Posts Tagged With: Creative Writing

12/21/14

Only days left in year and I’m thinking of reshaping, redoing, but that’s not what I need do.  I should …..  I don’t know.  But I’m thinking.  Just know I’m thinking.  And the coffee helps.  How to get to my office, how leave the clock’s grip, that’s my plated query.  How did that Pulitzer Prize winning writer do it, decide on one project?  Do all writers struggle like this?  I feel like one of my students unable to fixate into a project or thesis or even brainstorming.  Now my wheels revolve angrily, centralize in their respective eruptions.  Rome, Paris, Portugal– Madrid.  Let me pack…

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DAY 39: Saturday 12/20/14

From a dream I can’t escape, more like nightmare, or visions nightmarish.  I’m up.  3:39AM.  And it was quite a chore putting this laptop and myself in writing position.  Can’t type as fast, don’t want to wake my queen or the little Artist.  Laptop was in bag and bag was in kitchen so I more than tiptoed in, grabbing the heavy bag off the chair with only two fingers, lightly pushing aside whatever clothing piece shared chair with it — I then walked down the short hall past the bathroom like a catburglar, sat on couch.  Remembering that this monster needed power, I reached far left a gently pulled at the cord, bringing it higher and higher toward the arm of the sofa.  And now I’m here, now, typing in total nightly roominess with only the fading drips of the thin metal gutter on that wall’s other side to accompany me.  So the dream, can’t remember all specifics but– well I can, I just don’t want to write them here, but I’m startled, so much so I’m here writing as I always wish I would.  Just not like this.  I feel ashamed and spooked and analytical, going over every part of the dream I can bounce back into and out of memory.

I’ve always written about and toyed with the idea of halting wine consumption (this includes beer, too) with finalized reason, and instantly.  Used to say it was to see how my character would change, but now it’s control I’m after, more control over ME and my character and I’m resolute in believing this would forward the writing in some electrical and storming way.  So in this day of my magically diarist hundred, I drop such gavel…  I guess what frustrates me would be the pressure around wine, like I HAVE to drink it since I’m ‘industry’.  How is this delineation sound?  It’s not, and this is much of my separatist point.

Quite enjoy this compositional hour, just wish the fridge would hum so I could have some noise shield or cover, buffer.  Need to keep a dream journal like Kerouac, so when I have visions like this I can capture them candidly and richly when they’re still more or less fresh.  Would love a cup of that medium roast right now, the only other scenic ingredient which would have this all in perfection’s palm.  I hate typing with one finger at a time like I’m now doing (except when I need a capital letter or some punctuation like that opening parenthesis mark, just above, and left, then I use two fingers, risking more noise and more indication that I’m up).  If I don’t go back into sleep I’ll be drained today, completely, and with the lingering visibility of this cough or cold, scratchy throat and some light congestion–  Just went up to put Jackie in our bed, he breaking my session, calling “daddy… my daddy!” Love how he depends on me, his mother for comfort and protection, the transport to our bed, me carrying him this time.  I try most times but he insists on his own sovereign march.  It’s been some weeks I think since the little Beat has come to our bed, Alice just saying to me “I miss this.” Jack has become quite independent and insistent with his sleeping consistencies, completely abandoning his “training bed”, part of the crib, and stationing in his mature mattress-grounded bed, on ground.  I envy his little cove, so comfortable with all his blankets and stuffed animals and fluffy characters, like a whirlwind of soft invite that promises sleep, and maybe that’s what I should do (I realize with the fridge coming on..and my typing a bit more diligent, loud): go sleep in his bed, which I’ve done before.  But I can’t.  That bloody dream and the horror of are still a swarm of stinging millipedes around my concentrating cortexes.  I’m doomed to be awake, that’s it, so I must make a manuscript from it.  No wine.. easy, and it’s about fucking time.  I’ve said I’d do this for reels of time, now, and I’m finally here, forced, by the dream and this early hour and the rattling annoyance in me toward the industry, how you can’t be too honest and ‘watch what you say, it’s a small industry’…  That’s fear, in that statement, looming, tactical ‘boo’s!’.  But I won’t get started with that empty swing of sensibility, I look right and see nothing, where I know the kitchen is, that fridge that lets me type quicker now, and the hall (hard right), down which I barely touched the ground like I was some soldier that infiltrated some enemy something.  4:12 now, and I can’t tell if little Madigan and Queen Alice are asleep.  Think they may be, as I don’t hear any turning up there, but who knows with this hour and with Jack’s little in-the-moment character developments.  Now I want sleep, yes, I need it, known, but this never happens and if I go back to sleep what if I’m brought back to that dream?  Goddamnit I can’t win in this session.  “You’re at over 800 words at not even 5 in the morning, no one else you know in the world has done that,” you’ll say, trying to calm and comfort me but I don’t want to hear it.  I want more money, more from this writing, and more from everything I do–  And that’s another aim in this wine sabbatical leave: moving faster, more control which I already said but also a consistency with my writing that I’ve never known.  This, this dark room and my types which have to slow and be much more stealth audibly once that fridge silences, is the first meditation of a new me, the New Mike I’ve wanted in this hundred day hunt.  Hunt.. for what?  Just that: a new me, one who writes and does nothing else — Just remembered, I have to back up all this work on this unreliable monster laptop to one of those easily misplace-able sticks, the memory nuggets that promise a similar comfort and safety and invitation to little Kerouac’s bed.  Do I feel completely comfortable having all my work, basically my Life’s work, rest on one of those ‘things’?  No.  The only area that would give me true comfort would be ink on a paper sheetset.

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Loft. 34 minutes maybe a little more

and I think of today so far, and standing out are the two cups of coffee I took from the 3rd floor and the cheese sampling in the back kitchen (our only kitchen).  Visited a couple of the wines, nothing riveting, and talked to Zach and his wife Katie on the crushpad.  Didn’t turn the lights on on up here, wanted and still want to see how the dark affects me.  Nice crowd in here, talking but not with too much invasiveness, and the rest of the day who knows.  Just deleted a sentence, shame, I need to keep typing like a real Beat and not regret a thing.  MY budget nearly done and thinking about ‘Mp’ all the time behind that bloody bar, even researching Ferlinghetti’s City Lights Books & Publishers.  The key is simplicity I again realizing and going big with small standalone pieces.  Steely Dan playing in the background and  I’m dristract by Time again, how I only have so much and what I do have is so/too quickly quelled in obligation.  So the next day will be the same, and the same and…  Love the dark up here.. wine, on mind, a wine bar, thinking of writing that 1,000 word piece on MY wine bar/shop, the idea, to form into something for my character and how she’d handle it.  Want to ask Katie but don’t want to be too obvious, what would that do but break my cover, totally crack it rending stale ineffective and moot.  Keep with my types, Kenwood, where I work and now break and break away from that goddamn clock–  Thought from the other day, before I forget: the architects sketching on pieces of scratch paper, actually solving a long-standing dilemma from their San Francisco office, they just used the backside of the menu paper, worked on what looked like one part of a commercial building or space, a 90’ angle, and then from there they were distracted by what bottles they wanted to purchase and what they’d have in the office, and what — Company started not too long ago, again, and only 24-26 members, small firm and wildly successful, just like my press; small to large and to that ‘large’ from the smaller pieces.  I have to get out, and I will by day 100, this is all about switching my Life to what I want for me and little Kerouac, and my queen Ms. Alice.. a house, property, the office, freedom, simplicity.. and it’s little Kerouac that really pushes me, fires further my fire.  No more orders or schedules or clocks, can you imagine?  Leaving the house whenever you want to or have to based on your project/s, their demands, and what you saw in that image of yourself, the defiance and the Autonomy, better than any bottle of wine.  One of the owners of that architecture firm had to stay behind in the office to meet his deadline, and one of the other owners that was present that day said he was upset he didn’t get to join their retreat.  Thought the dynamic was interesting and–  Did I tell you this already?  23 minutes.  Goddamn time.  When back I hope to taste a couple more wines in the tasting room and figure out what exactly my target or specialty wine is, or would be in the shop for my character.  Much I talk about owning a wine shop, I won’t, I don’t think.  Rather, I’ll confine it to page, I’ll confine everything to page and sell them.  Minimal overhead, as I want the majority of my stashes going to the house, the residence where little Kerouac and his future sibling will enjoy a backyard, build their thoughts and perceptions and form their own characters.  The dialogues downstairs become louder, more intent, I hear some people, I think Teddy being one of them (my bartending friend), is one of the participants–  Interrupted by Jeff’s wife, and I don’t mind, I actually learned from our brief interaction, about her needing a couple cases of Chardonnay and one of the neighboring wineries won’t sell directly to her and that winery’s distributor won’t return her calls.  Don’t understand why the industry has to be so complicated when it comes to getting wine to a location.  Where’s the formula, where’s the consistency and Humanness?  I’ll never understand that, why wine’s industry overthinks so much.  Oh.. have 16 minutes left, which gives me more than enough to edit.. tomorrow back at school, but just to collect those final papers.  Run in the morning, then finish whoso edits, then 1A collection then write for over 4 hours, in library, and I want more than just ‘progress’, I want my character definitively changes and I want to bask in the stressful energy from the students.. and I want to write in the Comp Book, just brainstorm freely and wildly, and on the 4th floor by the Kerouac books.  There will be a definition settled upon tomorrow, I can understand now, sitting here and my seated table in the loft’s darkness and I know what I’m doing, or I tell myself I do, just trusting that what I’m doing is what the story wants me to do– Thinking.  Noting.  Sharing.  Mp should be a nucleus of not only written engagement but thought aid to other writers and thinkers, teachers.

And I’m still.. focus on singulars.  Like.. the sample I tasted on the pad with Zach and Katie.. Cab blend, I’m guessing, and telling in its vocality and positioning.  But not what I say is distinct.  It wasn’t a poor wine, not at all, it just wasn’t a project that would set the globe ablaze, but I don’t think it’s meant to be, and they confirmed that: intended for the anytime sip.  But I’m distracted by wine and if I should make it and that shop idea.. what if I did?  And what if that became the family business, like Scooter & the Lighthouse?  Something to sew, unsew and re-sew on the way back to the overflow lot.  I should contact my sister I’m thinking now, afterall.  See what her thoughts are on what be, wine and wineshops and labels and Cab fads and anything.

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DAY 29: Tuesday 12/10/14

I should feel different this morning.  More excited or relieved or something, that this is the last Mendo day, the last drive up here, ever, ever…  But I’m laced in angst and anxiety, stressed– why?  What the hell is with me this morning?  Maybe it’s the 4-shot mocha, haven’t had one of those in some time.  And I feel like I failed with this Mendo assignment, in some regards.  But then I think I’m being too hard on myself so I don’t know, I don’t know.  But I’m here, on my last day, just stuffed the Dav letter and 500-word piece in an envelope I stole from the supply cabinet in the breakroom, or LUNCHROOM, as that one sourpussed adjunct snarled at me at the beginning of the term, the transaction going “Do you mind if I eat this here?” I said, referring to my salad — “It’s the lunchroom,” the twit replied.  I’d be miserable as well if this were my base as an part-time community college instructor.  Yes, I’m done.  On so many levels I don’t have time to produce a list.  Roll sheets printed, going to offer one last word of the day for the students, well as a quote, and I’m done.  When at SRJC I should have at least 2 hours of writing time.  There, today and tonight, I just plan on checking rough drafts, sticking around for 1-on-1’s if they want, then adjourning.  Semester done– so why am I in this misty swirl of an ebb and character pulse?  Need to do my budget, for ‘Mp’ and family and house savings.  Leaving me close to nothing.  But that’s fine, I don’t need anything other than books, pen and paper.  And in this new year I’m using this goddamn thing a lot less.  Writing, writing…  In fact, tomorrow at Palooza, in my loft office, writing will be doted in the parameters of the Comp Book.  Was thinking of something now I lost it– oh yes, the Comp Book.. where the hell is it?  There, found it, buried in bag.  Budget started, already I’m thinned.  Caffeine wearing, and I won’t drag as I did the other day, Monday, morning after Dad’s party, no not today.  I’m raising my mood and I should I’m free, free from this commute and this campus and the lack of centrality and now I have more time for me, ME, time to write and run and be with little Kerouac, my ever-artisanal son!

Need a quote for the day, but by whom?  Or FROM whom…  On way back, I’ll get a picture of that one vineyard in Hopland that I always glared at carefully driving south.  Think my phone’s charged, but if not I’ll charge my camera battery in the classroom, use that rather.  So quiet down here, this bottom floor, no one else.  No full-timers, or those constant adjuncts, nothing, just me and these words.. happenstance?  Who knows, but I’ll take it.  Ride home, already looking forward to it, or the ride to SRJC I mean, hours of writing on the Kerouac floor and I don’t care if students are around me I’ll stay there anyway, observe, immerse myself evermore in studentdom.  And the mood comes back–  What is going on with me, the entanglement, the roar of dull waves in an inner oceanic tilt.  I’ll write my way through it.  Asking myself the expected and trite hallmark card-ish question: “What did I learn from this assignment, up here in Mendo, from taking it to following through with it?” Hard to write, but not to take too much to the plate, and that all ends, anything that disgruntles you will eventually be extinguished.  And my expressive senses stand more solidified on this December 10th.  And here I am, realizing I never have to come here again, ever, if I don’t want to.  And that’s one thing adjuncts don’t realize, much of the power is with us, what we say ‘yes’ to and what we refuse.  We have the druthers, just as much as them.  True, they decide if we become full-time, but if I don’t want to take your dismal developmental section and whatever o’clock I don’t have to, and there’s nothing they can do.  Well, they could not hire me back for next semester, but I’ll live, I’ll always live, and as I said on Monday my focus is Life, MY Life and my family’s.  I’m a writer and I’ll write it all out, write myself away from commutes and campuses like this.  Up term’s close, I victor.  Now, for that quote…

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DAY 27: Monday 12/8/14 (first words, no edits)

And it starts, Mendo’s final week.  Not at all sad but moving a little slow from Dad’s celebration last night.  70.  He doesn’t look it.  At all.  I said last night when it was my turn to offer words on Mr. Madigan, “My best friend, my hero, my dad..” Words I stand by.  And everyone there, everyone with a deep tie to the family, even people from the Boulder Creek stage.  But this morning I think about Life and how short it is and how we need to have passion, we can’t be passive.  We need to go after whatever gives us life, real life not just existence and a bloody day-to-day.  I’m, the New Mike, a writer.  Even Dad said that the other day when we were getting in his truck and I called myself a beatnik.  He said, “You’re not a beatnik, beatniks don’t have jobs.” And he’s right, their philosophy does reject conventional employment, and I’d sight that Kerouac sketch or blurb I mentioned the other day as evidence, but I qualified myself and said “I’m a writer and an English Instructor.” He closed his door, gently rolled the keys into the catalyzing turn thing and said, “You’re a writer.” And that was it.  No qualifications, no adjustments in his wording, no surrounding adjective garnishment.  Just ‘you’re a writer’.  Coming from him that means everything and confirms what I already know yes but tells me I need, must, have to do it NOW.  Dad was a commercial airline captain, and he didn’t compromise.  And neither will I.  Done.

8:44.  Ready as I’ll ever be for this workshop today with the four classes, two campuses.  So badly wanted to remain in bed this morning.  Light rain on 101 but nothing that startled me till I hit a little standing water right before the North State Street exit.  This campus, so laughable.. and it’s too bad, considering how lovely it is with the radiating greens and intimidating mountains behind the the building and how energetic some of the students are.  Could be my attitude and I will admit to my bitterness to a degree and how this semester, one I never should have elected with its four sections over two campuses, has beaten me.  But I remain, forward and confident.  Nearly forgot about the Dav letter but I won’t.  Would print it now but I’m to head to the room early to set up and be ready for any questions, lack of preparedness, or nonattenders.  Hear a full-timer getting in his office, or hers.  Not sure who it is and I don’t care so I won’t look.  Shit.. forgot my power cord at home office, under desk.  So I’ll be writing pen-to-paper later.  Good it’s better for me.  Went in to get a paper towel from lunch room if that’s what you’d call it and saw the full-timer, woman, I said ‘good morning’ she replied same but barely with life energy or eye contact.  That could be from her ivory tower disposition as one tenured or on track or semester exhaustion like me.  Don’t care.  Done.

Would give anything to have a nap right now, any level of rest.  Didn’t finish my coffee so already I crash, I should have drank the whole goddamn cup but didn’t I had to focus on the drive, the drive that I looked so very heartily forward to before Fall ’14 began equating the 101 to Kerouac’s notion of the Road and how the Road is Life but now I just fiercely deplore it.  It, 101 North to Ukiah, or as I call it ‘kookiah’, represents a commute, the adjunct struggle and pain and minimization; what They do to Us.  No more.  My Dad didn’t deal with such boxing and confinement and I won’t either.  After Wednesday, I’m out, I’m free, no pain about me.

Jack coming home today from his Monterey abuelos’ casa.  Can’t wait to see the little Artist and hear all the new sentences he has prepared.  And I most plumingly look forward to tomorrow morning, when he and I can spend some time together; me taking him to school, walking him to his classroom and him turning to me saying “Go to work!”

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thousand words from today’s 3 pages…

Writing retreat in reverse, the kind I need honestly.  No wine distractions.  Listening to those chilled “wine bar beats” that I used to on the lunches I’d take working at the box, crossing the street to the Roasting Co, but it’s distracting, this music set, I feel unfamiliar.  So, remedy: jazz.  Ah…  There.  This morning is about getting closer to New Mike.  Have to budget for the new printer and the gifts I want to get Alice, Jack, Mom & Dad, my little sister.  This desk and its clutter, not “getting to me” today, at all.  Even the filthy laundry room here in the complex; dusty, gray, unsettling, I’m always in a rush to leave it, but when so I drag one of our clothing articles unintentionally across the interior vent or whatever it’s called and get some of that lint shit on the piece, be it a sock a shirt, one of little Kerouac’s blankets or what.  I hate that room and it’s always the sun in my motivating spirit; sending ires of fire and explosive forwards into my prose.  In my head writing in there this morning, just before Alice left, telling myself I’m going to put more money into the house fund, a huge part of this New Mike, and what a problem pummeled away: getting my family out of here.  Oh this jazz, this retreat, just what the writer needs.  Still very much feel the run last night, on that blasted belt.  But I have enough in me this morning for a jaunt, I don’t know about the 13.1 I intended, but certainly something meaningful.  Need to get rid of– sell or give away– some of the books in the closet, make a section designated for my Kerouac research and exploration.. hate that term, “research”, so clinical.  ‘Exploration’ I much prefer.  I can’t get over how renewing this feels, how Transcendental, being up this early (current: 6:15AM), jazz and my coffee and these words, which are begining to bore me in their usualness.  Don’t want to just regurgitate a thesaurus’ innards, but I need more in my arsenal, in my salvo and cache.  This goddamn closet–  Finally spoke to Katie’s wine compatriot at SSU, yesterday.  Interesting opportunities but it’d take from the writing, and it’s just another form of the adjunct cell they keep us in.  Can I make it work for me?  I don;t know.  She did mention and interesting idea, this lady, Liz, and it involved writing press released for wine, new wines and releases.. but to construct a whole semester of such, that’d be a stretch from me and it’d take a tremendous momentum from the writing and the Kerouac reading and me as an Artist.  And at this age, I can’t I’m afraid.. I’ll email her and mention some ideas, but kind and passively apologize that I simply can’t at this point.  I will be grounded and consumed, incarcerated by my Literature, my Beat.

After this page I begin my clean, the one I intended to do that night Alice was away but became too relaxed and lazy with that Lagunitas Ale (only one bottle, remember) and a touch of my Merlot.  This morning, it’s a cup-after-cup approach, not to exceed three.  If I developed an immunity to coffee I’d be devastated, but I’ll impugn that feasibility with the staunch conviction that coffee’s my entrenched ally in this marathon writing of mine to free me from the clock, from the blood job notion.  Was reading a piece in ‘Atop/Underwood‘ where JK talks about having a job and how his aversion to the job expectation pushes him.  That’s me, especially this morning.  Approaching this page’s lowest tier, so I have to start my de-clutter, if I don’t now I’ll never do it, I know me and my tendencies, ones that will always frustrate me.  My first cup, just deceased.  Second already in cue downstairs, but I’ll hold for now.  If the first sign of lethargia show in the next halfhour, then I’ll fly downstairs for my caffeinated aid.

7:02, done with desk for the most part– next I take the roaming writings as I call them, scattered sheets and notes and expressions forgotten till now and I’ll put them in this containing holding the Eng 5 Spring ’14 papers.  Then I was thinking of getting ready for my run, just get it out of the way, maybe a 10k in the spirit of next Saturday’s race.  Something.  Then when back home, coffee, shower, or shower then coffee, or make the coffee put it on bathroom counter so I can sip right when I get out.  Reiving today of massive material.  Legs weak now that I analyze, and think about what this structure, this aging frame is saying to me at the moment.. can’t remember how cold it was outside when I tended to the laundry.  But I’m sure a bit brisk, maybe a little bit.  So I should wait to run, right?  The story tells me now that I need more coffee– looking at all collected in the closet and all that I have to now throw away that I should have thrown away months ago, sickening.  Why do we collect so much.. shit.. stuff, this evil clutter!

7:29, back from a break and I reason to forget about de-clutter for a bit and just write.  Was going to skip out on run but I can, I have to run, as running is writing and I want to smell the wet pavement and the richness of what soil and dirt even mud surround the streets I choose.  thinking I’ll do my old “big daddy” run as I called it.  After I finish this second cup.  Shouldn’t have brewed it but I noticed myself getting tired.  And if I feel a crash coming whilst in stomp, I’ll slow, and just enjoy my run– “Just forget the numbers, and just enjoy your run..” as I chant to myself many times between leg reaches.  Have to be at Mom and Dad’s in just under 5 hours– (12/5/14)

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excerpt from 12/3/14 (3 pages project), no edits

…a slight suspension in the drenching inundation up here.  And…  A student.  He leaves after telling me he wants my help but he first needs to go to the Chase bank in town for something.  Why couldn’t he meet with me then go?  I didn’t ask.  At this point in the semester, I expect more.  From everyone.  And the room goes back to its empty.

12:04.  Class empty.  More than last time showed for the meeting.  Was just thinking of how I’d assess myself for the semester, I mean MY performance.  I think a low ‘B’.  I didn’t have as lively a consistency of lectures from beginning to end, which I know is hard to do but it’s still the expectation I wrap myself in.  Next term, the first semester of this New Mike vowed to deliver a delicious and confident contrast.  And I’m realizing now that Mendo is essentially done.  We’ll have the rough draft workshop on Monday, hand-in Wednesday, then close.  And I can’t wait.  I need a break.

We all do.

And more coffee.  That’ll be the first thing I do when at the JC campus.  Not that you needed to know that.  But I need coffee.  I always need coffee.  Much more than wine or beer, so much more.  That poison only slows the writer as I’ve said and as example it felt resplendent yesterday to be in my loft and sip my coffee, listen to the conversations downstairs and the overall activity of the pub.  All the stories in there, of how it came to and the people that bring their stories inside; why they frequent Palooza to why they’re craving a burger in that moment to why they live where they do.  That all walks through the front door with them.  I look around this room in its plain colored, mostly blue and gray, dullness and think “What the hell am I still doing here?” I can leave.  So why don’t I?  Good question.  I’m starving, though, I will say.  What can I get and where?  Would love one of those breakfast sandwiches that Starbucks makes, that egg and sausage one I’ve had before.

Yes, I’m deciding it’s time to leave as I see hear and want nothing here.  I’m gone and done.  To the car, to the rain, to denying death on 101 south…

2:18PM in the adjunct cell, SRJC and I just finished “grading” a bunch of longer responses.  Those who show today get their grade and those not are informed Monday.  Even more now I’m motivated to leave everything, wine and teaching, for the writing; hearing these full-timers talk about how their students aren’t doing this and they don’t get that and more and more grievances on how their writing is so atrocious that it shouldn’t even be graded.. “And I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know how he placed in 1A,” I just heard one of the say, while I was carrying this bag and coffee and blueberry muffin to the cell.  And now I’m here,..

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3 pages excerpt (11/29/14– no edits)

Still waking up.  Think the coffee may be a bit stronger that I’m expecting, or my body’s expecting.  Sip the next cup slow, much slower.  And the rain, nothing.. not a drop I hear.  I’m sure it’ll pick up later, but I need it now to convince me.  Of what, “Convince you?” Yes.  That today will be part of the story that needs to be read and that tonight will produce more material than last.  That I can write whatever I want and I can’t ask what I’ll write today as the story hasn’t started.  So in that case, in that respect I mean, I’m a follower, just walking just behind or alongside the day itself.  Need a café.  OR, I need more so a day off to enjoy the café.  Four more sessions for Mendo, counting final.  Five for JC, counting last day, handing in final paper.  I did it.  But as Dav predicted, I’m “burnt out”.  Not doing that again ever, ever.  Well, as long as I’m near 40 hours, and sometimes over, at the winery.  Glad I had the good sense to get shaving cream last night on the way home.  Not in the mood to go outside now, not yet.  upping volume on jazz, there I’m waking, and the coffee lands on my CNS to liven me and my character and I won’t stop in my types, not this morning or ever.  And I won’t be stopped or distracted or slowed, just the way I am when running.  I never stop till I reach time or mileage, like my 10.5 miler on .. when?  Oh, Thanksgiving.  Can’t believe that’s over, already, time just flying by like pilots avoiding a storm; and time’s avoiding me, avoiding my want to appreciate the story more, no it just moves.  Another cup…

Of course my luck, having to fill that water tower (think that’s what it’s called), costing more time and more of the morning so I run to catch up, like when you have to stop your run around Spring Lake or wherever ‘cause you see you lace undoing.  You don’t want to stop but you have to, and I did, and I’m back.  Full cup need to let cool so I listen to the jazz and relax into this cushion as my son does.  “I’m cozy,” he now often relays.  As am I, Jackie, and I still rejoice that I didn’t have more wine than I did last night.  In fact, recalculating, I only had a beer and some of my Merlot that I opened night before last.  Any effect left by my sips is long away, precipitating a lively Mike, one I like/love, one my son and wife would be proud of here writing and thinking of ways to get us out of this condo and into a nice home, giving Jackie a little backyard and Alice and I a study or office of some kind.  She needs one just as much as I do, probably more given she’s a full-time teacher, always lessonplanning and arranging her activities for students in certain ways (if that’s how I should phrase).. I’ve always praised Alice’s staunchness with her teaching ambitions, never having to pour wine in a tasting room or get some second job.. study that, study that I tell myself.  And I am.  I have been, but I don’t know what precisely to conclude.  Well, one thing: do something specific everyday to get you to where you truly see yourself.. that vision, remember?  But I look on the CCC and no full-time professor jobs.  Shit!  So what else.. lecture independently, speak on Beat ideology and Buddhist principles, my understanding and research on Zen.. Kerouc & Hem, then by extension Emerson and Thoreau, then a bit of Plath (introspection)–  You know what, I should write this down on paper, in the teaching Comp Book, but don’t go past 5 focus authors, king obviously being Kerouac.. was thinking David Eggers but I don’t know his work well enough shamefully.  I’ll post to the teaching blog before jumping in the shower– shit, if I have enough time.  It’s already 7:40.  IS that sun?  See?  If the weatherbums can have a job doing what they’re doing then I can to.  I’m much stronger and apt and respectable a writer than they are doing.. whatever it is they do.  Which in my opinion is a mine of nothing.

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note:

another day of three pages. Thanksgiving with family. Semester end, can’t wait. I’m beat, beaten, beaten down till I can only sing. Nightcap then sleep, I need sleep if tomorrow’s meant to be the “black friday” they say. I don’t want to capitalize because of the energy I’d have to spend, allocate, now the run’s getting to me. Could use some of that turkey I took from Katie’s house, on that role, one of them, with the spicy mustard Alice bought me the other day. Why, why do I have to work tomorrow, it’s supposed to rain, and I only want to write, scribble, notes and vignettes, just obscure words, one I found tonight: raduliform. IS that a word or is my source conning me? Teaching, such a funny thing, or it’s funny to me anyway, how we’re expected to assign a certain number of assignments and conform and fit into a word count, one stipulated by the department or the board, some “board” or something. I hate them all, the powers, whatever be. This, this moment and couch and pillow at my right, I could use them, I might, it’s that kind of night. I’m in need of another run, and I could do it, I’m bored, I want to test my Self. Sleep sounds and appears amazing when I think of it. The Merlot, just one sip, appearing a bit oxygen-clawed. Why? See, I’d never be successful as a winemaker, so why do I think of doing it again, really– Tomorrow night needs to be productive and not how supervisors say you need to be, but something unique and renowned, somehow. Like Poe and how he thought of his bride, abide, ride, and I’ll write tomorrow night till I can’t and not at all hide. I’ll make it a ‘mine’ and a ‘my’.

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Winding down from a sixth day of 3 pages.

That means 94 more.  Thinking like I always do about what I want from my professional life, and I mean complete idealism is what I’m entertaining on this couch.  No wine tonight, I need the thoughts clearer than they’ve been.  French.. I need to get back to my French studies, and completely immerse myself in the language.  That’s one thing.  Another, I want to have another writing session in that second floor of Palooza tomorrow.  And talk to Jeff, see what he has planned in the way of events.  How do you build a business like that without hitting a wall?  Have to write it out, think, and talk to him.  Tired.  And more grading to do tomorrow.  This, note, will be the last time in my life I’m in this position.  And the cold or whatever’s about me, remaining; sore throat, slight sniffle, and tired.  But tomorrow I’ll be renewed.  And writing.  And upstairs I’m walking ready for new day but also needing rest.  Conflicted not so much as I’m eager, eager for Newness and for a new book, and for December, days of no class and more runs, running during daylight and not on a treadmill as I now HAVE to do.

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