Posts Tagged With: Diary

7:10AM. — “Apple”

Coffee, at home, finally.  And now I have to put myself into some character that’ll push the story forward with a vicious drive and skiing impulse.  Not bringing laptop with me to work, not today, only pen and paper so I can really capture with journalistic believability.  I don’t say ‘integrity’ because it’s more than that, and that word has that clinical taste I hate in words.  Jackie stretches next me, plays with his toys, asks questions, then re-examines the object, turns and asks it differently.  I don’t have enough coffee in this house to keep with his speed.

Need to finish the vignette I started the other day, about the fisherman–  I’ll target that later.  So maybe I will take the laptop with me to the estate.  No, I need to travel light, just note ideas in the little red book and make sure I transfer them later, that’s always been a challenge as you know, and I well do know such about my writing habits.  Now I see what my writing friend meant about it being a pain– I mean, I understood before but for some reason thinking about it right here in the couch with this coffee it poignantly punches and forces a cocoon of realization around me.  Letters, it was her letters that she had trouble finding time to translate or transfer onto the word doc.  She’s a flight attendant, remember, so that’s more than an empathizing call.

Lately I’ve been missing Santa Barbara; the beach of course but the views and sounds and the balmy sweetness of everything around you; you always hear the ocean, some volume and chord set of it.  Nothing like that here.  It’s always a vineyard, always the 12 traffic, and always a sign directing you somewhere– to buy something.  Sick, maddening…  I look at pictures and just imagine, imagine an overnight, writing as I did the night before my cousin’s wedding, with his army of structure-shaking friends too close by.

120-something words in the short short about the man finishing– I mean FISHING.  And I need to get money on the way to work as run after work and…  Always something to do.  How ‘bout I aim for an early early early rise tomorrow morning.  To write and nothing else– where’s the Comp Book?  I need to log what I’ve done so far this morning.  That’s 62 words put into ‘Gone Fishing Last’, the current “working” title for the piece.  Writing that in Comp Book– since it’s like baseball stats, this new list, I’ll log a I go alone, as I get hits, SB’s, RBI’s, and the occasional SO, know my current AVG.  And the lore’d HR!  This all of course motivated and compelled by the Kerouac quote that one student shared, animating Kerouac’s obsession with how much he writes and turning it, his practice, into a sort of game and performance he could track his trounces.

Cup two.  Letting it cool down a bit.  Now on the floor with Jack as he eats his waffle.  It’s clear he loves Saturdays, the respite after the long week– no rush no time no stress.  Lovely for him, love seeing him so relaxed and paced as he likes.  I envy him, I do, and I can only wish of having a day off today, and today would be the day to do it, hot as it’s promised to be.

(9/13/14)

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12:23; In the new classroom, here in Mendocino.  Already hot outside, and was forced from my quiet spot in the café, if that’s what it’s called, by students eating, laughing, talking, high volume.  It’s fine, I’m new.. already making dent in the syllabus draft.  Tonight I’ll be planning everything out.. was given a very easy-rhythm’d and informative tour by a lady, Mary, from the Office of Instr.  Making a checklist of things to do, get done before the 18th.. have to hand office hours form into HR, then finish work on syllabus– oh, get course catalogue and sched from bookstore.  Ran into fellow adjunct, or former adj’ I should say, Ginnie, who’s now FT here at MC.  Need to tighten my practices in teaching, writing, get free from where I am when not in classroom.  Through much of my checklist.  The drive up here, filling me with ideas for the semester.  I can only win with these classes, and what I’m planning to write, what I’m planning to share with the students.  I’m not going to force mySelf to finish the syllabus here, now, in this room.  I simply wanted a healthy jump, which I do indeed now have.  I can only win.

Write.  Everything.  Down.  Everything.  Even the slightest most seemingly minute thought while driving– but I can’t write while driving, and I won’t do the voice recording with my phone.  If I remember it when I reach the MC parking lot, the it gets jotted.  But I will leave nothing unscribbled.  Took me just slightly over an hour to get here, from hwy 101, just after the 12 merge.  My first class begins at 9:30, so I’ll leave at 7, precisely.  I have to.  I’ll try and prep as much as I can the prior night, but I will leave earlier than need as 1, I drive slow; 2, I need time to collect Self prior to lecture, and 3, I want to be in the room before the students– that’s always been emphasized, for me as a teacher.

Want to go for a run, but I’m afraid it may already be too hot.  And I have grading to do, for Summer.  Going to be a late night, I think.  Will tell Alice not to wait for her writing husband, as I need this semester to be the one that frees me from the bloody clock.  Was going to stop at SRJC on the way back, but am now thinking that’s not needed.  Love the feel of this room; the smaller gray square desks, the blue thin carpeting with swirling black lines and yellow-green subtle intricacies traversing the black entanglements; higher ceiling, two windows that look out at trees, a quaint courtyard.  And the drive up here, again, not rural but carvingly removed; like I’m in a distant part of one of the 4 corner states.  I only thought on the drive, how I was on MY clock, thinking my thoughts and writing my own story, finally.  Hope hasn’t been restored, it’s been trumped.  I’m free, intrinsically, definitively.  THIS, is Artistry.

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7/31/14–

Tomorrow, Santa Barbara.  And I may have an opportunity at Sonoma State.  Not sure yet.  Will send my materials by way of email, tomorrow, before I leave, while Alice is on her run.  My first Kerouac book came in the mail today, a collection of his letters.  Didn’t know I bought a used book, once in a library, somewhere, can’t remember where.  I will write the whole time in SB, if not tangibly then mentally.  Bringing my Lagunitas Ale into living room with me; not breaking law of no drinking, anything, on the new couch.  Promised Ms. Alice and I will obey…  The ocean, the sand, that view from our Room down there, just waiting for me.  What can I do but be patient.  I hate that.  HATE it.  The power went out on campus today, interrupting a poetry writing activity, right after we began.  I urged the students to write through it, and they did, after two, both vets, walked around the building, outside, to make sure all was okay– their impulse, prompted by a rumble, heard by everyone in class.  But we wrote on, past it.  It was interesting.

I try to relax, but I stress thinking about the fact I only have, basically– no, less than– 48 hours in SB.  I shouldn’t do that.  Why am  I doing that?  Just enjoy.  Have a run, get one page into the book, and enjoy.  And just because you’re not physically writing doesn’t mean you’re NOT writing.  You are.  Living IS writing, I tell myself.  And my writer friends would agree.  Should sent one of them a note tonight.  I will.  But I doubt she’ll return.  She’s free, flying, a flight attendant, attending flights and her flights attend to her, her pages, her vignettes as she recently told me she’s scribbling.

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Sipping Pinot, the one my friend Ed gave me a couple years ago, or maybe early ’13.  Not sure.  It’s a Pinot; earthy, light fruit, a tad vegetal.  But with a refinement I haven’t encountered before.  9:33p, and little Kerouac very much in his little dreams.  Takeout from up the street, Legends, and I elected my usual, the mushroom/swiss burger with fries.  Not the best pairing with the burger, but that wasn’t my aim, anyway.  And now, I’m truly tired, ready for bed, but I want to research the authors I’ll be using for Fall.. no time.  Can only think, and as I research Kerouac, watch that Big Sur movie, over and over, I understand that the best act I can tell is inaction, just taking it all into character.  So I will, without over-thought.

Tomorrow, I hope something interesting happens, anything, some story, some development.  I don’t know.. I just want something, for the story, so I can be with them.. Scott, Glenn, Bob, Crystal, Dav…  But I can only hope, write, write while I hope and hope while writing.. somewhat deconstructive and destructive.  But that’s Art, strange, and liquified, the more Pinot I sip.  Ed, once a clock-puncher now a wine-wielder.  How?  And why can’t I transcend and time-bend?  I’m not with talent like he.. and he has strategy.  I’m just a fucking writer…

Alice’s shows violate my auditory, like bees, or something that stings, sneaking through screens.  I’m hurt, disrupted, I hate the TV, and anything on it, except for Nat Geo docs.  I can’t wait for my marathon, Santa Cruz, May 2015.

And the Pinot’s gone, thank the good of ness.  What if I could sneak in 3 miles tomorrow morning, or even 2?  I’ll see, and then have more coffee.  And if those devils are reading this, they’re probably laughing, or scratching their heads, ‘cause Literature, true Writing, hurts, as it makes them think, and thinking isn’t for everyone, especially Them.

(7/30/14

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29

And to Mendocino I went today.  Wrote about the heat in my new notebook, the one I took from the SRJC Eng Dept copy room.  It was so intense I was nearly convinced, thoroughly, that I was going to get sick on the ride home.  But on notes more uplifting, I only have official transcripts to send them, then I actually exist, or am “a real person” as the HR lady, Nicole, put it.  I did place a tentative book order, though, and did settle on the books just disclosed in a recent entry: Feast, Road, Wolff’s stories, and Me Talk Pretty by Sedaris…  Being on the Road today, as I was when commuting to Solano in Fall ’10 brought back not just memories but values, a world view I haven’t had since before Jack came into my play.  And all in a positive way.  The drive north, to Ukiah, taking a little over an hour at my slow speed, giving me mountains, a little river peek, vineyards, clouds, intense green then the barren…  It’s the Road, or as much as I can experience now.  But I’m doing it again!  I am!  A freeway flyer.  And I used to have the pessimist’s stump in my mental, since I let the wrong people infect me.  But not this time.  I’m in a true 35 Lark, honoring so many of my Laws, my new notes…  And I couldn’t be happier.  Yes, I know it’ll make for days long, so long, torturously.  But I’m set to be more regimented than I’ve ever been.  The days of wine’s world and industry in this writer’s wheeling ward are nearly executed.  Today’s drive made me feel independent…  FREE!  Just what JK would want for me.

Tonight’s session with the ‘100’ section went well, more than “well”.. it was energized, and I know they have to take control of this final assignment in a way they never have with the others, or with anything else they’ve done with other classes.  And that makes me.. I don’t know if “proud” is the word I’d zoom, but something like it, I guess.  Or how about ‘subtly supercilious’?  It made me feel good.  Healthy.  Alive.  And again, after my drives, even more FREE.  Little Kerouac, fell asleep with unusual diplomacy tonight.  Which is wonderful, I want to run tomorrow morning after Ms. Alice.  She registered me for the ‘Healdsburg Half’.  So now there’s no turning back.  Have to get on a training program.   And I love that feeling, the commitment on MY bloody terms.  The sounds this house makes always distract me, and I don’t know why.  I don’t believe in the supernatural anything, but I just get spooked when it’s too quiet.  But then so oddly and contradictorily I only long for quiet, like a couple Saturday nights ago when I was charging at the Reserve Cab, in the kitchen nook–  And I hope I’m awake tomorrow before Alice leaves, when it IS quiet, so I can add to the 40 pages, for the first of the series.. don’t want to call it a ‘penny dreadful’, but something like that, just more substance, more Literary, more hope and Humanness I guess.  And the coffee, that’ll always be in this writer’s morning recipe.

(7/28/14)

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28

And I was reminded, again, organically, by my own thought stream, to put everything out there– everything I write.  And I’m 35, the journey should have already catapulted, no?  but I can’t get into that again, that’ll only halt me.  And I’m not a genre fellow, I won’t write something that’ll be so conveniently marketed and categorized on Amazon, or at B&N.  I don’t know what set me on this road, but I’m thinking in dismal droves.  For what?  My Beat, my beat, like I’m an officer on my own streets.  Took my first sip of the ’10 Lancaster Cuvée, and I swear it wants me on the Road, in some hotel, writing, finish or just beginning something.  One of the people I took to the mountaintop today asked me, “So how long have you been working here?” That question I hate.  ONE, why do you care, and, TWO, I’m slightly embarrassed to disclose that two of my life’s 365- blocks have been consumed by that place.  And it’s a celestial spot, really, but the job is what ruins it.  The job.. another fucking job.  Dav showed me this collection of articles today, in a book.  I only had the chance to skim through it but none of the pieces, if I heard Dav right, goes beyond 800 or a thousand words.  And it’s journalism, reporting, accuracy or the hope of.  And my character, and characters, still waiting for their placement.  But the wine motivates, like that tree the other day, the one I saw from the gravel lot.  Still not sure why it folded me as it did, with its everydayness, but it was there, and so was I, and we were meant to see each other as we did– or I was meant to see it.  Right before leaving for class, just before 4:30p, I had a huge sip of the SB, the one from neutral oak, and I looked at the tank room, all that steel, and hoses, and puddles, discolored concrete– purple, red, slight brown or yellow or some shade I can’t parlance in this pulse of prose.  But today it took me, and as I succeeded in my gulp, I saw myself there, another direction, on that walkway above the tanks, looking down, or doing additions from up top, or watching the yeast react, eat what they could, but just watch either way.  OR, I could just stand in there, on the clock, find some hidden corner and just write, no photos, just notes, spy on them– these epoch edgers; what they do, how they talk, how they walk around like all of this is because of them; they’re so elevated and sagacious and sterling with their stenches and barreled tumbles and everything they deem an obscure and intriguing subtlety.  I pull label, and it is, ‘buffoonery’.  Comedy, meant for me, but I’ll still sip, ‘cause that’s the point, correct?  I mean, did I miss something, or am I just off-topic again?  My students need one speaking this frankly, so I completely let go, for the first occasion in 35 years.  So take that, devil.. machine…  And on my run tomorrow morning, I’ll recite this all in head, or what I can remember.  And I could care less if it has a SKU, ever.

(7/24/14)

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journal

7/21/14.  And I’m in the adjunct cell.  Wrote my words for the day, 3 full fictive pages, and I’m ready for class, for the most part.  Have to print some papers for Mendocino, so they can have all my materials by Wednesday (I’ll probably drive up, early).  Did my fingerprints and TB fax-over earlier today, along with getting a couple new pairs of bootcut jeans and some black shoes, only to be worn to class.  My old black ones were just that– old.  And beaten.  And bitter.  I’m very easily over 2,000 words for the day.  And I have this bizarre rare species of ease about me.  Don’t know what it is.  And it’s even more peculiar as I’m sipping a mocha, one of my 3-shots.  I may be too relaxed to write, even.  I also blame this jazz, this particular song, “The Folks Who Live on the Hill” by Brad Mehldau.  Walking away from this sitting, going to class, hoping to wake tomorrow, early.  Didn’t go for a run today.  I have no excuse to submit to you, reader.  But tomorrow’s A.M., before that bloody winery, I’ll be scurrying about Bennett’s Valley.

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journal

10:31PM.  Now, my Merlot open.  Running tomorrow after Alice returns from her morning jaunt with her sprinting partners.  So renewing to have my little Kerouac back.  The Mendo classes.. planning for them already.  And tomorrow, with the ‘100’ students.. have to throw them for some beneficial spiral.  But what?  I’m thinking…  Something with writing, something with independent research, and something with them seeking an answer.. an ANSWER.  But what.  How do I frame this?  See..  I never give wine this much thought.  And I shouldn’t.  It’s wine.  It’s consumable.  IT, quickly gone, then forgotten.  And then the consumer looks to the next vintage.  And then that’s consumed.

Rain today.  Renewing.  And that smell, with the pavement, like a new season was coming but wasn’t.  I remember standing there, right in front of the doors, with Micah, confused, like I should be writing but not, just experiencing the oddity of this precipitation– new phase, or year, or me, finally free.  Should put Self to bed soon.  But I fall into sleep aware of what I need to do tomorrow morning, before on MY run.  The class, it’s all about the class, the students, and the sections of Fall.  I’m staging my rebellion, and I can only win.  (7/20/14)

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25

7/15/14–

Next day, I’m up around 6:40-something. Sipping coffee, watching little Kerouac play, on this toy drum that talks back to him and encourages him to hit harder, make his own music which I like.  Last night, sleeping better than I have in some nights.. deep, composed, still and mentoring.  Jackie doesn’t like me typing, so this session has to be postposed.

 

“Owed…”

Didn’t want to come in early.  And I’m not.  I’m just in the parking lot, the “overflow” as they call it.  Part of me was afraid to come to the estate early– “the estate”, makes it sound so exalted, so mighty, but it’s not, it’s an ordinary workplace, just much prettier.  I look out at the Merlot and Chard blocks, see the tree to my immediate left, nearly touching the roof of this Passat.  It moves with the wind’s orders.  And I listen to my music, pretend I’m not here, or fully embrace it.  Have to apply to that job, the distance learning assignment through Klamath.  OH– and I need to call Solano.  Should do that now, or do it on their dime, while I should be working or setting up or counting some bloody register.  This novel will reveal everything, showing all the industry that writers won’t be quiet– and I mean REAL writers, not dim-witted and dopy-brained bloggers or wine journalists, or wine writers– yes, I know I titled my latest blog, which I started over 2 years ago, “another Literary wine blog by Mike Madigan”, but that’s just it.. ‘another’, meant to be sarcastic, satirical and spiteful, and ‘Literary’ meaning that it’s more important than the wine component, and not just from being capitalized.  The jazz, telling me to go to San Francisco, walk where the Beats did, live like them, continue the revolution, or social movement.. move, you have to move and be in constant movement to be part of a movement, don’t you?  The mocha, in fact all the coffee I’ve sipped this morning, making me uneasy, a bit touchy, or “punchy” as Dwight says of me when I’ve had too much, but I’m rolling with it.. this fiction, about the characters based in the TR and the ones visiting, sure to change it all, strip this guised industry of the fantasy, show how most Rooms are merely revolving doors, only interesting in the “bottom line”.  You could call it justified in the capitalist net, but I call it carnivorous opportunism.  And I’ve had it.  Now the coffee feel’s beginning to balance.  Much better.  Miles Davis with me, and the image of a dark room, trumpets, saxophones, drums, a young female vocalist riling me.  On a trip, to Manhattan, for my book, then down to Missouri to see my brother, Dav.. check in on his photojournalism, his studies, his latest works.  Now Sonny Rollins, I’m on the Road, visiting people I never thought I’d meet.  So I continue with the logging of everything I see, each corner, light, building, smell, concrete stain, bookstore, auto repair joint and tavern.  But I don’t drink, not a single thing, which is hard to believe for one formerly in wine’s wicked industry.  I have only the little pages in my back pocket…

 

See a young lady, sipping her coffee at the bus stop.  Part of me wants to go up to her, see her coy red lips, not too bright, up close, and examine the pattern of her white shirt, sleeves only going down to where shoulder meets bicep and tri, how her hairs like a thick caramel path to her upper back, partially exposed; I wonder what she does, she’s probably a singer, or maybe a student, why is she taking the bus?  Maybe that’s what they do in New York, no one has a car– I’ve heard that actually.

 

Alley.  I want to go down, but something tells me know– I mean ‘no’.  See?  Too much coffee…  I only see a lone dumpster, no litter on ground which is curious to me.  No people, no cars, just quiet, and the dead-end, like an atmospheric message saying ‘don’t bother, you won’t get far’.

 

9:11AM.  Should go in soon, or not.  Maybe I should leave early.  That would help me, and that’s all I’m concerned with at the moment; the page, the characters, the story, my novel.  A former student, ‘A’, experiencing fiery betrayal from a loved one; I tell her it’ll get better, but I understand pain, the two-faced reptiles that hive and enter our lives.  And I think about what I wrote her, mostly questions– she, a grad student; me, envious.  But I’ll be on the Road soon, maybe visiting her, in Portland, or wherever in Oregon she is.  A little hot in this car so I roll down both windows, but no crossing breeze greets me– there it is.  How will I look back at my position here, at the winery?  Will I wish for it one day, regretting my resentment?  I don’t think so.  I’m 35 and know what I want– or more, I know who and WHAT I am.  Novelist, poet.. with maybe a short-short and/or vignette in between.  I heard a weed whacker, or lawn mowers, and it intrudes on Arturo Sandoval’s playing.  Goddamnit.  “Shut up!” I want to scream, and hope someone hears me.  Maybe I’d be fired.  Huh…

9:17.  And the fucking countdown.  One of my coworkers just pulled in; Karen, in her red mini.  She has the same expression on her face that I held driving in, before I started writing: “And again…” I don’t blame her.  Why else would I be writing, wishing for a Road, wishing for visits, those Manhattan sights, the Portland micro-breweries.  Don’t think I’ll make a thousand or maybe I will, but I can’t edit a single thing– this does this to me, the schedule, the clock and how it’s always threatening; you don’t clock in you’ll be written up, you won’t make enough, you.. you.. you…..  How is that a Life?  Well, plainly, it’s not.  Certainly not Art.  I want more coffee, the most jurassic I can find; I want seismic coffee, that makes me rattle and results in internal tsunami.  Love.  that’s art– the push of Self.  Oh, jazz…  Kerouac…. poetry and Life and escape and Big Sur and the Bay Area, where I grew up.  I see my whole life and I’m not dying.  I’m just coming alive in a way that was drawn, that Grandma promised.

***

9:25PM.  Sipping the 2012 Malbec.  I know, I should have waited, but I didn’t want to, and I have no regrets.  Yes, it’s muffled, but I don’t want to think, I want to enjoy what I drink.  Nice class tonight– oh, need to post to blog, almost forgot.  I’ll do that after this little paragraph.  In full teacher mode, especially with the possibility of landing a Comp section at Mendocino, for Fall.  Couldn’t be more excited.  This weekend, my writer’s retreat, and I’ll write the whole time.  No Gatsby nights, as I used to.  Total isolation.. printing.. wine.. relaxing…  Jazz.  I want it to be one of those sittings where I remove all clutter from this kitchen nook table, maybe setting it on floor or on one of these teetering wooden cheap chairs, then having one of my favorite bands or artists play what gives them life, then giving me life, finishing my novel.. and the wine, only an additive.  Not really needed at all, just pleasant to sip in quiet, my peace, my place, my night.  Little Kerouac asleep upstairs, and I envy his peace, his optimism and joy and movement, how does he do that?  My notes from tonight’s class, just ruin, and what do I do tomorrow night to keep them interested?  How do I keep it “fresh”, whatever that means?  There has to be some teacher magic or resource, or “method” (hate that word when talking of teaching, sounding so clinical)–  But who knows.  And if I was traveling, how would I have time to teach?  It’s just what I’d rather do.  I do love it, but not as much as the reality of living by pen–  PEN, not laptop, which is what I now touch, these fucking keys and the noises they make, like little plastic giggles reminding me of what a bloody hypocrite I am.. no, I’m not a man of consistency, but one of layered pattern and myriad mess, failed test, just more unrest.

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22

I’m on the couch, sipping what remains of the red from last night.  Already looking forward to coffee, and the run tomorrow night, after work.  What can I do– 5 miles?  Six?  Still feel the Foot Race, in upper portions, legs.  But what can I do?  The pictures I took this morning, while on the side of 12, on St. Francis’ grounds, urging me to expand beyond what’s normal, what’s known and expected.  I want to be in a car, one just driving, through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, and wherever else I find myself.  I want all to be unexpected, all to be unplanned, and written.  I need another sip of this Cab-centered blend.  Sometimes I wish people would just stop talking.  I think that’s why I was so perturbed today with every body that came into the Room, asking their fucking questions– “How does this Chardonnay taste?  Is it oaky?” I don’t know, dumbshit, why don’t you taste it and find out?  I don’t know what it is, but I woke with venom, I wanted to bite.. anyone.  But my wife calmed me.  She told me everything would be fine, that she was there, there, there with me, for me, it was about me.  And I felt horrible.  So I change, or I plan to anyway–  I just want to drink my red, enjoy this movie, the one about Kerouac…  The waves, just below Big Sur, delicious about the curl of water, but I can only stare, like a famished and parched jackass.  That’s me, and that’s my Beat, the one of dumbdom.

 

Can’t write this morning.  I feel like a paperweight.

Not able to compose an article or piece worthy of eyes.  I need more, yes, coffee.  But I can’t find quiet, either.  I’m a mess this morning and I’m not even hungover.  I just watch Jack play, envious of his energy, optimism.  I need to go, early, to work, so I can write.

 

10:30PM.  Sipping water.  Lime.  Sparkling.  Hoping that will help the writer wake earlier than any earliest early.  So what do I do?  Watch the Big Sur movie again, or whatever I can before sleep.  Have to grade all the ‘100’ papers tomorrow.  And I will.

 

7/7/14–  Canceling class tonight, Jackie taking a fall.  My heart rate, still up, and I’m jittery and jumping.  Didn’t get a chance to write anything today but those infernal wine club letters.  MY mood, sharper, falling, angry.  Not because of Jack’s fall, just from the constant plainness of this all.. the winery and these ridiculous teaching assignments.  I finish two standalones tonight.  And from there Life’s changed.

 

8:15PM.  And I’ll write, straight till 10:45.  Same thoughts and entertainments, and ambitions flying through head like lost sparrows, or hawks, some just dumb gulls.  After Jack’s fall, I’m still shaken, beating myself internally as if I could have prevented it.. and I think I could have, but what will this interrogation do?  Feel like a tired writer this evening.  It’s up to me to change my mood, to strip the angst away and just keep with the typing.. truly immersed in Kerouac’s cognition.  I think of Big Sur, or anywhere I want to write– it has to be location-based.  Assignment by assignment.. Two standalone works, at ready on desktop.  But I have to finish that short story.. the one about the journalist, using company dime to write his freelance works.  Love how into photography I’ve been lately, and how the visual just keeps me hungry for the Road, for that Newness– and that’s my “beat” as Dav says.. or ‘Beat’, as I always write.  What if.. by Fall… I’m free.  Just.  What.  IF.  What if it’s not a ‘what if’?  It won’t be!  Challenge to Self:  1,000 words, everyday, and each day being its own standalone, its own assignment, as long as I can have the stretch last… Done.  Then tomorrow’s our first day.  Has to be fiction.  And no interference.  Each day is its own project, its own world and calculation, there for creative manipulation.  And what do I have to change about mySelf as a character– everything.  But I begin here.. and I think about all the notes I took in college, both undergrad at at CSUEB, for my Master’s.  And now I think of what it did for me, if anything.. well, contributed to the habit, of journaling, I guess.  I need more solitude, to get back into the journaling habit in a way I haven’t been, for years.  You could call this a journal, but I post it to the goddamn blog– Kerouac never did that from Big Sur.  He went there for isolation, recovery, recalculation.  He wasn’t tweeting, posting photos, “blogging”.  All I can hear right now from this kitchen nook is the TV, the show Alice watches.  So tomorrow, I’ll take lunch by mySelf, have quiet on top of quiet.. have my thousand words done by the time I’m back in that tasting room, answering the same humorous inquiries and repeating the same wine “facts” I always do.  Should be preparing for class tomorrow, and I will, in a bit.  I don’t care how hot it is, I’ll write in my car, pen to paper, like Kerouac did, and feed from the vineyard views, the mountains and how they look down at the owl boxes on the estate, the parking lot, the garden, “Hill House”, and me.. the dizzy writer, probably penitent penner, still looking for his path, at 35.  With my night’s capping now alongside, I can focus on the visions– the boat taking me up the coast, or the mountains going east, or in the Swiss Alps– driving across the country, where I’d stop.. if I could document that.  I will.  But what I have now.. the students, this class.  And certain explorations of wine.  The vineyards, now, coming to life like they can’t wait for harvest, like they can’t wait to be in bottle.  My camera on the table with me, begging me– or more tempting, to look at the stills I shot the other day.  Was that Saturday?  Think so, but anyway, I refuse to leave the words, these paragraphs for some still image.

Posted to teaching blog, and the cap is nearly dead.  Good, I need full concentration.  And hope to wake at 5, or earlier.  If I do, I WILL NOT go back into that pillow.  Yes, that will make for a longer day, but I don’t care.  I’ll deal with it.  It’s all for the thousand words.  For the work, the character– the FICTION itself.  My character, Dave, or “Dov” as some of the other journalists and editors call him, dreams of going out to Africa, the Middle East, to capture political development with his lenses.  OR, how the sand changes the environment, and how change revolves in the unexpected social, climatic, political shifts.  But he wants to write to his photos, as I do.. but the difference between he and I is that his aim is always the shot where’s mine stays the page.  But he keeps shooting.  Anything.  Everything.  He make sit Art, with minimal post-production, or editing, or coloring, or “shopping”.  He wakes early, goes for a walk/hike, every morning, for the light.  “It’s all about light, and what light type the day gives me,” he wrote once, in one of his journal, one he can’t find now.  His work has piled, accumulated messily, hastily, but he has no choice or recourse or maneuvers, he produces too fast, and too much, but that told him that he was, IS, an Artist, one true to Craft.

Wine, I’d be sipping it, if I were in a hotel, like Dav told me he did for one of the ‘5’ papers.  I’d look out at whatever city was lit, wonder what people are doing there, there, over there by that building.  The fantasy makes my reality bearable.  Jackie has a father committed to his vision–  “What does your Dad do?” his teacher will ask.  “He’s a writer,” he answers.  Smiling, firm, proud– or something to that line, shape.  He knows who his father is, and he knows that Dad KNOWS who he, himself, is.  His father wavers never– he’s a soldier, one by thought, entrenched in sight, belief.

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