Posts Tagged With: Creative Writing

Shaping Orbit

2/28/15, notes

And I’m typing, I wrote yesterday but I feel like I didn’t write anything, not a thing, not a word, not a character or observation or word.  Yesterday.  But I did, but I did! I keep saying to myself.  Up with Jackie before having to get ready for work, wondering when I’m going to have time to grade these first papers.  With this new tasting room chapter it’s difficult, more than difficult to get the papers marked, read, even a quick skim-through.  Need coffee and you might think “Why hasn’t he poured himself a cup already?” I don’t know, but I’m tired, and with thoughts that things, matters and elements and dilemmas are accumulating, like they did last semester.  But I won’t permit that, somehow, somehow I’ll stop the accumulation before it becomes tidal.  I’ll grade 10 of the 1A submissions tonight, then 10 tomorrow, then 10 more Monday.  My desired, or envisioned practice is the old ‘twenty today and twenty tomorrow’ perspective, but that’s quite tough to pull off–  I just realized how much I love this, this knot, this entanglement over my passion and to-do with the students and what I assign them; I assign the prompt, and they write, they submit, they sit at their respective tables and compose, then press ‘print’, then submit.  Which is far more noble and worth of readership than this blog.  At least that’s what I’m singing to myself now.

Should be running today, this morning rather, when Alice wakes.  Just want 5 miles logged, that’s all, and that’s all I have time for this morning.  What assignments this next week, I think, about how to keep the sessions original, and electric.  The only way for me to teach is, for lack of a better word (again, no coffee yet), theatrically.  Not just in my presentation, but in the ideas themselves.  To show the students that I am the consummate thinker, the “teacher” that lives and breathes the idea; he takes it home; he’s always writing; he knows what he wants and what he wants to do.

At one point in the day yesterday, earlier, right when I bought my mocha from the SBUX down the street, it rained, gently, but not enough to compromise anything, be they thoughts or motions or efforts.  But there was a mood, one subtle but thematic.  It made me think of Mom and Dad in Paris, and if it’s raining there, and how it rained voluminously when we were there in ’09.  The small water ticks also had me wondering when the season will show actual change, shove us all into Spring.  That would motivate new topics, new scribbles, and I don’t have time in this new tasting room to collect a written thought as I did at the last winery (the estate).  So I have to plan more, which is mature but I don’t care much for executing.  But I have to, I don’t want to feel what I did last night, or this morning as soon as I woke, like I wrote nothing, like I’m not a writer, like I’m just floating, and hovering above a blank page, imagining and dreaming, and wishing I were a “real” writer.  I couldn’t let that be the case this morning.  And again, I did write yesterday, and the real most sincere way with ink onto lines, and my Comp Book left with me, to be put back in the car (trunk) more full and more paginated with my day and story of the adjunct–  And I know, the Massamen novel, when am I going to start it, officially, and when am I editing ‘Forced Avarice’?  I know I know, I say to myself, followed with the old promise of “soon.” Famous last words.  It’s always what I do aside from adjuncting that interferes.  Even if I had a load of six classes I wouldn’t struggle this much to pin a few moments for projects.  Why?  ‘Cause I’d have the weekends, Saturday and Sunday consecutively just for my Self, and meditation, and the projects that will define my writing “career”.

The clock, I can’t stop looking at the time, why, I hate those numbers and how they control me and intercede with vivacity.  Shame.  But it’s normal, and certainly a universal address, and time for us as writers, as I shared with both classes (esp 1B), can be both foe and motivating force.  Right now, it’s a bit of both.

Thinking I’ll wake early tomorrow, have no wine tonight and be in bed early, start March with an intense early morning interval, possibly around 7 miles, or 7.5, something around there, like I used to do with Bonnie a while back.  Running makes me a more devoted writer and one with a path outside of teaching, and while running I can’t write which sometimes bothers me and others I feel’s a boon to my journals and to my story collectively.  So I need to run more, significantly more, show everyone around me that I’m a ‘real’ runner, or a serious one anyway.  That I’m focused on my races, I wait for them to arrive at my present day the same way a child waits for their birthday; their day, the whole day is theirs, it’s all about them.  That’s how my race days will feel.  And I’ll be sad when training’s over, as that means the race is here, and will soon be over.  But then I’m excited again, childlike, as there’s another race a month, or a couple months away.

6:39, Alice still asleep.  I look left, through the blinds, and the sun’s not yet in its noted rise but there’s just enough atmosphere color to call it “day”.  Would love to run in this, this light and the metallic air with its cooled shadows and partial comfort (as you have to stay running to remain “comfortable” or not with shiver).

Coffee ready.  Only allowing Self one cup and that’s it.  Want my energy and momentum, all motions, to be natural and not forced.  Tuesday: Meditation, talk about the concept in Hem’s work vs Kerouac’s.. find the meditation, and ask the students why we meditate (find definition and explore, experiment with connotation and denotation)…

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whoso magazine’s first featured writer: Amber Coyne

My Body is an Alter

Ink drills into skin
Anchors sink into flesh
Needles pass stories
Through me
Carve into me

Christian eyes machetes
Murder me
Mutilate me

Bodies are temples
Jesus an eraser
Purity scrubs skin white
Honor your temple

you were mistaken
my body is no temple
my body is an alter
every line an offering

chiseled strokes plague skin
every curve an artist commandment
every wrinkle a part in the sea of color

I will sink rainbows into my skin
To cleanse away holy water
Poison masked as promise

turn flesh to testament of resistance
Needles to inscribe stories stolen
Peach pages waiting for calling

needles pass through palms
they sink into feet
colors transverse skin
Sacrifice to memory

Christian eyes set to crucify
Will find this alter covered
Blanketed in permanent protection
Sewn into skin altared

 

Appropriate Technology

Sometimes I wonder what it felt like
Chemo coursing through your veins
Was it like hot lava flowing
Circulating destruction death

Did you force smiles for my comfort
While poison tunneled pillaged cells

Burn your body inside out
Did you burn yourself

For me
For dad
For hope

To kill the invader
With an invader
To murder the murderer

They said it was appropriate technology
They cited statistics
They employed ethics
They beamed over a chemo room

Adorned with art
Leather chairs
Beachfront views

They masked the truth
Covered up a dirty little secret
With distractions

The cure is worse than illness
Who is the killer now

The chemo
The cancer
The medical industry

Sometimes I wonder
Would you do it all over again
Let every glass of cold water become
A agent of death suffocation
Let every meal become
A menu of bile of vomit
Let every brief walk become
A crippling marathon
Let every last minute
Be fraught with pain
With burning

Sometimes I wonder
Will I do the same
For children
My uterus has yet to meet
For lover I’ll kiss every morning
For faith I gave up the day you died
Will I burn myself for them

Was that fire for me

femme3Amber Jean Coyne is a masters of Public Health student focusing on LGBTQ+ heath equity with a minor in Queer Studies. She received her Bachelors of Science in Molecular Cell Biology from Sonoma State University in 2012 graduating summa cum laude. Amber is a writer and theatre enthusiast performing in such plays as The Vagina Monologues and The Class Menagerie. She is previously published in Language, Violence & Resistance (2014) by The Alter Collective and Queer Studies at Oregon State University.

 

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DAY 98: tu 2/17/15: Raw, Rushed Moment Molding

Timer set, 25 min to write and post.  Was going to use bathroom to splash water on face but one of the cleaning gents is in there now, tending to his character’s role, and job, and I think of what else I can do to the characters of yesterday’s short, and nothing I conclude.  Oh, and I recognize I misspelled Dostoevsky’s name yesterday (think it was yester’).. anyway, apologies Fyodor!  This morning, light mist and or drizzle on drive over, and I thought of my dissertation or writing sample for a PhD program, which now is very much possible in that I’ll be teaching more and more classes earning my family more and more money and pouring at a new TR, soon!  I only think of Jack and how he sees me, and I want him to see his father as a FULL professor and writer, one who’s gone as far as he can go with his credentials, and that his father is alway studying, always working.  The coffee works slow this morning and my typos are multitudinous, scattered, me keeping the delete button busy then retyping.  Hemingway’s up today, along with Plath and Dickinson.  Haven’t seen the students in a week, so they’ll be tired I’m sure.. I’ll wake them up with music and writing and an animated professor!  Have to keep sipping, the connection’s coming, I know.  Hemingway, with his hard stare and direct prose should also shake them in the latter part of class when we read aloud.  To get a feel for his sentences and rhythm.. putting that in lecture notes…

Think he may be out of the restroom now, but I only have 17-something left to write.  AND post!  Not enough time, I’ll rush in there after these sentences.. sneeze twice.  Allergies already, this lovely weather’s tariff.  Should have brought that other Comp Book, the one I had set aside for MY studies.  Can’t wait to one day go back to school, and I know my wife also empathizes, wanting to one day get her Master’s and already haven taken some added seminars for college credit and raised pay.  And I was thinking, money won’t be an issue when returning to school as by then the writing and blogging will already be in flight AND I’ll be teaching, so there will be NO financial harm to my matriculation.  AND, if I can as Michael suggested, I’ll be in-program for free.  I mean, why should I pay?  Even if it is Stanford, or Berkley, or Davis?

Today, get more into the students and their stories and have them be more interested in each other’s stories and how their lives work and how the functionality of their respective stories reaches the person asking (make sense?).  Not so much an interview but a genuine discussion–  And I feel it again, that morning rush I have so many times in this adjunct nook (no longer calling it a ‘cell’.. that’s what my job at the winery did to me, gave me that mood, made me see it and Life that way.. so happy to be free.. Fredrick Douglas said that ‘Knowledge makes man unfit to be a slave’.  Now I understand.. and I’m not trivializing his experience or words, I’m just seeing more of what I went through after stumbling upon his quote this morning..).

Little over 10 mins to Self.  Alice messages that J is still asleep.  My poor tired little Artist, partying last night at Mom’s house, all the fun he had over the weekend…  Nap will do him quite well at school today, I’m sure.  I’ll get him early so he can rest and play with Papa at home.  Wish I could be with him all the time, but that would harm him in keeping him from the world and other characters.  He needs exposure to the reality around him, I’m learning this as ‘father’.  I’m still learning, very much, and that’s one thing I’ve learned from this project is that the story WILL change and I WILL change with it.  6 minutes.  Deadline approaches, time to get into character, time 6:41..  I’ll put on some spoken word beats with an ambient feel to them.. I’m here, I’m ready, a writer, professor, Human and character– Story changing, for me, my family, and scenery.. Namaste.

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Day 97 excerpts… no edits

I’ll proof the letter to Dav momentarily, but now I enjoy quiet on the bottom floor, on carpet thinking about the run today, and when my next “race” is, next month, and how that 26.2 is just months away, the Santa Cruz beach and views and everything in my birthtown and zone, waiting for me to come back, another story, one more!  A visit to be noted not just in this project and the future journal (as this book will long since been finished when that gun goes), but for my story collective and everything to me– in this morning’s run, the 4-miler with Alice and Mr. Jack, the weather couldn’t have been more optimal, air with slight chill but nothing invasive and the water still, ducks and geese and swans, and those from Canada, flying overhead then landing on water only to take off again, see what we can’t on the ground.  Could use coffee now of course but I’ll refrain, wait for later perhaps– or no, stick to water.  Should buy some of those iced coffee drinks at store so I can have my fix and caffeine push and not have to fire up that coffee machine.  Tomorrow morning, one early, and right after 1A, a quick drive back here to home for my morning prose and additional cup and some meditation.  Then, after 1B, to Howarth again like today but for a longer run.  Saw a young woman when we just arrived, there, just finishing her run, going over to the lakeside to stretch away any tightness.  I could tell she was a serious runner, one who has no trouble fitting in intervals into her life, like my wife; Alice always finds time to run, it matters to her.  And it matters to me, but I always find some pretty rationale to NOT run.  And that stops with today’s 4.  Tomorrow I’ll get in at least 6.2– I’ll start at Howarth parking lot, run around most of lake then sprint to Annadel, run along that long paved path to end, then into forest a little, then turn around run the rest of lake then come home to shower before picking up the little Beat.

For lunch this afternoon, a wonderful salad Alice made;  fresh avocado, tomatoes (little ones, think they’re called ‘cherry tomatoes’), olives, cheese and croutons, mushrooms.. perfect balance of all voices in the salad, both in presence and impression, wouldn’t have changed a thing!  Not full, not experiencing any kind of food coma, lovely.  Three more days in this project now, and I’m back to the thought of that daycare center at Mendo, for some reason, and my son… Alice and I brought Jackie to the toy store on Santa Rosa Ave. and bought him a toy, yet one more for his 3rd.  Why not, we thought, and I see him aging, developing as I’ve noted throughout this journal but he’s looking at me differently now, like I’m there for him, he understands me role, his mother’s, that we’re always there, here, at his left, right, for him, everyday, always.  He knows, now, and I know he knows.  Can’t explain it fully or even adequately, but he sees me with more thoroughness, now.  When on the couch, as he ate his veggies and dip, he took a couple seconds to turn right, look back, at me, smiling, and he didn’t blink, as if to convey, “I get it now, I know you, and I love you.” And I smile thinking about it, this event that flashed little over an hour ago.  And gone.  That’s Time, my enemy, and motivator.

Wanted to write a 500-word standalone fiction piece at some point today, to submit somewhere, just for smirks and light laughs, and maybe I will when done with this entry, this 3rd page.. but I have to just let the moment drive me now, from now on, my life’s remainder.  Stop planning, follow moments, and don’t stress about what you can’t navigate/control/chain/manage.. that’s why the winery release didn’t and doesn’t bother me.  It was out of my hands and dictators will be dictatorial, civility isn’t in their tongue.. but never mind that I’m too much into this moment and its gravity to be pulled by the negative.. to my short story.  510 words, max.  Topic?  Characters?  What do I do with this blank page?

 …I do rejoice in my letter to Dav and draft to Mom.  And I think of how my budget is ZERO for writing, so everything has to go to the blog, EVERYTHING!  And when those start flying and dropping money in my lap, then I’ll print again..  Front door open, little breeze but most sounds of a lazy day for everyone, President’s Day, and don’t ask me which president as I’m not quite convinced I care.  But the lazy sounds and wind and even the birds don’t chirp as loudly and often, everyone’s napping or resting or just taking it easy, as they should on a day off.. huh, a “day off”, imagine that.. even Mom just messaged me and said she was taking a nap.  But I’m in no mood to nap, and I haven’t had caffeine since before noon.  This energy that I know chalk into my prose is innate, in my particles and nuclei…

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In the minutia of

midday. In nook with a beer and Alice and Jack at the park with Alice’s friend and her daughter. Looking forward to whatever Mom cooks this evening and some nice wine (which I’ll bring, Lancaster of course). Tomorrow, I’m hoping to run, possibly at the gym and play a little basketball, then come home to be with the little Beat and maybe read a bit and plan lectures for Tuesday. Was wondering where my books were and I forgot I put them upstairs… In sense swirl, post winery release, and I have to say, I’ve never felt this level of rise, of optimism, of forward. I’m here in this chair focused solely on my words and the words of the authors I lecture and my students. I WILL drink to that!
Finally finished the poem, “No Why Of”. Will post it to blog, but as a ‘whoso’ piece, the only magazine, subsidiary if you would of bottledaux. Still need to post Nate’s piece.. one on space and NASA.. door open, breeze into nook, hear cars speeding down Yulupa, for what? Superbowl isn’t till mañana. Keys left, so lovely.. no driving anywhere.. shit, battery low on monster.. quick! PLUGIN!!!
Much better, now I can relax, and you know I do on this couch even when I’m well over 100 prosepulses a minute [words…].. speaking of, I need some new– here’s one, talionic, somewhat how I feel towards a certain industry. But I don’t. I’m thankful, and growing, encouraging me to thob poetically, at least I hope I am. I’m closing in on 36, and I’m aware of everything, everything! MY bank account balance and my clothes and if they’re dirty or clean or missing, and my workout schedule and my papers (ones I haven’t graded and those I’m about to assign), and the time of day, always. Is this a product of age? This couch, forcing meditation, making me gnomic! So, thank you, good couch! Look left, our meek patio, Jackie’s swing, on which I pushed him playfully today, before his nap. He’ll be three, 15 days from now. HOW?

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81… (excerpt, no edits)

…and the first note in my pursuit, Gorgeous American Grim: A Study of Voices; Plath, Hemingway, Kerouac, and Poe.
So that’s what I’ve been doing, what I’ve been thinking…May work at a new spot today, Acre Coffee in Montgomery Village. Just need two hours, and I won’t let myself write anywhere or anything but notes in the Comp Book. For lectures, ideas, the PhD chase… MY research. I could play with this word, Grim, in the lectures come Tuesday.. see what the students think it means and how they take it, what they think of.. see how far I go with this idea.. and I have to tie it in with Morality and Moral Philosophy. There’s an American “Philosophy”, and Morality, but how does it become shaped by someone labeled “Grim”?

Just took about a page, maybe a bit less, of notes on my topic in the Comp Book. Jackie draws on his chalkboard and I think about my life as a teacher, what I want to teach him and what I want him to learn from me, and from his own Self, his SELF-education, and I will be stressing that; that much of what you learn, the most valuable holdings will not be acquired in a classroom. TV off and we both thrive in our own images and visions, he over there now on the boards other side with the adhering letters, all in alphabet, and me over here staring at the Stanford site, the PhD entertainment and fantasy, which isn’t much a fantasy anymore, but I will have to wait to apply as the app for Autumn ’15 was due over a month ago– yeah, 12/9/14. No big deal to me. I can still write, I can still lecture and teach and I have my students, my eager scholastic characters in their seats with the post-it’s in their notebooks and all over the Kerouac texts. That’s what I really want to do, what I really want, not wine, not pouring for some drone on the other side of the counter (unless it’s just for fun, not as a fulltime gig, to be taken at all seriously..).
“Hi Daddy! I a getting my ABC’s…” he says, then continues his studies. If my little Beat only knew how much I envied him…
1:16, new writing spot.. Acre Coffee.. love it here.. just graded for 30 minutes, now I write for 30 minutes, then I’ll return to my teaching/instructional/grading and marking obligations. There… timer started. Others here working, writing, and other, there was one man working on what I could only describe from how he had a large paper piece rolled out as architecture, or design, or something of that kind. Left, a couple both work, screens up with notebooks surrounding, and in the corner over there, about 11 o’clock, a young lady sits in a tight crosslegged positioning, with screen up, she may be writing, not sure, but she’s focused, in fact I envy her focus, not sure I can be that narrow at the moment. Would try, but… Like the open nature of this stage, not too many tables (an what I mean by “too many” is excess, like a Starbuck or Peet’s), and the front door is open.. and the day outside, the sky, I can see it all, all of it. People walking by, probably going to the Boudin’s next door. Young guy walks in with bag and large book to read, a place where people come to work and think and be into themselves and what shoves them in thought– But I keep getting distracted by the fact I’m not at the winery today and that I’m free to think and write and grade, develop my topic of Gorgeous American Grim, see myself how I want to be seen, especially considering how I’m to be seen by Jack, and Alice, my family, everyone whose opinion matters, or influences my decisions. Just sipped the last of the coffee.. earthy, for sure, and with a raw pungency that I can only describe as twiggy, or herbal, or caramel-y. Almost have the 1B reactions completely graded.. I’ll start 1A tomorrow, or maybe tonight.
New idea for 1A: explore the notion of America and “American” in Road with the students.. And tie it, again, into Morality, how the characters demonstrate their values and codes and collectivity through the pages.. need to further erect this idea but I think it’ll prove provocative when we launch into a discussion.. will bring my Comp Book, or little pages– yes, the little page– to Mom and Dad’s tonight.. write down singular words as I did in the tasting room, any thought for the lectures, and stay in the wheel of Gorgeous American Grim.. how the “grimness” provides that story and forum of honesty..

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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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77

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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