Posts Tagged With: Creative Writing

4/21–  Especially tired today.  Onto 3-shot mocha, had 4 this morning.  Quick meeting planned with ‘100’ students.  Sending them to library…  Need nap before Fountaingrove hills.  Presently in Adjunct cell.. sipping this espresso, but cautiously.  I’m starting to wake, and quicker than my mind can process, decode.

Still surprised I wrote 3,000 yesterday.  Days off yield the unexpected, often, even though I don’t have them that often.

12:35PM.  In library.  Students looking for topics, researching.  I’m on the fourth floor, trying to keep Self motivated, awake.. difficult to clearly think.  Week 15 we’re in, and I’m ready for break, a break, of any length.  What the author could really use: a nap.  All the students around me, motivated by deadlines, thinking of my deadlines.. don’t want to be dead before reaching.  And I remember what I looked for when I would research.. which was–  Too long ago, once in graduate school.  And here I am, exiled in the library.  Hungry, but ignoring those impulses.  Hear students laugh from one of the group study rooms to my left.  The novel, my novel… under some type of construction.  So tempted to rise from this chair, leave, go get something to eat, take my nap.  But what if I didn’t?  What if I actually practiced what I preach; “Stay in the chair,” I’ve always told them.  I mean how else will the novel finish?

Around me, quiet, concentration, panic with the semester closing.. all these students facing their last days in this semester’s story..  Asking reference desks where books are, ‘where can I find, where can I find…’  There’s Life in here, pursuit of what one wants from Life..  You can build your Self here, in a/this library, in any library.  But I’m here, wanting to be a student again, but I don’t want to spend all the time, money, in some institutionalized program, where I have a questionably competent professor.  Am I talking reinvention?  Maybe a little, but more of a simplification, separation.  A “new era” for me, indeed.  One of the page, constant typing, writing…

Those students in the study room, doing anything but study.  Just laughs. “We were just talking about how tan you are,” just heard one of the boys say to the returning girl, back from restroom visit.

Kerouac, the poet (not my son) in thoughts.. thinking he may be my new focus, maybe something to read with students in coming terms.. ‘On the Road’.  I so very much want to be on the road, just for a week at a time.  Here and there.  Travel, Life, seeing, observing, recording.  The stationary day sets will not be permitted in this “new era”.  My ‘new era’ embodies rebellion, defiance of convention…  POETRY…  BOOKS…  revolutionizing the Self-printing platform and plight.  Publishers, I’m knowing now more than I ever have, are wildly evil.  And they can be defeated by Us, small presses.  And my journals will be the starting salvo in this period of my Life.  What in here I look for.. affirmation, not from outside sources or articles, necessarily, but some kind of lens that assures me what I’m doing is needed.  8 days, one month, till 35.  THIRTY.  FIVE.  Time, easily my greatest enemy, but it too will suffer tremendous setbacks in this “new era”.  Hate that wording.. meant to be so profound, emphatic, when really it’s hyperbole– flabby and false.  Allow me to hold, “Illustrating and cementing chapter”.  And it’s been in motion for some time, as I’m tired of regularity, expectation set upon my character without my permission, or any sort of negotiation.  Who do you think you are, fool, devil?

1:13PM.  Wrote a poem, one easily destined for reading, recital.  Think I’ll submit it tonight just for laughs.  The poem is meant to capture me, in this library, my moments in this place that’s supposed to be quiet.  But now that I’ve finished my criticism, I’m glad, quite pleased actually, that it’s anything but quiet.  Talked mySelf out of the exhaustion I felt before ‘100’ and much of my presence here.  Ready for lunch, some sustenance.  And I think I’ll submit the poem right now, here from this fourth floor.  The volume has declined, and I’m in better mind, finally.

Not submitting from here.  Have to set up some account with an online submission manager and that could take a little time, so I should leave, go home, enjoy lunch and a nap.  Then, ready Self for run up hills.  Yesterday’s jog, or walk/jog, through Annadel/Spring Lake was so fruitful for my thinking.  Need to enjoy that same course more frequently.  And now, I make the leave.  Should count Self-publishing funds once home.  I know I’m over $300, which I said I wouldn’t do.  So I’m stopping, sealing the envelope, and not digging it up till I have my MS printed, ready to truly publish.  I’ve been in this circle for years, I was reminded last night reading entries from years ago.  But in these new chapters, it stops.  And I finally can begin.

8:14PM…  As tired as I was all day today, and after the broken nap I took once home, I can’t believe how well I did with that Fountaingrove run today.  No intervals this time, but a 2.25 out then back.  So 4.5 total miles.  I’m pleased, and that’s all that matters.  I still very much plan on sending off the poem I wrote today in the library, and I begin a new log of my submissions.  Sipping a Little Sumpin’, as I always am anymore when it comes to beer.  I’ll open one of my wines for dinner pairing, but I need to stay alert, sharp in this ‘new era’ of MINE– like the beat generation; rebelling, confronting conformity at it stands so bold, sure of itself, convinced it’s so witty and invincible.  And I start with this poetry collection.  One title I thought of, while running up one of the first hills, was ‘Oblong Ode’.  But anymore, I’m beginning to have an aversion to alliteration.  And how poetic is it, really, in its obvious commercialized slouch?

Sipping my Merlot, so very re-laced.  My story tonight, about the moment I’m in, as will be all my work in this new stupid era.  I’m in a new character’s suit, and it feels lovely.  That would be the reason this writer still sips.  I won’t be in my late fifties, or sixties, just celebrating the publishing of a book-length work, a novel.  Why, ask you.. as I publish my Self.  I only need approval from myself.  And I’m not like all other Self-printed penners..  I’m fanatical, extremist, militant.  Publishers kill writing, except when the publisher is a writer, and his only Artist is himSelf.

The re-inventive chapters begin.. tonight, and tomorrow.

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Was in a mood, but now I’m out. Sipping one of the Lagunitas Ales, then bed. Want to wake early. Could have started writing early this morning, around 4:40-something, when Jackie woke, but I elected more sleep. Shame, but I was set on writing in that small Annadel lot.

Nothing to report today, from res’ room. Not a single bite of gratuity, but I don’t expect much from club members, or new club members like the last visitor set. So divorced from the industry, it’s funny. Should be posting to teaching blog tonight, but I’m too tired. Bottom line: English 5 Final: a creative piece illustrating their change as a character; highlighting growth, evolution, discovery. ‘100’: A paper on Gatsby, on why it’s so relevant today, or any other direction they wish to take it in.

Could I teach Poe for ‘100’, over the summer? No. It’s too much. And I don’t want to soil my joy with Poe in such a rushed, confrontational corner, which is just what a summer ‘100’ is.

Wrote a short piece of fiction today, in my little notebook. Won’t type it now, but I will tomorrow morning, should I wake early enough. Objects… The umbrellas on the front patio, at winery; always afraid there’re bats hiding in them, and that they’ll fly out right before or after opening; the ’13 SB.. could sip it all day, and would by a pool in Miami– My sister, about to go on a torrential road trip.. need to tell her to write me, give me details for C——’s sake.

I’ve decided to drop the New Yorker aim. Just going to publish Self.. this will be, as well, part of my acclaim, or appeal, distinguished dent as a writer. And this beer loses its glimmer. Time for sleep. Hoping the Craft lets me wake at the Hemingway hour. For more poems– CHALLENGE TO SELF: 3 standalone poems. IF I do wake that early.

(4/17/14, 9:52PM)

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Spring 2014, novel notes…

9:12AM. Leaving in 13 minutes. Now 12. Still quite under the weather. In Kenwood lot, right to left of dead tree. All I can think about it poetry, my novel this semester, Monday’s lectures. All else: destructive obstruction. Even– no, ESPECIALLY– wine. Didn’t have a single glass, last night. Just finished 2 poems for first book. Thinking of Poe, his short stories, how they ripple in the reader’s vision, memory. And how they are all centered in images. And these images, what I need to dissect. Not just for the next time I lecture in his works, but for my own advance. And then, right here, I feel blocked. I blame this bug. My body does fight it away quite successfully, but I’m tired, even as I progress into this mocha. I’ll brew mySelf a cup when on the estate, see if that helps. There’s a house in the hills, just up, right, obstructed by a single very sizable tree. What a silent writing spot that would be for me. I have the $400 to start my label/publishing house. So no more stashed away. NOW, to save for a house, viciously put money away for family. 9:18, leaving in two. Hope so very much they send me home. So I can fully recover, and WRITE, PRINT. I watched a short film on a poetry program outside of CA. All the students in this grad program had either hand-scribbled sheets in front of them, or something typed. Something to TOUCH. Not some bloody screen at which you’re meant to stare, become still, more-or-less dead. (4/3/14) 4/4. Staying home today, after the cough mounting an educating attack. That’s just how I’ll be today, with my pages. Two waffles springing from toaster in kitchen.. be right back. Went to bed quite early last night, just after little Kerouac.. which would put me… A bit after 8PM. Today is about recovery, and progress. I feel that I may be pushing mySelf into even greater a stall by depending on these community colleges to offer me something tenure-track. Outside the box, where I’m going.. and starting with poetry, yes, but I will print ONE page from this semester’s novel, the first page, at some point today. Like Steve said, “Write for my Life.” So quiet in this house, now. Should try for more sleep. Two more waffles. Need to stay awake till around 8:30, when I call in. Post to teaching blog.. that’s what I haven’t done. Done. 8:17. Will call in 15 minutes. Give whomever a couple minutes to settle. Strange, the light rain last night. Wasn’t expecting that, at all. *** Up, ready for writing. Had shower, cup of coffee–which actually very much helped me combat the sinus headache–went to store for Advil (took only 1, as I hate medicine), got mocha, and here I am. Ready for session. Won’t be posting to teaching blog again till Sunday, I anticipate. Printing one poem from collection, and one page from semester’s novel. More and more, I’m starting to find mySelf more imbued with wine; how it changes, how it looks, smells, from where it’s birthed– the Earth, those lovely vineyards. Listening to my music now, I think of this new direction, centered around images, taking my day into my own hands, yes, but more motivated hands. Images, things.. “No ideas but in things.” William Carlos Williams said. And that’s my approach, with everything from empty wine glasses at the Hill House, to the Syrah Hill, the tank room… Entry into the tasting room, the caves, spilt wine on the counter, stains on the towels… But I want to focus on new objects, things, a revolving door of propulsion. In the lab: tubes, samples in the miniature jars, or vats (not sure of their proper item tag), other pours, bottles, winemaking notes… And the headache is gone, completely. Now I can really write. I look at my wallet, right. Hate that thing, all the clutter I assume, just within its borders alone. Opening it… Emptied it. Even the cash. Put into the company’s budget– or stash. 1:30PM. What to do with the day’s rest? Research. I’m starting to find National Geographic’s content quite moving, repairing when I don’t have a subject. OR, “thing”. Getting sick of this blog, I have to say. How the formatting now doesn’t read paragraphing. That is, I have my prose pragmatically placed on this screen, appropriately divided, but the hosting site doesn’t read it so. It just bloody throws the content to that square, and I have to fix its mistakes. Tech, you’ll soon know your death. And it again rains. The drops tell me to calm. This morning’s weather urgency suggested no rain, that this “storm” was passing. But, for the first time ever to my liking, the weather boxes were incorrect. The rain fell encouragingly as I went to Safeway to retrieve that Advil, caffeine. Advil.. a thing. Fixing something, pain. Allowing for comfort, and this writer to write. But now, I think it time for a break.. a writing exercise for Self, list things, places, people, subject! I don’t like the word ‘thing’, or ‘things’. So bland, limp, nonspecific, noncommittal, lazy as a word, concept. “My favorite thing about wine is…” I remember hearing someone say, years ago, when my first blog was very much considered a traditional wine blog. I just remember thinking the character speaking sounded quick, like she wasn’t taking it, wine, seriously– well, ‘it’ also being her words, her thought process; her SELF! 1:44PM. The money on my desk, destined for the publishing pot (think that’s what I’ll call it, here onward..). I’m just staring at it, listening to the rain, just below the volume of this song, “Limbe”. Wondering where I want to start with my search.. which “things” to target. Frankly, as I long for the road, Newness, I need distance.. frames from far away. Turkey, a former Soviet state, Italy, my city of Paris, Yellowstone, Kenya.. anything that would push me somewhere I’ve never been with my writing.

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Intrinsically Intent

10:12PM.  Alice home, little Kerouac still in Monterey.  Today’s shift, contributing much to the Self-publishing well.  I’m nearly to my budget goal.  So I celebrate with this ’11 Russian River Pinot.  No, I won’t make 3 pages.  But I’m writing, which is more than I can say for the Self of last night.  Today, Dad and I finally walked through Annadel.  For the first time since I-don’t-know-when.  We discussed the concept of ‘intrinsic’.. and how to apply it.  His curiosity, or knowledgable pursuit of the word’s circulation, generated, as he disclosed, from an article on Warren Buffett.  Interesting, I thought, how this word is so contingent upon, both in definition and theory, denotation and connotation, context.  How do you know when something–a characteristic or attribute, value or perception–is sincerely intrinsic?  Then, Dad and I talked about all the ways the concept and word could be entertained, and how so many conclusions could be reached, and would be reached by any energetic mind intent on such a surf.  But, we also acknowledge that it’s not so much an understanding or clear hold on the thought of ‘intrinsic’ that needs to be valued, but on the dissection of the idea itself.  That’s what’s of value here.. the process, more so than the product.

A couple times, Dad and I stopped, admired certain perspectives, or “views” in Annadel’s whirling woods.  I explained to him that I much prefer flat running to trail traverses.  But when walking, notably with Mr. Madigan, the trail and its rocky challenge don’t diffuse me, even a slight.

This Pinot glass, probably more full than it should be.  Lovely…  The Napa mission the other day with Chris, on mind.  Wish we would have visited one more door.  I sip this…  Think about my wines, how the quantity fades, but gloriously.  Haven’t received one critique or complaint about my bottles.  And while applying foils to Zach’s bottles today, towards the end of my shift (first time I’d ever worked on the line..), I could only think of not just my own wine label, but also publishing.. SELF-publishing.  My office, my releases.. my Creatively SOVEREIGN voice.

 

After our walk, Dad and I had a beer at the Mountain Hawk base, had some almonds, crackers, chips, discussed goals, Life, aims, passion.  And I’m again reminded of Time’s intention of folding us all under its claw.  I don’t have so much a plan, as I entertained with Dad, but more so a vision.. one encompassing and definite.  And this night’s final glass is in celebration of not only the day, my saunter with Dad through Annadel’s dimension, but acceptance of who I am…  “You’re a writer,” Dad said to me, while at the Mountain Hawk home, deconstructing purpose, passion, “is there anything that you’re more passionate about?” he asked, in a wording somewhat close to what I just typed.  I told him ‘no’, “that’s who I am, not just what I do,” I softly retorted.  But Dad, where he is, after an amazing career as a commercial airline captain, and what his next chapter is… what I currently turn in my analytical wheels.  His story: bullion.

 

And the day ends.  The fridge makes some weird sound, and I think of the Merlot I tasted today, and yesterday, from tanks, while being bottled.  Critical as I am of wine, its industry, I can’t stay away.  It’s part of this writer.. what he sees, does, breathes, acts, enacts.

 

So odd, not having my little Artist with us, here, in the condo castle.  I hope, and am quite sure, he sleeps well in Monterey.  Sure to be frantic tomorrow, with all the groups, reservations.  But I’ll make it what I want.  The day will never rattle me, at a winery.  I stare at this glass of Pinot, about three ounces full, and think about what wine does in its process.  I tried explaining this to my group, 9 girls from Cocoa Beach, FL, but they weren’t interested.  They just wanted to be driven around the property, after being poured who-knows-how-many wines.  And that’s what bothers me: wine not being seen for what it is– energy, effort, ideas, expression from the Earth.. it’s not just alive, it’s voice, it’s culture, history, an encompassing magnet.

 

My next run will be on the trail Dad and I today walked.  Was thrilled that we ran a little on that straightaway, after the first significant incline.  Can’t remember the last time Dad and I jogged together.  His words make me think about my intrinsic intent.. what I’m meant to do, what I’m “built” to do.  I already know.. I’m intended to write.  So in that reality, how much of the current currency should I tolerate?  When to I enact Pangea, and swim in a more separatist sinew?

 

(3/21/14)

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Coffee.  It was time.

He couldn’t rise.  This stone spell that gripped him, keeping him there, on the floor, in that odd stretched position, had no sign of feigning, moving.  It wanted him on that floor.  Not writing, not sipping any coffee.  Just there.  The unproductive hound.  The lazy non-writing house dog.

The refrigerator threw its simultaneous two-note humming that always relaxed him; one low, muffled dusty baritone accompanied by a stretched, clean metallic chirp.  And then it left.  He hated the floor again.  And the spell keeping him there.  6:54AM, his laptop said from the upper-right corner.  “I’m getting coffee.  Fuck this floor.  No oeuvre’s coming from this.”

6:58.  Still there.  He didn’t fight it anymore.  When he rose, he’d be standing.  But he couldn’t fight this.  Not now.  Not without coffee.

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3/16/14.  5:37AM.  Everything about me’s asleep, but I can’t sleep.  Crumby feeling as a writer.  But I’m up.  Typing.  About what I have no idea– no plan, aim, nor vision.  Warm in this house.  I’m uncomfortable, and with dry mouth.  Probably an effect of last night’s Chardonnay nightcap.  I’ll say.. I’m quite pleased with these new glasses.  Should have bought more than just four.  And I should have took home some cooking equipment.  Of some kind.  I need to cook more.  Not just for saving money’s sake, but for the creative act, or the new direction in my story.  Or, simply, to do it.  For no other reason than to cook.

Hear my son calling..  Have to cut the session short, I’m afraid.

 

Now, he’s with his mother, in our bed.  Seems he too is stricken with these allergies.  My left eye, the small corner stretching to the forehead’s center, rumbles an intense itch.  That’s usually how the allergy season starts for me.  And it’s maddening.

Two emails to answer.  From students, that is.  Odd not having class tomorrow.  I’m certainly not complaining, but that’s what I’m racking, returning, sitting down here on this couch.  I’m also thinking I need to spend more time in the library between classes, collect more “scholarly articles”, as they call them.. read more.. study…  Be a student again.  And I mean TRULY live as a student.  All day taking notes, reading, formulating my own papers for submission.. these papers will be my lectures, new lectures to be read, submitted to journals, establishing a new turn in my story…  In fact…  Let me look for those Plath articles I found a few weeks ago.

Found all of it.  But I need to add to it, this bay of articles, significantly.

And another author of very recent interest, one with whom I struggled significantly in graduate school: Joyce.  The documentary I watched on him weeks ago, where his prose was called “impenetrable”, frustrated me, made me want to be a stronger reader, frankly.  Battle Joyce again, as he very much defeated me in grad school.  And I will be, living in that library.

Coffee.  The writer needs his coffee.  But I don’t want to wake Jackie.  And there, I hear something from him.  Think he said “froggy”.  Meaning, his stuffed froggy that my sister gifted him a while back is near him.  Everyday, this little Artist of mine develops, offers some new detail in sentence or expression’s form.  This, too, motivates my own character to that library.

 

Wednesday, we’ll be in Napa.  My friends/co-worker characters, that is.  So far, no idea where we’re going.  And as much as I like that, we do need some itinerary, or direction.  What I want to “take away” from the mission: writing material, obviously, but that’s easy [as, my new understanding cements.. ‘if I’m living, I’m writing’]…  Pictures.  Vineyard stills that tell some kind of story, or offer thought provocation.  Something.  I just want pictures.. visuals.

 

In the reserve room today.  I remember some telling me yesterday, right as we clocked out, and I thought they were just joking with me, teasing as it’s well known I despise the reserve room.  But I’ll make it mine, today.  Pocket as many tips as I can, put that into the Self-publishing swamp of crumbled bills upstairs, in that Philosophy Encyclopedia.  Where did I buy that?  I think at Borders on Santa Rosa Ave, right before it closed.

 

Quiet upstairs.  Think they’re both asleep.  Which is interesting considering how hyper little Kerouac was when flew up the stairs to him.

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She hated Chardonnay.  But she sipped anyway, the bottle staff was “gifted” for their performance today.  They beat their goal, for barrel tasting day.  The first of two.  She finished one glass.  Another.  Three.  Then just thought, wrote some ideas of how she wanted her winery–tasting room–to look.  She never took an architecture or drafting class.  but she tried anyway.  Two bars, small room.  No “VIP” or ‘Reserve’ room.  That was insane to her.  And…  She wouldn’t have a wine club.  Yes, most labels did.  But that’s exactly why she wouldn’t.

4.  She listened to her music, a playlist she put together about a year ago, when she had her first thought of wine that was hers.  Not really making it, but just having something that she could tie to her name.  At that time, she even thought of saving money, hiring a winemaker, navigating a label.  But she knew she wanted to make wine, do all the trials, tastings, “additions”.  But how?  Where would she start?  Her rationale, rationing of everything, began to fog.  The rhythm went a wander. But she didn’t care.  Not after today.  All the tasters, just wanting to taste more.  “Is this what they dealt with?” she wrote.  “Reservations only,” she mandated.  But how would she create.. “buzz”?  She hated that word, but how would she?  Another sip.  Larger, this intake.. the last glass was bold in pour, so the glass could afford.

 

No more.  She set the empty glass in the sink, opened one of the flavored sparkling waters from the fridge.  The idea was to wake early tomorrow, before having to be in that tasting room.  Again, she thought, she’d have to pour.  What were they doing?  Moving her down there?  Permanently?

 

Did she have any more of that Chard, for another night?  Maybe she’d make a one this year.  All the rains lately, the heat.. there’d be plenty of fruit, she thought.  There’d have to be.  It’d have to be this year.  Her wine would be on someone’s table soon.  She’d be sipping at one of those two bars.  Someday.  Soon.  With somebody.

 

(3/15/14)

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1,000 words in thirty minutes to start the day. And away…

Jack’s attitude this morning, so happy, carefree, fun-loving, curious.. careless, and with enviable degree.  So I mimic.  All day.  Only thing truly planned: to SSU, try to spend some time with Kim, my tenured professor friend, the one who wrote the more than luminous recommendation for me, for sakes of a FT post (wherever will take me..).  Be patient, as Mom said in her text this morning, while I was in line to get this mocha, this croissant.  Currently, I’m in the kitchen’s nook.  Haven’t yet bitten the French breakfast, but I listen to Parisian jazz tunes that put me back in my city.. need to return to my studies.. Et je dois le faire bientôt!  Today’s question:  What would Hemingway do?  Well, he most assuredly wouldn’t be stuck to his mobile phone– I swear, more than half the people in the coffee spot, on my block, next to Safeway, and my once-again beloved Chinese eatery, were on their phone.. texting, Facebook-ing, some type of “social” media-ing.  One lady walking in, speedily, rushed, with her eyes into that bloody screen.  And yes, she bumped into me, the ditzy harpy, while I waited by the New York Times stand.

Love mornings like this.  I feel more free than I have in some time.  And I credit little Kerouac.  I surely hope I hear from at least one school next week.  And if I don’t, then I keep on.  Getting the chapbook today to 41 pages, filling the remaining spaces with older works, will help.  I’ll be selling it by the end of the month, definitely.  This song, putting me on the river, with a view of Notre Dame.  People walk by, and I record–  Oh no, reader.. I’m not writing.  Just living.  And whatever I remember deserves a page.  Much like this semester’s novel.  Whatever I forget wasn’t worthy of note, deserving of page space.  One of my students this semester, “BW”, commented on how Tobias Wolff is the only living author we’re reading this semester, he then asked, “Is that intentional?” I reacted, “You’ll find there’s motive behind all of my gallop.” Which there is, but more that I thought, more than I initially saw.  In English 5, we begin with Death, and end with Life.  A lecture born.  A new thought stream to offer the students.  I again credit little Kerouac.

 

Oh this mocha…  I’m not here.  I’m in my city, in my apartment, with my family.  Alice and I take Jack to the gardens for a walk, then to lunch at a near by lunch spot, quite popular…  “Au Polidor”.  Never been to this place before.  Love the cozy layout.  Even Jack takes a second to acknowledge the precise architecture, the mood it creates.  I ordered some type of ham sandwich, Alice had a salad, and little Jack snacked on a couple cheeses, breads.. oh my city, I love you, and I love all your people.  Don’t let me cross the Atlantic.

Haven’t taken a bite yet, and I’m only with just less than 10 minutes left.  I was distracted by my bloody phone, and someone messaging me.  I will plan nothing today…  NOTHING!  All I have other than the SSU trip: deliver a sandwich from Boudin to Ms. Alice.  I drove by her school on the way to get my mocha, croissant.  I took the long way–down 12, left on Farmers, left on Montgomery, then right on Yulupa–because some blithering airhead cut me off while looking at their phone.  I swear!  You see?  EH never had to deal with this.  And I won’t either.  Not today.  In fact, I’ll only bring with my to campus the semester’s comp book, where much of the novel rests.  Beginning week after next, I start printing what I’ve written of this semester’s novel.  And the poems I vend in the wait will subsidize its dissemination.  Perfect plan.. more than cinematic.  It’s definitive.  Romantically bizarre.. perfectly ME.

Oh this morning, and this nook.. my son, with how he’s motivated his wandering writer father.. what more could this penner ask?  No rain today.  Good.  I could use the rest.  And I love when I miss the rain.  I love the longing.

My artist friend, Becky, out from New Jersey.  Having trouble getting to wine country because “I’m broke”, she wrote in a text.  How?  Isn’t she selling her work?  I’m not judging, by any hurl, but I do realize that I will never be the broke Artist.  Ever.

Going to need more time.  Less than 3 minutes.  What would I do if students needed more time for their writing?  Give it to them, of course.  I like to consider my instructional approach quite fair, inviting, and encouraging.  In fact, I’m sure that’s what it is.  I’ve demonstrated that since my first section in 2006.

 

What else COULD I do, today?  Something in-house.  Don’t want to be driving around too much.  There’s writing organization I could get done here in the condo castle–  TIMER UP.  Ten minutes more, then edit, then shower, then departure for campus.  I’m actually quite excited to return to my old grounds.  I almost forgot that I taught 4 sections of 101 in.. ’08, I think.  Wow.  How did I land that?  Maybe I can set something up for Fall, maybe.  Just a couple sections.  At night.  Haven’t committed to anything at SRJC, yet– but I don’t want to endanger possibilities there as an adjunct.  That’s my base.  I’ll wait, I guess.  But I bloody hate waiting.  And I hate even more damningly when I write of how much I hate it.  Topic next.

En fin, the croissant and I meet.  It’s quite hot, though.  So, yes, I’m forced to wait.  Time, 9:24AM.  Do enjoy this start, and I once more think of my little boy– his laughs, his speech, this morning even saying, “Waffle please dada…” How is it he learns so fast, grows at even more a vicious speed?  My little friend, when you read this.. know that Life is short, and you need maintain that same contentment, that same peace.. smile, everything that troubles you is never deserving of your frowns, or your stress.  Smile, and walk away.

 

Ambrosial encounter…  Back in my city, on my favorite rues.

 

(3/7/14)

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Rare.  Writing upstairs, while Alice sleeps.  Slight rain on window’s opposing side.  Reminds me of that night in Paris, when I wrote in the Comp Book– and that’s a good point, why am I typing?  Well, I am.  Tomorrow, grading, getting completely “up-to-speed”.  Then, write.  These days off.. have to produce a MS.  And obviously, that’d be the poem collection.

That restaurant, Starks, much too loud for the writer.  Older I get, I just can’t handle noise.  To any extreme– even if slight.

Plath.. on mind.  Her revolving worry, if that makes sense.  Her type, incredibly rare.  I think of that movie, with Ms. Paltrow, and what it said about my most beloved poetess.. how she carved her own identity, even when she wasn’t sure she had much of one.  I see strength, in everything.  I look through her collected poems, stumble upon “Monologue at 3 a.m.”.  I see pain, reckoning, revival, freedom.  How did she capture so much in those 14 lines?  “…the snake-figured almanac/vouching you are/a million green counties from here…” Her word choice is unique, unexpected, by so symphonic as to pull emotion.  That’s why, or partially why, I continue to push that Ms. Plath stands as her own genre.

Now, just a countdown to sleep.  Little Kerouac, mute in the room next.  And me,

his varying father, here, in a chair, plotting

as he always does.

So yielding, fielding his

docility from a lake, a couple

miles away.  Want to be

seen as she is–

 

but a walk disrupted

crumbles to my forcible

toll.  Remove something from the side,

you’ll have a hidden pigeon.

And they say I’m imagining things.

That’s fine.

It’s the wine,

if you know me.

Time, 10:49,

I’m out of line, just ask

my opposing sanguine–

off tint,

hardly mint.

 

(3/1/14)

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Bugger

Not sure how I feel, not sure what I want to say.  But someone today told me, after I asked him what his “apex aspiration” was, during our brief encounter in the break room [should have just eaten outside, as it didn’t rain all day as they said it would, but I’m glad I didn’t]: “I have this delusion that I’m a writer.”

“You are,” I said.

“Eh…  But I have to prove it,” he slouched.

Haven’t been able to let go of his words.. I feel nearly angry.  I’m convinced the world will have to accept me as a writer.  This I’ll no longer have to write in this cluttered kitchen nook, that I’ll soon have my office, that I’ll be on the Road.  [took out garbage, which was in a plastic bag, just to left, leaning against one of the wooden chairs, placed there by Alice..]

Went into the lab today, at lunch, tasted through some 13’s, research for C——’s character.  The only one that directly to me spoke was that Syrah– the oak integration, caramelized consistency.  It was nice to consider these wines as she would.  What I was doing, she’s never done.  She’s been in a cubicle for 6, nearly 7, years, and only now want to venture out.  What kept her in?  Not even she knows.  Well.. the money.  Obviously.  That drowns all dreams.

Sipping a ’10 Cab that Zach made.  My favorite wine at the winery, by far.  And how I’ll prove my writerdom.. through verse.  The poems.  Destroying other penners.  So I need a reading appointment.  How?  Where?  Investigate…

Well, if I wanted to.. this Sunday, March 2nd, at Hop Monk in Sebastopol.  It’s an open mic..  Think I can handle that.. but I need to designate pieces for a “set”.  I’ll gather tomorrow, or start.  I’m proving that I’m a poet that needs to be loved, studied, respected.. feared.

 

(2/27/14)

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