and anything not positive.  It’s night, and the constellations make themselves visible and talk to me, over with a repeated synergy.  And this is a product of the vintage, 2014– now I’m NOT a winemaker, but a writer, but I recognize and observe and see how they, the production team’s reacting and behaving and talking as the fruit comes, came, in– this year’s different.  And it’s enough to make me write, want to report everything, and I think with the dinner Blair and I’ll have on Saturday, 11/1, I’ll ask him about the vintage, how it made him feel– already gathering material for the next whoso issue, 1/2015.  And I forgot what else I was going to write.  I’m making this vintage my own, giving wine another chance in that I’m not letting mySelf get too stressed or at all stressed about anything.  So.. wine.. drink enjoy live love.  Right?  So what am I opening this Saturday night, when home from Blair’s?  Not sure.  I’m thinking a Lancaster.  OR one of my St. Francis artisans.  OR, one of those Washington wines I was given a while back.  Last year?  Can’t remember.

Fruit sorting.  All this new tech with winemaking.  What are my thoughts?  I don’t know.  If in the end I have a wonderful bottle I’m not too sure I care but I never forget about Artistic integrity, nor do I dismiss the integral nature of artistry, creating.  Ever.  But I look deeper into winemakers and what they do and why they make certain decisions and elect certain equipment.  Ugh, I think, now I want a glass of wine, maybe two– but no!  Tomorrow’s the writer’s early day, on the distant micro-campus.  On my way out tomorrow, Mendo, I’ll stop and take pictures of those leaves, the vines picked, see what they say to me, see how they lather my curiosity.

Tasted a PS [Petite Sirah, at lunch, Palooza]; odd nose nice grip and texture but lacking fruit.  I know it’s a Petite Sirah but it should have some subtlety and ballet about its shifts and riffs.

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6:23am and in

a fanged mood already.  You know why, you know and you know me and you know it would fracture my mood, either slightly or significantly, that review.  Mendo.  I’ll specify, why not, what do I have to lose at this point.  Downstairs in dark, mouth dry from the Zin last night and ales that encircled.  A problem with my writing that can’t be overlooked, lashings from a full-timer, a teacher, how much a writer be he I wonder.  If any point to be remembered or relished in this transaction it’s this: the writing has to happen NOW.  No more of this delay and play with certain methods and recipes or tricks– it has to be this.  And, as my wife said quite starkly last night after Mom and Dad left, “so who cares?” She’s right.  I’m not teaching there next semester or ever a-bloody-gain and it’s Mendocino…  Mendocino College.  In Ukiah.  Ukiah.  Where’s that?  I’m a writer, my own Beat has been carved at this old age 35 and I’m not budging or compromising.  My teaching’s fine, okay, but my writing cited?  I can only laugh, in the dark here with this Sahara tongue.  Water, that Perrier that Alice bought, wonderful– I’m sharpened and I have to be and with thicker skin like Kerouac with people reviewing his words his books and sharings.  I guess why I’m bothered is ‘cause I’m tired at this age; tired of being reviewed and approved and applying and the back-and-forth and the commuting and the trying.  “So stop it, stop it all,” a voice says, probably one of my characters from the novel, either Glenn or Dav, or Crystal the winemaker.  And like my sister once told me, “if you second-guess yourself you’ll never make wine.” Or never write which is what I was drawn, my character, Mike Madigan, to do.  Would I want to be him, I ask myself, the full-timer that gave the review, be a full-time English teacher at a removed and obscure college that’s known for…?  No.  Now, if this review came from SSU, or SRJC, or even Napa when I taught there, I’d have reason to be even more hungover than I am, but this is silly–  I would deplore that role and reality, a teacher there.  “That’s where I teach,” I can’t hear myself say.  “I write, I self-published a novel and am selling it.. I wrote it how I write not how I think it’d sell, or it should be written.” There I am, me… And then further into this dream I add, “And I lead a fiction seminar at Stanford.” Ha ha, I reel to myself.  I know what I want and this, that school, isn’t part of it.  So he can sip his self-indulgent defamation and entitled mumbles up there in the mountains, on that campus that barely outsizes this condo complex.

Tried going back to sleep but couldn’t.  Yesterday, more than crazy at winery.  More of that crazy you’d expect from a rainy day where the only alternative’s to taste inside.  Wrote down one line, from a guest, not sure where he was from and I overheard him say this to Gary who was pouring right next to me at day’s end, for a little over and hour and a half: “Old vine Zins always taste too incense-y to me.” Funny thing, I somewhat agree with him and understand his idea, so what did I write it down?  I’ve never heard it put that way with those words before– well that and I didn’t write anything the whole shift into my little pages so I thought I should scribble something.  I poured my people the ’11 Cab and turned around, brandished the little pages and used the back bar for support.

Wonder what Mr. Dav is doing.  Still haven’t sent him that letter.  I’ll print it tomorrow at Mendo and send it from SRJC’s base.  Keep typing, I tell myself down here, keep typing.  6:45, and I hear Jackie upstairs, coughing a little and saying something to Alice who’s probably only wanting to sleep, poor thing.  Going up to rescue her and him and further distract myself this morning.  That review of my teaching or writing, now far past my care, gone into some sewer of dismissed ideas where it certainly belongs.  And when we meeting, this reviewer and I, I’ll be silent, no comments, I won’t waste my words or respiration or time.  I’ll just nod and tune out and leave.  And, frankly, I have to get to SRJC so he only has so much time anyway.  As much as I permit and budget.

Jack and I now, on the couch, Alice sleeping upstairs.  I’ll make sure she rests till 8.  She told me that he was kicking and nudging her all night, my poor wife.  I’m sipping the only k-cup I had left.  Well, I have those decaf doses but those are worthless at this hour, or any hour other than those close to bed.  This coffee bouncing in my rhythms, just what I needed.

I just looked at the evaluation again and it’s just plainly droll, dull, and just what I wanted now that I see my students highly approve of my performance, in fact he himself even noted that my student evals are “exceptional”, and that most obviously means more to a writer like me than what some full-timer documents from having to.  My students’ approval has value.  His thoughts are just part of a machine, a track, an intoxicant that he’ll probably read to himself and show off to the other FT-er hogs.  “Look what I did…” Pig.

Miss the rain.  Want it to come back and I want my little boy’s cold or sniffle set or whatever afflicts him to just bloody fly away.  Now he plays on the ground with a small colony of coins he took from me; everything, pennies nickels dimes even quarters.  He won’t give them back, “My money!” he reminds me.  This is what matters, him, my little Artists, and my students; that they’re pleased with my lessons and the ideas that I offer.

I need more coffee and more time to write, prep for tomorrow.  I know how tomorrow will be approached, just how, Mendo will be conducted slightly differently, meaning I will have my students there enjoy their session with even thicker pleasure entanglements both in idea and expression and the reading– and with Hemingway on the platter now.. we have only the fruitful ahead of us.  I’ll wake tomorrow morning, I’m hoping, when my mother-in-law does, before 5.  I’ve always admired that about her.  I’ll try to run tonight, just five miles, which means NO tasting today.  Nothing.  I’ll let the guests tell me how it tastes and what characters and notes they encounter in the wine.

Jackie continues to throw two footballs at me, one small, which he calls the baby, and the other which is ‘dada’.  He laughs and stresses about nothing, bothered by nothing, just enjoys his morning around me while I type and record whatever I can to make myself feel like a writer.  When Alice wakes I’ll go get us coffees and then come back to shower.  I’m realizing that the music in my life is everywhere and that’s where the truth and gems are.  Not in the routine and the documented and the official.

IDEA: write a short piece, three pages, and distribute to SRJC colleagues.. no selling, just promo, sharing, for Art’s love, Life– and I know what to do, what to write, about what.. that eval from that gudgeon full-timer only convinced me that I’m a writer, one who will by the pen his way, and won’t be in the adjunct role or anything stricture-bound or pinned by any document.  I’m on and in my own Beat.  No more being beaten.

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10/22/14

Quiet in this bottom floor hall.  Prep’d for rough draft workshop but the stomach ache I had last night/early morning, that nearly made me sick still shimmies a bit.  If after the second Mendo section I feel like this, I’ll leave straight for home, rest, and the run from last night also influences my standing today.  Hate feeling like this when I have to work with students– when I’m fiery and lively, I’m me, the sturdiest of me’s.  But now, I’m only half-character and I hate it.

whoso issue due in ten days.  So I need to edit.  Wanted a picture or some kind of image on the cover but it’s just “not in the budget” as they say.

Feel not me, and I hate it.  But I have to gather Self for students..  8:52, so I have a little time to meditate.  Not in the mood to write, either–  I should just go home now, rest, re-collect, maybe even take tomorrow.  If I leave here, Mendo, I won’t get paid as there’s no sick time accrued.  But there is at SRJC and the winery, so something to think about.  Again, if this feeling remains.  Hemingway would power through it.. I know I know.  But I’m not him.  I’m a different Literary shape, and speaking of.. what sources can I offer on Hem?  Didn’t have time to look last night with the Giant’s game and the Syrah I chose to sip.

12:56PM.  Out of classes, just finished meeting with student.  Now to SRJC.–  And a student stops by to see me.  Tired, even though I feel much better than I did this morning.  Definitely need coffee.  Not going to this oncampus café.  Too crowded and I don’t want all those voices around me.  Okay, I’m telling myself… two more draft workshops then I can rest, be home, sleep.. and I yawn as I type this, ready for some home, some motionlessness, just actual REST.

1:08.  How did time pass that fast?  Don’t want to write anymore.. leaving… thinking of Hemingway and him saying all around him was his.  At this point in my life I can only think as he does, my own lit mag started and a self-published novel right behind the inaugural issue.  Collecting the 500-word pieces for a possible other book (didn’t write one yesterday unfortunately but I will later, or try depending on how I feel or if I wake up or not..).  I can’t “fail” as a writer.  I just won’t allow it.  This is how I will make my tender eventually and the only way.  That crazy wedding planner that I blogged for years ago told me: “You need to focus on what it is you want to really do.” Or something like that.  Either way it stuck, loony as she was.  But I am Hemingway, Hemingway-ian, or -esque, and I will impose my writing presence wherever I am, and now on page and not just a bloody blog.

5PM.  Library, third floor, in corner with most beneficial view I’ve ever had in a sitting here.  Hear female students laughing somewhere to right, in the stacks.  The novel is done, I have written the last “new word” in it, just a couple minutes ago.  So if I add anything else it’ll be an older writing and the character will have it as something he stumbled across, upon, ran into or whatever.  Still need to do a 500-word piece for today, but I’m tiring.  I’ll write one tomorrow morning, early like Hemingway.  In fact, I’ll only write in 500-word standalone bursts tomorrow.  I should easily have three.  Right now I just need to meditate in this seat with the view across the street, at the Emeritus quad.  Ran into a student from Spring ’14, he was in the café where I bought this Dr. Pepper and he was reading War and Peace, which surprised me as he wasn’t the strongest student in that class, always sitting in the back and rarely volunteering a thought.

Can’t wait for the next class to be done.  I’m tired.  Feeling much better, yes, but tired.  I may go right–

Had to move.  Students of course chose to sit right behind me.  Now I’m on the third floor.  No view.  Only of books.  Which is fine.  The books I can see are on paintings, the Vatican, Art theory.. let’s see….. the “power of art”.. this can’t be coincidence.  In one of the sources I found on Hemingway, it stated he viewed his art, writing, as more of a job than anything.  And I now, only now at 35, am seeing the dire nature to what I want to do for a living.  So I need to write a 500-word piece now, now– NOW!

Now in Emeritus.  Somehow, some twinge of misluck, a former employee of the winery, Alec, stumbled into my safe quiet zone.  I won’t hide my annoyance on this page.  I was already forced to move now I’m made to be here in the conference room, but I suppose this is only a boon, as no students will be scouring these halls, and if they are it won’t be for me.

With the novel done, I’ll wait to start another.  I need to edit, I know, and I’ll start tonight, one page at a time and minimally!  I don’t want this to be antichaos I want it to be BEAT, and Cubist, and JAZZ.  Musical if you have my intention understood.  The exhaustion compiled in this day is now becoming visible, I can see it.  This last class, the 6PM, has to be casual, conversational.  The 3PM took a lot from me even though I was sipping the Sumatra blend– hot in its nightish movement and casings.  I’m starting to taste whatever I’ll eat when home and feel the comfort of those sheets, and imagine the next day as I fall asleep.

Just looked at the first page of the novel.  Not bad.  Definitely me, rushed and frantic and obsessed with coffee, but how can I write otherwise, you know?

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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

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

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