Posts Tagged With: Creative Writing

DAY 80: f 1/30/15

So today I’m deciding to make great in a myriad of ways, diversifying my approaches to all things writing. And teaching, of course. Already one cup in, 7:03, and the next is about to be cued. Ms. Alice said, “It’s your choice,” regarding my temperament today, and I agree. After dropping off the little Beat, I’ll come right back here, home, and remain here till late afternoon.. first, clean desk– or actually that’s second. FIRST, I’ll write, get to page three then break. Then finish that goddamn poem. Then clean and de-clutter. Run will be later in afternoon and shorter than yesterday’s 5, which I still very much feel. Have to send email to lady, another lady, different from yesterday.. then probably back to writing, getting out some 4000 kingly words, watch me. That’s what would make the day great, memorable and changing. Hook up printer, want to print today, surely. And now, I remember what one of my undergrad professors, Carla S, said about me, that ‘I’d be a boon to the students and their written and read developments, surely.” So why would I ever deviate, why did I? From anything not written, or bound into a book? Nevermind that, I keep my fingers typing before the second cup and watch Jack watch his beloved Mickey Mouse show. The house, with scattered items after a visit from his friend Addison, later last night. What else can I get done today? The checklist, that for everyday, which I rarely write down.. the main priority morsel, if nothing else, is to write, find pages on the floor, what I’ve written, my own scroll if you will. I love the blog but I woke this morning thinking I should be offgrid, silent, invisible for a day, not posting to the blog; not checking email and not going to any bloody social media sight; forwarding as a true writer! Marching in my manuscript’d moments. Watch me, watch me.. I’ll do it today and everyother day forward. The sun not yet out, and I’m typing with this speed, like I have a paper to do, that’s soon due, just like my students, I love this role and I want to study again– PhD fantasy? Going forward? Maybe! Maybe that’s why it happened, or it is, so I have a chance to do what I really want to, have always wanted to– thoughts of my colleague, Michael the Fulltimer, finishing his dissertation on Kerouac.. Ohio State? Thinking of studying, digging deeper into the text! For my students, yes, but for my life as well. True Life! Truth!

Quite a bit of cleaning and decluttering done, but I need more Room, more space– the Zen cloud seraphically resounding in my sphere.. have to finish that poem today, at some point. After reaching page 3 which I’m about to do. Can’t believe how much spare and loose and stray change was in the teaching bag. How did it all get there, randomly wandering like I do in meter and syllable, like Plath and Kerouac, and now my Beat and momentum change, last mocha sip. Shit! My Beat burdened by normality’s anesthesia, coaxing what, still don’t know. I should just make another cup downstairs– tempted to leave house to go for drive and get coffee with some of this change but I can’t, “I’m in Monsanto’s cabin,” I remind myself. There is no Starbux around here, in the Sur woods. I’ll stay here, in this chair which used to be Dad’s and grow, I finally know what it is, IT, precisely what I was written to do; Personhood and poise, purpose, no divine dote just my own story, one I wrote, was forced to write. So thanks, industry!

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Home, and finishing the [no edits]

rest of the Tribunal. A new start, a time to decide what it is I truly want to do. But I already know and I beam and glimmer in the presence of love; family, wine, writing, Literature.. the classes I teach, the students. Tomorrow, assured to be a challenging day, but it’s what I do, it’s who I am.. the teacher, the Literary soldier in front of the students, not letting a thing disrupt or sway me. Surprised how much coherence in character this red shows. And this is sold, where, Trader Joe’s? Definitely has a Zin zap to it, on the “finish” if you would, but maybe I’m misreading that. Maybe it’s Syrah, how should I know– Have to think about the morrow’s 1A– ‘Communication’, the consistency.. communicating ideas and moods and Morals.. remember, with me: MORAL PHILOSOPHY FOREVER! Dad would be proud, I know. So in communicating, we are demanded to write, to each other.. so, exercise: Literary Letter.. then, to the reading assignment… Mentions of Geography and memories associated, and money– “I dig life.” An appreciation of the Now.. the present and all in it, even if it’s turbulent. And as these characters ‘dig’ life, they dig themselves a hole. I can’t help but snicker at the significance with my own life. Sal and Dean are younger than me, yes, and I refuse to dig myself into any hole, whether shoal or abyssal . And how Dean calls “IT! IT!…we have no time now.” Precisely my feel after today, and I have support from Ms. Alice, and the students, both in 1A and 1B. Watch me tomorrow morning, watch me, watch the reaction, further confirmation that I’m where I’m supposed to be, doing what I really want to do, to quote… Like that character rocking in the piano seat, engaged and connected only to music, my music, the Beat that only I hear, that’s what it means to be ‘Beat’, or at least to me, now, today, after today… I breath in this hard chair, with its thin wood structure and posture, and I stare at my glass, empty, remembering I still have Dav’s most recent letter in the bag, my teaching bag, I haven’t read it yet– did I tell you I finally got it, the other day? Well I did. Amber still hasn’t responded, and I haven’t written my friend Lila in Idon’tknowhowlong. Life is moving, on, or past, and people I once cared for don’t care any more, they just pass.
The concept of ‘where’ I can only find fascinating, after today especially. Where we find ourselves and where we are and WHERE we want to be. Wishes and reality co-mingled for some reflective harmony, no? Where is more than a concepts, it’s a precept! It determines, it defines, it normalizes (if we let it). Today, one of the most filling and reverberant precepts I’ve ever encountered. My time for bed, near, and 12 hours from now I’ll be back here, writing, planning for 1B, and writing some more, so caffeinated that not even a police blockade could stop the writer. This is only the beginning. And I’m nearing page 5 for the day. Why not vent till then? But I don’t want to vent, not even a little bit, a smaller bit, no, I want to reel in positivity and expand in that fashion, and why not? I’ve been given a restart! Only cheerful in this day, with Alice and little Kerouac with me, here in this cozy condo. So, again, I win. And I always will. Haven’t felt this bomb of optimism since… huh. Not sure. Well, I am, but only few know the answer. I hope tomorrow gives me fog, to contribute to my Now’s myth, to lace my tale with a certain spell, one only found on this Sonoma side of the mountain. I’ll run after class, the 1B, tomorrow, thinking about all this, and laughing, as there’ll be no time noose for day next. Sovereign in the restart, the topic next… I miss the river, the Deschutes, riding my bike along that one bike path by Circle 10, or 11, when I was younger, with not these cares and stresses. But today I’m not stressing, or I’m not anymore. I’m reborn. Again, reconstituted and precise.

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Now I ready for bed, for another day in wine’s branching hue, and I have to run tomorrow night, even if only for 30 or so minutes. I feel ready for bed now, yes, but regretful I didn’t do more with day. But I had two great lectures this morning/afternoon! That’s what I’m truly meant to do! But I can’t. Again it comes back to the whole FT/adjunct maelstrom. That reaction from the 1B class when I offered that Road/Sur idea, the link, the thematic bridge and ricochet.. I’ve never heard that from one of my sections, in my near-10 years of instruction. Thursday, I need bombard them, all, each class, with poetry, insight, visions and ideas and notes! Be what I want! The Literary figure. Yes, one day I’d love to have my own wine label and maybe even winebar but I need the writing to flutter first.
My little Artist, upstairs in his bed, the most cozy and encompassing set of comfort I’ve ever seen. I thank and praise his mother, my novelized wife, Ms. Alice. Everything she does is a story, a set of pages. And how she does so, I’ll never know. I can only note like and idiot and watch, wish I was like her. And look at her! She doesn’t have to compromise, she doesn’t have to have a square job, she doesn’t pour.. NO! she teaches, her life is knowledge and educating children, something meaningful!
I have a little wine left, a bit of the common blend, whatever’s in there. Not sure I want to know what they really did to it. But I do want to wake early tomorrow, hope I do so I can finally transfer the notes I took today, and that’s all today’s been, fucking notes. I’ve had no elevation, no roar, no flex. I was deflated, a hobbling lizard down a Phoenix street in blazing sun, ready for death. 20 minutes till bed, and I have nothing now to note only that the garbage is full (right) and tomorrow…

…Upper right of this screen showing 9:58PM, so the day’s ending, and I feel like I haven’t done a thing but I have, I need to focus on the reaction of the 1B to that offering, and how they all spoke with each other and how they are so lively, as well as the 1A! And the 1A a 7AM-er. But we’re all concerted, cooperative.. isn’t that what education and LIFE invite?

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Home, with night’s cap, a

vocally full glass of my sister’s red cuvée.. the one I mentioned earlier. Get-together at Bob’s, nice and diverse and communicative, all about wine. Didn’t get too far into the vertical, but I did encounter three vintages: ’95, ’97, and ’01. I didn’t know something that reprising and drawn could come from the Sonoma Valley AVA. But I learned, and I grew from tasting the wines year to year and now I have more material for ‘Krystal Vision’.. oh how I want to write that novel before the Massamen piece; and I had a thought, a lovely scope, flash just now, my whole literary and novelized career rounded from the lives of my sister and I; she, Krystal, and me Mike Massamen, and there it is, family on page, a “family business” as they love to say in the wine world but many times it’s just bullshit. But with my MSS it’d be truth, so truthful. The red tonight, more settled, more serene, more mirroring to my preferences, and what else am I supposed to look for? I’m a consumer just like anyone else and I want to sip wines I like, no? The effects of the red are staring to catch me, and I didn’t sip that much at Bob’s house, and I didn’t have a glass as day’s end, today, but I’m slowing, I see, but I’m fighting, potently. No distractions, just prose and stories and the people coming into the tasting room to taste but also some of them for answers, answers to what?… Who knows, it’s wine, that’s what I repeat to myself, but for someone from Iowa or South Dakota, say, it’s more; it’s mythic, it’s Gregorian, palatable Pantheon. And it’s only wine, that’s what I repeat to myself but I live here, it’s my life and I do see myself slowing, I have to type faster like Kerouac before he submitted his ‘Road’ manuscript.. how did he do that drunk? I’m barely bent and I keep having to delete and retype. Driving around the property with Sophie today reminded me of the spell and liturgy of the the vineyard and the Naturalism surrounding the commercial, the transactions, the wine club signings and all the ‘goals’. What? This is Heaven! And we trivialize it! We bastardize it! We reduce it to campaigns and banners and billboards on 12, or 29, or 128.. frustrated with what I see and in love at the same time, wine.. dividing my diligence, so sip whence…
Bed, sleep, sounding more than musical at moment. I need to finish this glass so I can close this night, the chapter that is.. and the bar, not full today, no as much as yesterday, and not as much material, disappointing. And the wine’s done, there, done, now I can close the day. Staring at the empty glass, I think of myself on the Road and having to give a lecture the next day and how I should be in trot of going to bed at more regular hour, like now, 9:23. Why am I not in bed? Tomorrow morning I’ll try to get little Kerouac to school early then to Kenwood to write, maybe some of that hit-and-miss coffee they have in the container in the back by the breakfast burritos. But I need to stay in this barreled bind, in wine, at all times, but tomorrow nothing of such sway! I’ll be running, then the next morning to ‘Road’ with 1A, then to ‘Sur’ with 1B.. I see completely all that’s me… Need sleep. Singular speedy shift, then I skip…

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…she didn’t say a word.. I use this for writing

for momentum for my rebirth as it were. I’m alive this morning, more than I’ve ever been! All for my priority plate: POETRY, music, the prose that’s so beautifully confessional and that my wife an mother warn I shouldn’t put out there. I have to. Maybe not on the blog, okay, occasionally, yes, but I must be honest and aggressive with that Hemingway fire and truth otherwise I’m dead and my little boy has a coward as a father. While having a beer with Mary afterwork yesterday, she made me laugh, made me see humor, made me forget.. I wish I was as strong as her, not this sensitive Artist, but I’ll learn, I will… Plato say music is a universal law, that it is moral, that it’s about life, then today, I’m musical, my own genre, defying all formalism (like my grad school poetry professor), and everything saying I have to write this way, think like this, sing like this.. be careful, someone might read.. isn’t that the point? but okay, I become more covert, more cunning, more methodical, more predatory.. a stronger poet, prose carver… oh look at me go, high on caffeine like Kerouac on benzadrine.. I’m alive, and if you don’t approve of this style and intensity then it’s obvious you wish me dead. BEAT4EVER!!!

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Up from nap with cup of Verona

and the heater going. Alice came home to run with stroller to get the little Beat, and now I have to be awake when I’d rather nap but that doesn’t ever aid in completing manuscripts. Letting it cool.. I breathe, deeper than I usually do. There, I think I’m awake, and I sip, twice. First typed submissions handed in today. Already with stacks. But I won’t let it stress me. And tomorrow, back at the winery. Saw the man behind the counter at the Olivet winery and couldn’t help thinking, am I headed for another of these positions? Frightens and sickens me. I’m not the one to be pouring, why not sure how to word it, I’m just not. So what’s after the winery then? Writing, that’s all I want. Writing. And maybe SOME lecturing, speaking, but that’s it.. so how, how.. the equation again, how to solve it and get to the image. Break habits and routines that only circle.. do differently, everything. So, to start, this entry.. how is it different? It’s not. But I won’t have a drop of wine tonight, only the sparkling waters Alice bought. And the teaching, how much longer should I be expected to– Stop. These thoughts are too much in sameness, too predictable. I want to hike and run and be outside, should have toughened, gone with Alice, she only tried to encourage me to run with her and I should have, she was so sweet and I was so cranky being woken by opening door. Now my mood falls and I want to do nothing but sleep, spill out this goddamn coffee– but it’s too comforting coupled with the rattling heater and too delicious in its palate persistence. So there.. I’m here… Thinking of something significant and meaningful to say about something, even if it’s just me– but I think I did: I just want. to. write. Nothing else. But I have to fine myself and my “skills” and whatever other ingredients in my maddened story. This project, teaching my that I just have to set realistic markers for Self, and try even to pass them.. and singularity, singularity: in this room and in the OFF television, the quiet and the eventual, who will eventually be here with me, little Jack and Ms. Alice, my family, yes I am a father and husband but I want to be better, I want to scribble with more precision, I want to simply scribble more and not type so much but if I’m to have a vendable piece I need type. So I’m stuck, again, and this morning till now the heaviness combats my reasoning; quiet room for collection and jazz and just play, words in play, the playing of words and playing with usage– intricate, the thick and thin of it, I live in its pit, and then I’ll read, I’ll read.. read read sing perform. Where? Have to find one, then schedule that around my running, then schedule everything around between and about the classes, the two I accepted this semester. So where can I read, how can I turn this into a something of Art, something I can sell? I can’t solve the equation– the heater stops and I hope I don’t chill, I’ll keep with this coffee and hold onto the travel thoughts, the images I’m to see in Colorado, New York, Texas, New Orleans, when I’m back in my city (Paris). Mais quand? Quand? (But when? When?) This sounds more like a grievance of sorts and less planning, so I’ll stop. A to-do: go to store and get bread for dinner, to pair with that tortilla soup, lovely. But that means outside, to the market, just down the street (Safeway). Don’t want to be around all those people, disrupt this time, moment, here in the room with the humming fridge and my coffee which is nearly gone. How did that happen? Jackie’s toys everywhere, this is his territory, and I think of his saying “Play, Daddy, play!” Why can’t I? Why have become this sharpened 35 y/o? Change then, do stuff different, anything.. I’ll go to the market, take notes, observe and go into the smallest thing, the bread I’m to get to the beer section to the wines in that locked class cubby, to the people at the checkout, people working the checkout, what isles aren’t open and what items they have in those checkout zones to tempt you into spending more money. Couldn’t do that either, work at a register like that, have to listen to people complain and ask where things are (like I do so many times) to all the messes to clean to the coworkers that won’t shut up, that love gossip and slander more than their checks…
There, I think I’m up. Coffee done. And I’m about to launch into my evening’s remainder. Heater turns itself back on, good, maybe I’ll wait a couple to leave. This thousand word sitting, showing me I just have to keep writing, keep the thoughts motions in splendid singularity till something connects, like what, don’t know, but something will. 4:42, wine and winemaking on my mind, was most of the time I was at that Olivet estate watching the man behind the counter talk to the people there with their glasses eager for the next pour, next pour next… Not sure how much longer I can just go from day to day, whether as adjunct or pourer. Hate that goddamn tag, ‘pourer’. And if I act wrong, I’ll be poorer, right? No. I’m not living in fear, not at this age– Alarm goes off, the one I set against nap. Could use another cup, but I won’t, or not now anyway, maybe after I get the bread. Watch people, hear what they say.. I remember in grammar school, can’t pin a grade for this memory but it was at Arundel, the class watched a movie or documentary, some educational piece, on sounds, and these two kids went out and wrote down all the sounds they encountered, returned home and reported it to one of their mothers while she made lunch. So now I send myself out for everything: sounds, dialogue, images, people, temperature, light, motion, pages, stories.

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5:53AM: Not letting myself go back

into any kind of sleep after putting J in our bed. Can hear his little voice still, saying something to his mother, but poor Alice in her fatigue from the previous day doing a dozen or so errands with the little Artist says nothing back. The light, left, was on but I turn it off when I hear his voice, not sure if any of that emanation reaches eyes upstairs. So off. And I type as I sometimes do down here in the dark. Probably another busy day today, one tourists with their vouchers and locals just wanting something to do on their day off. My friend Michelle coming in yesterday, and I learning she has ties to old friends of mine from the box, and possibly opportunities new, but do I investigate? Do or would I take? Or do I adhere to my vision of this being my last ever job, in the wine industry or any other and “stick it out”, “hang in there” as Dad’s always advocated, hard decision and I’ll see what’s what but I don’t want any additional stress or processes at this point in my life, and I certainly don’t want to be one of the wine industry people on their own tour, or circuit, no I have to adhere, adhere, follow through, use the wine industry and where I am on that beautiful property for material, stories, yesterday me filling my little notebook with it timid remaining pages, logging everything people said, what I saw, what I thought I’d see for the day, and even just writing “day crazy it’s the wine” when it really started to get packed, around 2-3.
The espresso I had yesterday with my loft session was a bit much, making shake with discomfort, and although in the moment (upstairs in my wood chair and my equalled table) all was music, it later disrupted me in a way I haven’t before felt. And now I’m starting to think that caffeine when I write should be moderated, as so I can be more truthful, not have too much gall and fire when writing. And as it passes 6AM I contradict myself with a wish for coffee, it’s a part of me I realize but last sitting (Loft) there was delirium with it, again hard to explain but I know I didn’t take much pleasure with its waves. Now quiet upstairs and I monitor how fast and forceful I push these keys. Something different and drastic has to be done, or written rather, as I don’t have any horizon’d changes or invitation. I know, I tell myself, “Write your own.” Okay, but how… “The story will tell you.” Well what’s taking so long. Frustration, in bouts with patience, a new civil war of Self and can only observe, too divided for concertedness, but that’s my inner Nietzsche noting what I already know. Think of my son and what he should have in a father, what I had as a father growing up and how I see Dad now– Goddamn the immobility of this Now.. so change it, get in trouble, write to set the world on fire– D, the then-manager at AV Winery said to me, about one of his sons, “I love him to death but he’ll never set the world on fire.” I would all but die if I knew my parents thought that of me, and I’m quite sure they don’t. But then, do I think that of myself, or perhaps a better way of asking: “Do I EXPECT myself to set the world on fire? Do I see myself doing so? And why not just do it now?” Yes, good question, why wait for any opportunity, or topic to walk through the tasting room doors or that muddleheaded whip-waving manager to say the right words to put in my little notebook? Why not just light a couple matches now? I will I will… And watch the flames rise and gobble everything while I fly above what cinders result.
Hate that I didn’t write when home last night but that’s what the Story demanded, that I live for a bit, just be a lazy rather than type erratically as I now do. Oh, and the car, the Passat, so dirty but just enough character to motivate me to buy a new car, once the real writing money lands– all those visuals on the Restoration Hardware, or desks and couches and other specific stage attributes painting and image in my head of my office. Lisa and I kept looking through the website but I wasn’t there, I was in my office, imagining myself writing at one of those deep darkly-speaking surfaces, for me, to write, to escape into a small I-don’t-know-how-many square foot room, my office, to log every fascination and entertainment that even timidly slithers into and past my cognition. Like now, with the refrigerator humming I can type a little faster and more ferociously but I know it won’t last long, and the coffee.. I’ll need it… and how those who do read the blog DO notice my caffeinated connection. What if it were alcohol, like Kerouac or Joyce, or Carver? What if I DID have a “problem” with drinking? I bet my prose would be more volcanic, I’ll tell you, maybe even more marketable, but I can’t risk that, and I’m a runner so too much alch would put me under an ill spell, but I do wonder.. what if I was more like them, the masters?
Hate being behind in this project, I feel slow and fat and like a thick pot of gel that’s been spilled but doesn’t move. But I won’t allow that Nietzsche nod fumble around in my trot here, not this morning, no. This meditation is about … Not sure if it’s about anything specific but it entails me and having a better me for the little Artist, and Ms. Alice. Just had a thought, and I lost it–

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And tonight we ordered in from Monti’s..

me getting the flank and Alice getting that chicken, can’t remember how it’s prepared. And with the Queen’s order, I open a bottle of the ’10 Sophia’s Hillside Cuvée, Lancaster of course. Decided to keep that wine club as it’s the only one I have and I need to treat myself somewhere, and why not with wine. Right now I type with a glass so full of the CS/CF blend I’m intimidated, one side of me saying, “I have to drink all that?” But I have to remain in Beat mode tonight and think about the day and how nothing happened except the wonderful tour with the SRJC students, with the “professor” gifting me two bottles of Washington reds, one a Bordeaux and the other a ’12 Cab. And I think.. wine, wine.. what do I do with it, how many pictures of vineyards and full wine glasses can I take? It’s all repetition after too long, more redundancy that reiteration, right? The phone, with all those wine pictures, and for what? Would rather read Nate’s article again, the one I’m to post to the blog, about space issues and travel and exploration.. love his short curt venom paragraphs, with the antagonistically edged wit and humor. First sip of this glass, and I think of my time at Lancaster, when I’d cal it ‘AV Winery’, back in ’12, how they came to my rescue after the box executed me, set me up for a pretty failure by giving me that goddamn no-call list– or “non-buyer list” from P—-J—. Those bastards, but they let me go, they freed me, and I remember that walk to my car, feeling that promise that I haven’t felt since graduating grad school. Looking through these pictures in my ‘photolog’, I realize how against me time is but I write through the ripples of this Cab blend and I think abou tomorrow and today, what’s to be is the moment to present me, apparently. And I have to let the box go, what they did– was doing well there for a while but in recent weeks with all I’ve been feeling towards the winery and the industry I’ve been recalling what happened there, in those final days, how I have a Master’s degree– I’ve done all that I should have with college and jobs and being an eventual adult.. ughgk….. I have to let it go, I have to just write and release everything, focus on my students and this new semester and how the morning feels, before the 1A, it’s so off and odd, so early. I’m not used to that.
The tumbler Alice bought me; coffee, not so much an addiction but a mandatory verdict and determiner with my Art, my journal entries, and I’ll need it after this wine, but more that that it comforts, and my son associates me with it, “You have coffee, Dada?” Makes me laugh, makes me self-conscious (Asking myself ‘Am I addicted to caffeine, to these mandatory cups, or cups I think are mandatory?’), and meditative. I’m conflicted tonight, with this blend, with myself, and I sip again, feeling tired, feeling yesterday’s run, and feeling lifted with this new year. And with these classes, with my students– I hate calling them that, cuz if they’re my students then that makes me the allknowing almighty professor, and I’m not that, I’m not smart enough to be THAT.
Want to write a piece about the manager, the one who can’t let it go, even for a minute; always with frown on his face, so serious and so concentrated– Will write a sketch or stream of sketches about him– why can’t he let it go? The work? Why? For what? And while he’s walking out to the parking lot, to this car, he has to confront one of the employees, offer an idea, something that will change, as there needs to be change, and that’s his legacy, what he does at his life’s end, order order, command and delegate. Sick and sad, what I can say, profound pestilence, and I think he knows but he doesn’t know how to be any other way, he has to play that role– sick SICK! Management… I don’t care if it’s a “bump”, it’s sick, it’s minimal, and in the wine industry it’s no enlivening pay ascension at all, believe me. But he doesn’t care, he’ll always get his bonuses, we’re expected to just follow, run, jump, arrange and work. SICK! But what if you question? OH, you can’t!
Tomorrow I’ll write everything he says, everything.. for the book and for my edification and stipulations.. my students, they won’t have a coward for an English Instructor, or Professor, or whatever they call us– goddamn I’m so venomous tonight. And I love it! I’m lionhearted in these verdicts, these paragraphs that make me ME, or I think, and at my age I just have to type, no more thinking or meditating, just write & release. MY wine glass empty, and good, I need sleep, and I can’t wait for the coffee, honestly.
I’m ready for bed. And I’m ready for a vacation. I know, “Aren’t we all?” Yes, but like me, I don’t know. The winery, fulltime, then adjuncting… I mean, how many more days of this reality can I hold? I know, calm down, relax, just even yourself, focus inward, on the center, right? “Have some fun.” I’m trying, believe me. Would love to go to bed right now but I can’t.. I have the writer’s mind, that I always have to be writing, and I’m not in the TR so I’m not distracted by gossip or talk or any wandering tourist that wants to know everything about wine like there’s so much to be known. “Oh, I’m actually a sommelier…” “Oh, I’m a certified wine educator…” “And?” I want to ask. But I can’t. I have to be hospitable, I have to play, act, make sure that fawning boil-brained dewberry quakes contently. I shouldn’t care and I don’t, but I’m playing the game, playing him– look, I’m writing my thoughts sovereignly, posting them here, on this “blog”, and what?

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Singularity. Single topics.

A standalone idea; proud isolated and firm. Yes.. from now on. So now, this chair: wood, cheap, straight, stiff, not waivering. And certainly not comforting. I try to concentrate on the last of the ’10 I just poured, and the whole dilemma with theory and teaching and literature, but this chair won’t let me. It wants to be noticed, hurting the back, hips, and even knees (how does it do that?) Maybe it’s suggesting I work on my posture or look more attentive or just seem more professional, more sophisticated since I teach at the college level, but what is that? This is my house. And if I wanted to, I could toss this fucking thing in the trash if I wanted– but then I’d have its three siblings to deal with, and more than likely they’d hurt more, angry with me that I tossed the other seat into the parking lot bin, that large one with whoknowswhat in it. And I’m not convinced this is real wood, erecting this seat, this seating station for me, so maybe it inflict pain as means of being recognized. Yeah that could be. Or, it’s just a seat and I’m in a mood, maybe it’s trying to point that out, that I need to relax and not be so obsessive as a writer and turn it off once in a while. Yeah maybe… Another sip of the Cab and I still ache, buttocks to brain to bravado, I’m uneven, which is interesting as a seat is supposed to situate you, especially a writer, right? And, again, this is my house, my kitchen nook, and my evening– push it out of your head, I tell myself, this seat and what it’s made of.. it’s a bloody seat, wood maybe, cheap and barely edified. The Cabernet tells me that it’s not worth another word. But then I think, “Who are you to be talking?” And I also note, nearly say aloud (which would wake little Kerouac and make my wife think I’m loon’d), “What do you want me to talk about, you? You’re just WINE.” I sip the rest of it to shut it up. And refocus on the chair– I will say this, it doesn’t allow me to get distracted, by anything; by the TV my wife watches, by the day I have tomorrow at the winery doing all the usual nonsense, that I’ll be 36 in 14 days, 4 months… It forces me to focus, be linear which I’ve always thought was a detract, but no, I’m seeing, more clear, and that’s because I’m here in this straightened hard nominally copse cathedra. Oaky, not so much, just reminding me of a tree, one murdered for consumerism. In fact, all’s simplified and honed to my liking in this chair, and I’m not with any impair. I’ve waited 36 years nearly for this. Just wish I had more Cab, so it could see how nugatory it is correlated to the moment itself, where I write and what had me writing. And that’s this chair. Singularly.

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DAY 64: we 1/14/15

Up and so much on mind, with publishing and just putting everything out there which I’m still going to do, and getting J dressed and shaving and getting him out the door ontime. But I’m overthinking again, just as I did last night. My packed bag, on the chair, one of the wooden ones with the table in the nook. No laptop today, I’ll scribble in my car or in the loft.. and keep writing what people say, what DP says in that pointless meeting and– distracted by the desktop of this thing.. god I hate it. My notebooks, put in bag in a minute– “Jackie, time to get dressed, buddy.” I say, then “No I wa’ one minute…” he umbrellas, I can’t pull him from that ideology, waffles and Mickey Mouse first, my plan second, and I understand. 7:29, time to move…
His socks, shirt, pants on. He told me he didn’t like the pants that were put out for him, which is interesting as I was just thinking how nice they looked, when I was putting them on, he said “I want that pants,” pointing to a pair of jeans on the floor. I told a little whitish lie, saying “They don’t fit you, remember?” referring to a pair I put on the other day and found they were much too big. He bought was I sold and the trousers were quite secure. Now, we count time, not stressing over it and wanting as much typed in this project as I can.. I won’t bring the laptop, I won’t bring the laptop, I won’t– I tell myself. And I won’t, I’ll let it stay here and charge but the worry is there, that I won’t transfer the scribbles of today, like I didn’t day 43 or whatever it was. But today’s about mass sweeping change, remember? Don’t talk, just write.. think of all those words and thoughts you waste talking to people. Stay quiet, just scribble, and be quick with singular words, small sentences, and catalogued fragments. 24 hours from now, we’ll be in class, 50 mins in, reading the first passages of Road or engaged in some activity, or writing, something.
The workplace is such a joke, and I want that seen as one of my journaled consistencies.. and it has to be, by now.. standalones and my obsession with in and of them makes it easier to expose the follies of the clock, how in meetings so many new policies and standards and ways are decreed but never monitored properly or instituted fully. And all the drama, some of which I’ve commented on when talking to certain slanderers, and I shouldn’t have, I should have written it down (what I was thinking or then saying to that person). But I didn’t, I fanned flames. Not today, just walk away and write. Need another coffee, and I just noticed this thing isn’t charging– not plugged into wall. That’s helpful. Not I definitely can’t bring it, with only 44% power. Good. All for a reason, and the Story’s the reasoner.

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