Posts Tagged With: Creative Writing

Trucking

10:38AM, Jackie still sniffling.  Please and content with my decision to stay home.  Found a couple more targets for my articles, and I’m aiming high: SF Chron, New York Times, Washington Post– I’m thinking like a serious journalist, mimicking one, looking for stories and specifics.  Looking on P&W for flash fic mags now, as Jackie tries to overrun my attention, focus.. he jumps and sings and sniffles–

In Howarth Park.  Drove to Annadel, up Hoen, but was told by the lady at the booth that it costs $7 to park there.  I told her I was just hoping to park and write, do a little work.  “Sorry, yeah, it’s always seven dollars,” she said.  Fine, I thought.  Wrote a 1,000+ word piece this morning, a narrative essay on adjunct life (I swear this is the last one!), just edited it, and plan to send it to New Yorker, McSweeny’s, and maybe one other mag.  Want to write a short piece for the Chronicle, either on wine or running in the park here..  I’m thinking differently as a writer, and I think this return to Hemingway’s memoir is the wheel that rolled me into a more productive character.  And the more standalones I complete the more material I have for the next whoso issue.

Wine I’m opening tonight.  Don’t know.  Don’t want to plan.  Look upstairs?  OR, I could stop by Safeway or Whole Foods– definitely Whole Foods– and get a bottle.  Giants tonight could win everything, for the third time in my lifetime.  That’s all I want.  An even three.  So what would pair with this type of game, with this much riding, and with the reality that I’m playing hooky right now, Mom watching the little Artist– or actually standing guard as he naps.  I needed this day, time with Kerouac, this session in my car in the park, and the jazz, and this 3-shot mocha.  The weather, nothing to cite or critique.  It feels like a Sunday, or how they used to feel to me when I had them off.  Can’t remember when that was.  All around me people walking, mothers with their strollers, older couples strolling, and kids playing; wonder if they’re playing hooky too, or are from out of town, or there’s some in-service day at their school that left them with this freedom in the week’s median.

Jackie still asleep according to Mom.  I inhale the air let in from the lowered windows and realize the change about me as a writer and Human.  Stories, I need stories, and there’s one here somewhere in this park, from where I’m parked.  What can I see?  Not much now.  Where’d everyone go?  A lady far to the left, getting in her SUV after a run or walk.. she looks like a runner.  Tonight’s run needs to be monumental for me.  My story, training for a marathon, but there’s only so much running I can muster from my time at the moment given my schedule, and that commute to Ukiah.  I’ll “steal time”, if that’s possible.  Tonight’s run: 7 miles, and quick.  Thursday, another 7.  Saturday– oh I can’t.  Dinner with Blair, whom I’m sure will give me plenty of winemaking and harvest stories, which I need.

And why was I in such a rush to produce a standalone this morning?  Who cares, I did.  Yes, true, but I shouldn’t produce too many.  Stay connected to this journal and cook here; build here; log observations and captures here– lady walking in lot, on phone, pink shirt hold her hooded sweatshirt.  It’s warm but not too much.  Should I get out and walk around?  Need a restroom.  Forgot I had a cup at home before this outing.. coffee relentless antagonizing functioning.  Have to write through it.

I feel a piece coming tonight, from the wine I drink.  750 words or less, for a magazine I found.  And so what if I write for a mag, or have their guidelines guide me down a more pleasing and profitable line?  And again, why I’m only seeing this now, at 35, is past my comprehension’s net.  So…..

14% on laptop and I can only think of a bathroom break.  but the jazz tells me I have to finish the song.  I will I promise– but oh!  When will I get that bottle of wine?  Maybe I should leave now, go to Whole Foods and look around.  Yes.  Shop.  I feel a story, putting myself in the place of the consumer who has no industry ties, is just a consumer– that sounds more interesting and more like a story that an audience sizable would read.  But I have to target something.. so what…  Cab?  yes.  But with Pizza?  No.  How about a Pinot?  Already started writing my piece and I haven’t even left Howarth’s lot.

Should go.  Grandmother putting her grands in the Toyota sudan’s back seats.  She’s leaving.  I should too, honestly this time.

Home.  Got my wine from Whole Foods.  a ’12 Shug Carneros Pinot.  Normally I go for RR Pinots but I couldn’t find one.  And I’ve enjoyed Shug’s wines before so why not again, and paired with the SFG’s.  Strategy, if there is one:  My followed team and my followed varietal.  OH I know.. genius.

Lunch.  Just a snack.  Jackie seems to be feeling much better and quite rested from his 2-hour calm and still.  The microwave beeps, lets me know it’s ready and that I should eat and take a break from the typing and journaling and obsession over story and getting the story–

Later in day, don’t even want to specify time or relay what happened to the Giants.  Watching a movie, one Alice and I like, watched recently for the first time, sipping my night’s cap, this ’12 Shug Pinot, and I’m thinking about the Road and freedom, not being in that hallway downstairs, grading at the last minute.  Tomorrow morning, coffee, lots of coffee, and when home, whether the Giants win or lose, write about the wine I tonight sipped, the Pinot with a virile epistle to every note it billows.  This wine corners me pleasurably, deepens my waving quasar of curiosity.  Now I need another sip, imagine myself back to Burgundy with my family, in the basement of Louis Jadot, tasting from those barrels and spitting on the floor– well the others were I wasn’t.

So the dinner with Blair this weekend, needs to be material.  Yes he’s my friend, but it need hastily hasten prose, paragraphs, elliptically, with burning echo.  Wine, so many questions why I react the way I do to it, back and forth, love and hate and then a mirroring confusion that I can never centrifuge or de-amalgamate.  Have to be in bed soon.  This is the life of an BEAT adjunct.  And there’s so many of us.  And onto…..

Sleep.  But another sip of Shug’s Pinot first–

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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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And I

wasn’t up at 5AM, but I’m on the couch with the little Artist relaxing, watching him eat his waffle and watching him watch Cars 2, one of his favorite Pixar movies.  I’ve had one cup and I grind all teeth in knowing I didn’t wake at 5, AGAIN.  There’s always tomorrow, yes, but what happens if there’s not, what if…

Jackie not in the mood for leaving, me neither.  Saw I was paid from the winery, and of course it was remnants of their budget.  I swear that’s how they determine how we get paid; how much they have left over.

8:55AM.  In the Kenwood lot, nearly called in this morning as Jackie was coughing, sniffling.  It went away quick, just what he does sometimes after waking up, but I would have loved to spend the day with.  Had a breakfast sandwich and coffee ‘stead of the burrito and Dr. Pepper.  This coffee’s amazing I have to say.  Three more minutes in this journal then to my daily 500-word piece.  So frustrated with my inability to wake early– well I was up at 4-something, but I thought I would magically by some interdimensional grace wake when I targeted.  No.  Setting alarm from now on.  Thinking about running, changing for the running, changing my character altogether.  No wine, no beer, no up past 10.  All for the running.  And that marathon in Santa Cruz, I’m registering today, so I can see something, a deadline, approaching.  That’s what will motivate me, I’m sure– motivate me the way I need to be.

Just wrote a 500-word piece.  And I quite like it, “Honey Clock”, about finding a job and looking for a job and finding one that’s sweet, just for you!  This topic of the job and what it does to the character has always fascinate me, always, for as far back as my brain will barrel.  9:16, should leave, just to get a headstart on the reSERF room.  Just have to think tips, like I did yesterday.  And for lunch, Palooza, scribble upstairs in my new writing cove, or next, or safehouse– yeah, that’s what it is.  Now a French song comes on, I want to be back in Paris, on the river, in Ste Louis (sp?!), having a coffee as I am now, but just roaming, taking notes, travel and log and log the travel.  9:19.  Goddamnit!  This always…  Time, you monster!

11PM–  Tomorrow, I restart.  Everything.

Writing in nook.  8:49.  I’ll rush out of here in ten.  Mocha this morning, when I get it, the first in days.  Need more time, for everything.  And again this morning I woke early but fell back into dormancy, I blame the rain and its overconfident terrestrial rewarping.  Today should be crazy, and I have so much to do here– novel, whoso issue, letters to write to Dav, Lila, my new friends in New Orleans.. and someone else, can’t remember– oh, yes, Amber, my poetess friend with a beaming choir of poignant critique in each of her poems’ lines.  If only I could walk away today, from the clock.  Need coffee, more coffee.  My little notebook has been seeing quite a bit of action of late, and the new pieces I’ve been writing, the 500-word bursts.. showing me something about my Self as  a writer/journalist.

My days off, the writing retreat and recovery days, approaching.  4, 6, 7…  I’ll print, print, print.  Of course I’ll write but I’ll be printing pages to push into the streets and cafés– had a dream last night about open mic, about a band and the drummer drumming so hard that he broke his set, or the snare and the band couldn’t insist in their song any longer, not even a handful of measures into their track.  What this tells me I have no idea but now I just think about it over and over, the dimension of music and jazz and how much more of the plainness can I survive, the ordered checks, pay, clock, checklist, nonsense.  My beat as a writer, journalist, what?  Like that question, what’s your novel about?  Is it foul if I say “me”?  (10/25/14)

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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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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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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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