In adjunct cell. Done with syllabi composition. Just posted to teaching blog.. now, I’m headed to bookstore to get a new thesaurus and MLA handbook. Thinking of doing some Comp Book writing at Russian River. Never done that before. Not sure if I should as I have some things to do at home, concerning the writing, the chapbook. I’m up to 30 of the 35 Laws, written, finalized. A bit too quiet in here, but I need this, this collection, to be in this character.. the professor/writer.. more of a writer than academic, though, but I want to be here.. and I’d prefer be here a billion of any kind of measurement more than behind that bloody bar. So sick of the repetition. Honestly, I begin to feel sick hearing myself repeat the same words, over, over.. and about wine. Wine should be fun, right? Having dinner with Mom & Dad tonight, and that will be nice. Want to get beer now, yes, and I blame the weather. I remember watching one of the Kerouac documentaries and he described going to Mexico, having tacos and beer at some cantina, where the people were so welcoming and friendly, and smiling, and unfamiliar spot to him, which is much of what kept JK writing. And I need to be kept writing, so I’ll soon leave. But before I do, I’m rather proud of having such a nicely noted syllabus for my students this semester, coming. Maybe this will be the term that gets me out of the tasting room, away from that bloody industry, forever– Well, I don’t want to be away from it forever, I just don’t want it to be my full-time post. It bothers me when guests say that, after I tell them I teach at the college level.. “Oh so this is your part-time thing…” I have to respond, “No, I’m here full-time, I teach on my days off.” It just bothers me, I don’t know how else to put it, like there’s something wrong with me or something. Now I do need a beer. I’ll walk in with this Comp Book and capture everyone and everything I can, possibly even just list what greets me.
With the night’s cap. Tomorrow in tasting Room, but what if I called in? It’s something I’m entertaining, or at the very least leaving early, or pretending I’m sick then leaving to write. Don’t give me that reaction.. you know how many do the very same thing? First sip of my night’s cap, a Lagunitas ale, and I feel like I’m on the Road already.. and not as the broke Artist like my friend B—y. I’ll be comfortable.. and that’s it.. comfortable. I don’t need be clamored in cash. Just stability. Living by my pen I said in the other day’s entry that I’d do something or everything different in my day. And did I? No. All was the same. Shame. So tomorrow, I just MIGHT leave early. Yes, that’s right, actually do something for my Self. Not going to touch 1,000 words tonight, and I’m glad. I need to do more living, ‘cause as I do that, I’ll be writing more.
6/10/14. Timing, 10:15. Was on mountain, and with nothing for record. Another regular day. And how many more of those can a writer take? Sipping from a bottle of my own Merlot, and I remember the question the lady from south Jersey asked me, on the second tour: “So do you want to have your own wine label one day?” So again I’m brought to this boat.. the one sailing in wine’s straight.. and I have to say ‘yes’, eventually I do, much I criticize the business. Tomorrow morning, I promise early rise, on my last off day before the Summer session starts. Summer, such a funny concept, as so many view it as the season for detach, the loose, no contingencies. But me, the writer, working two jobs, finding way to a certain life, or total way, of life. I’m over-thinking, and maybe reaching a little with.. I don’t know.. thought itself. My wine, showing much more dominance of palate and overall grip, palate gallop. I’ll be honest with you, I hate that word, “palate”. So what else would I put here on the already-bullied page? I don’t know.. ‘receptor’, maybe? This has to be my own wine getting to me. Is the writer Self-girding? Hard to tell. I can’t tell anything tonight, certainly not a story.. but I thought yesterday, while running with Alice and Jack, that I should explore my curiosities–such as Astronomy, fishing, cooking, gardening and whatever else–through fiction, short flash pieces that would take me somewhere. One character I thought of, always going to a local observatory, logging his discoveries in a notebook, dreading the day those pages, each one, are full. My glass, in the kitchen. Wonder what it’s doing now, how it’s developing. My character, my own character, ME, needs readjustment, a certain atmospheric augmentation. And how is that achieved, for me.. I guess through writing, more, more… Time for bed soon, but not before I do a little research. What can be seen from Earth, tonight? The quiet, its own elevator, lowerer. Time, 10:39, and I will wake at the cruelest of hours, at a Barleycorn hour to just write, freely, and finish the MS that I’ve been touching for the past few months, and finally be done. I want to be seen a poet, and novelist, one not following any trends, or roads, but mine own.
6:38 the next morning, and little Kerouac went to sleep with his mama llama. Today’s my last day off till.. well, July 4th when I do the Kenwood race. I’ll quickly finalize and copy my syllabus, make some notes for the first lecture, then go write somewhere. Like where? Somewhere with a colony’s worth of coffee. Peet’s. Done. I also have to go into the winery, finally write those club letters– This is boring, what I’m noting. Need a different story. Hot down here, downstairs, and I sit on this couch shirtless, in boxers, no socks. Outside, cool-looking, with a thick gray sheet over the terrestrial. I hear Jack playing, making sounds from our room. What’s next in my story.. coffee, then a run around Spring Lake with Alice and Mr. Jack. And like that, I stop typing. I’m stuck, illy unmotivated to sentence. This doesn’t happen to us, right? So I skip over to another form.. my poems, the poem a day law, one of the 35, anything to destroy any semblance of predictability and/or pattern. The new experiences I need for my fiction aren’t getting here quick enough. So I shift gears, accelerate to what I want, what I want to see, from sailing to climbing mountains, or at least hiking them, to fishing again, studying space, math, history, the culinary, everything.. my curiosities will be explored and satisfied through fiction.
11:29AM. Back in the cell, finished with syllabus, now writing the first day’s lecture. More than in the writer/professor character. My living will be made from the pages I provide, and the teachings of Literature, theory, and plain ol’ thought. I am an academic, I guess, but I want to be seen as a writer, reader, thinking, Human.. not some putrid pedagogue. Have the jazz on, and Kerouac’s poems to my left. Want to be back home with Alice & Jackie by 3. So I have about 3.5 hrs. More than enough time to finish what I need to. And I don’t need these schools in order to lecture on Literature, how I see it, and how it invites openness, not rigid interpretation, response.. conveniently condensing some “curriculum” into a prescribed amount of months. Like that’s enough.. after these 18 or 19 weeks, you’ll get it! What a farce.