Posts Tagged With: Diary


2,395 words so far today written.  Wrote Dav, wrote my daily 500-word standalone.. feeling like a professional writer, whatever that means– well, one that can actually live from their craft.  Hungry, will eat the PBJ I made for myself this morning.  And when at SRJC, another black coffee– no mocha.. save for publishing and Jackie’s college and vacation with Alice and our next dinner date.

Two more quick meetings when in SR.  Want the students to arrive next meeting with strong drafts for this Wolff paper.  I’m hoping they surprise themselves and me as well.  I’m trying to hold onto faith in the American Scholar, but it’s been hard this semester.

1:10, time to go.  Can’t wait for my Road snacks, and the jazz, and the additional writing I’ll have done on campus, at my base campus, the mainland!  Joy!  Missing my little boy, though.. trying to work and write and drive through it.

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Seen Likely

10:52PM.  Mom and Dad’s house, Jackie asleep, me done from day, delayed and decayed, energy-wise, and I enjoy my cap, an AV Cab.  But I look forward to sleep, deep rest to recollect– the day only annoyed me, all the questions and looks and remarks and overanalysis of wine.  It’s only bloody wine, I wanted to yell at them, gawking at the vinaceous puddles, why do they do that, have they never had red wine before?  What’s their deal I ask myself just watching them sip then looking back down at the menu, just dizzying in their spins and things, revamped in my core– poems now, like the three I wrote today on their dime– first sip of this AV Cab that Dad was sipping, me earlier enjoying the cuvée I made in ’12…  Typical AV bordeaux; leather chocolate cigar box espresso, just what I need after a day like this.  Was tipped $100 on a barrel tasting tour, which made me happy, that not happening often, if ever.

I’m reaching a point where I’m hesitant to tell people I write, which scares me, I never used to be like that– am I ashamed or afraid?  Why is this age, 35, contaminating my cognition as it does?  Kerouac didn’t let that roar so.  So…  What am I doing?  Publish anything, and everything, as my character Glenn recommended, as he did with his drawings on napkins– you’ll read when the novel comes out.

I’m dreaming of my coffee in the morning, already, and when home my mom will watch the little Artist and I’ll shower and dress and then write for I hope about an hour, I hope.. with more coffee than I should probably have.. just keep writing till another book’s finished, and another and another.. and Self-publish everything.  Had a conversation with someone recently about what publishers do to the writer’s work, and it’s devilish.  Ball for one begun, and it’s all me, completely with this release sequentiality.

And then, I feel relaxed, just in the moment, a Zen, an Equalized ride piling in my personhood.  Love, shores, views, celebratory scream in me.

I see me as a professor as leadership or I’m leading something and I don’t want to anymore.  I want to be completely sovereign, Autonomous, I only want to lead mySelf, no one other, river in tow with my flame and I go.  And the Cabernet’s gone, a fellno, and me alone, with thoughts and worries and what-I’m-gonna-do’s for Monday.  I’ve seen nothing, I haven’t shaken faults, and not anything chopping..I need to be more Beat, BEATEN.  I could go in tomorrow and quit, just leave, but I wouldn’t do that to Mary or Dwight– I can’t do that to characters I value– well I value them all, but there are few, FEW, I spare my fury.

Lunch today, Palooza, a beer and that chicken sandwich– and I had a whole half-day ahead.  Why have I done this to me my character my story my waves and standing or sitting.  They’re snakes, all of them!

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I should just

start an adjunct log, for other adjuncts– start a real movement, maybe I’ll then get “picked up”.  Yeah?  Or just detail my details of my barely detailed day.  Right now, I’m in the cell, the shared office they let us adjuncts use.  How generous.  And yes, I wonder what it’s like to have one of those rooms, those offices to myself.  But I’ll just keep thinking.  Had to take a break from a stack of papers ’cause the writing hurt me so horribly– ears eyes mind and stomach.  But I can’t blame the students for the ill-prescriptions of high school.  And I won’t let this cage, this cell, this shared office I’m in drive me any madder.  We adjuncts forage, but only from letting them, letting them do this to us, and letting US do this to us.  What if I said ‘no more’, that I would only write about the adjunct life, that I don’t want to do it anymore and that I want to write about it to be a voice for us, the ones who aren’t complacent and distant and self-anointed in our cozy little corners, decorated to expose our biases and agendas and be a selfish advertisement; and so many of them are like that– when you’re full-time you sigh, you exhale and you lay down, relax, and if students don’t like your ways and methods and ideas (if they offer any innovative ones, anymore in their career, or even teach, speak with sincerity and connection), then who cares.  You’re full-time.  And if you’re tenured, then fuck the world!  What can it do?  You could light the quad on fire and they can barely engage you in discussion or ask why you did it.  I have too much shape and color for such a fluff cloud.  I’ll stay an adjunct FOR the adjuncts.  For my students.  And if I’m ever full-time, then I’ll still work for them; offer to be voice for them, for us, even if I’m one, technically, of THEM.


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Just woke.  Short bathroom break and now writing.  Again, I feel safer writing here than in the magazine, or starting some new book– not yet, not time.. yet.  Going in late for club event, home a little late then half marathon tomorrow.  Landed fall classes for SRJC: English 1A in morning, early (7AM), than a 1B in Petaluma, I think 12-1:30.  Then done.  No Mendo.  I mean, I could take classes there, but they haven’t offered me anything official yet, or what I deem official– only ones tentative with the observation contingency, which we haven’t debriefed yet.  They’re moving too slow in Ukiah, and even if they were more motivated, motioned, I wouldn’t take them.  I want more time to write and more time with little Kerouac, who was again coughing last night, my poor little Artist.  Tired from yesterday in the reserf room, and tonight’s event better not even be the least bit demanding, not stressing or straining me even a little.

Tempted to get a little more sleep, but I needed to write.. something.  Jackie’s up, going up to get him…

7:16AM.  First sip of coffee, poems I wrote yesterday, may blend them together, but not in the same order they were scribbled or typed on phone.  I’m not in any way about “order” these days.. just writing and releasing, the moment and the Newness, the knowledge that Emerson said I need to find, for myself, and the Equilibrium that Dad said one day I’d find.  And I think I have, or at least I can see it and I think about that watching little Jack play with his toys, with two batteries in and out of the airplane piggybank, he removed the front portion with the propeller, puts the batteries (AA) in, jiggles them then removes.  He has a system, a pattern, methodology to everything he does and I just sit here with candied envy.. and I’m not an agelast, I do giggle a bit but I also analyze, see how I can have some of what he exercises.

I’m basorexic with words this morning, language, spinning it however I want like a turtle in the pacific riding some unexpected or known current for amusement or transportation or both.  I’m just holding words then returning them to the world in a more libation-like layer.  Tomorrow’s run, visible.  I just have to start slow.  I can still feel the 7.2 run from Thursday.

$4200 in account, putting $150 on couch, then it’s paid.  That leaves $4050.  Put $200 on cc, 3850.  And there I’ll stop for now.  Want to put around $500 toward the house fund and maybe $250 or $275, maybe $280 to my publishing stash at Schwab.  And no new camera!  I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a new device for pictures.  Eventually, maybe, just not yet.  I’d rather write and at this point anything that intercedes with the pages is punishable obstruction as I see it.–  $280 to company.  and I stop.

Jackie plays with a couple pennies, nickels and dimes I gave him.  “Dada, that’s my money, I pu’ i’ here!” he says, turning back around to focus on his arranging.  Feel like xenobombulating today, make up some excuse.  They have plenty of people, right?  In the speed-walking wine club member frenzy and dogma of entitlement and somehow warranted overconsumption.. I don’t want to hear their requests and hear how they’ve been club members for years, or a little over a year, or they just signed up and are already acting like they own the bloody winery.. I just don’t want to hear it.

More coffee.  I hate it when it approaches the Siberian stage of staleness and it loses its courage.  Excuse me…  Second cup cued.  Blankets on the floor just in front of a puddle of toys.  Very much looking forward to only teaching two classes next term.  And, I have to be honest, the drive is something I won’t at all miss.  At first it was exhilarating being a freeway flying teacher again, but I’m calling it, it’s over, no more, more centralization and that pertains to vocation avocation and geography.  Flying for adjunct assignments is a young person’s pursuit, and I’m an aging writing stuck and even further harnessed to my ways, practices.  “Less is more,” a full-timer at Napa Valley College once said to me, addressing quality vs quantity with courseload.  Now I get it, now I see…

And the morning is much in motion with Alice up and out for a walk.  No running with her recently paining knee.  And laundry upstairs, groaning and circling and throwing water and soap all over its insides.  And Jack, jumping from snack to snack, seemingly never full and never bored and never, never exhausted with his surrounding.  Never with mulligrubs.  How does he do that?  He’s luminous always, even when he wakes in the middle of the night like last night, he had a question: “Where mama go?”

He rises from his recent snack and goes to the table where his cars and trucks and trains and one plane situate.  The winery on thoughts, the vent, but I won’t let it stay long.  I’m like a photographer walking around looking for the perfect shot, like that guy yesterday that I saw roaming around the Syrah hill with his camera and stand, standing with folded arms deciding when to push his button.

Hoping to get a haircut today, not that you needed to know that but I’m looking for anything to note at this point, anything.. I’m running out of fuel, ideas, thinking of the past; Arundel, my grammar school and Serra, the high school– seems like two lives ago.  And how?  My goal for tomorrow, on running’s note, is to feel better than I did on the last ‘half’ at mile 10.  Mile 10 is where everything started to wear, pain, pulsate about me.  But not tomorrow.  [8:18AM]

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journal excerpts–

The weather, hot.  This has to be Summer’s last song, I guess– in technical coding, it’s Fall.  But it’s very much a summer song outside.. no clouds, sun, heat, and the air that warms you even if you’re in the shade and want to be left alone.  I could use more coffee, as you probably already guess.  The drive this morning, long and tiring like it hasn’t ever been.  And of course on the day I’m observed, right?  I don’t see luck as anything real, just an excuse that certain characters utilize to generate.. something, not sure what, empathy and sympathy in and out of themselves.

SRJC next.  I need to get to the library, write and research teaching and those models and modes I mentioned.  I think I’ll start them off with a freewrite prompt.  What?  Don’t know, need to find one.  I want them, the students, or I hope they go outside themselves with thinking and the assignments and what they write, ALWAYS–

Done checking campus emails.  OF course nothing that immediately if at all concerns me.  That happens as a teacher, you’ll see…  I’ll have my sparkling water on the way back to SoCo, and think of new directions for the 1A classes.. first, writing, then talking about the news and current events, connect to sympathy and empathy, the group them up explore the short stories more– but I want to do something else.. what…  WHAT?  Not enough time.  Already 1:03.  I’m relaxing, breathing like the article I read yesterday urged.  Yeah, I breathe, but not like this.. I need to do this more.  THIS.  Really breathing, and for me.

prompt for students, SRJC:  Something society needs to pay more attention to is… [make an argument for why we should care]

There.  That’s how I’ll start.  And I’ll pull up a couple news sources; CNN, CNBC, New York Times, BBC…  Still with the journalism bug, me, always.  I want to report, and I think that’s what much of teaching is; reporting, ideas and writing directions and “rules” I guess, but conveying something to the student, something they should value, and carry forward with them, or “walk away with” as I say.

1:08.  Leaving in 7.  Not enough time, like I wrote yesterday for whoso and the entirety of my writing Life.  No looking back, with anything.  I read the news and see all this despair and tragedy, death.  Life needs to be lived, not quarreled over or stressed within.  If I didn’t have these Mendo sections, I could be writing, or I would be right now.  There will be no more four course semesters, not as long as I’m on hwy 12.  Should leave.. I’ll finish this entry in Santa Rosa.  Stay ahead of Time and your schedule and your commitments and projects.  Then everything works and creates music.

4:53PM.  In library, more exposed than I’d like to be, at one of those four chair study tables in the middle of the floor.  I won’t listen to anything but I own wants.  People walk by, they could rad my novel I guess, or some small sliver of this journal, but I don’t care.  A student sits at the table, left, by self, opens a binder, breaths heavy as if he ran here, I’m sure he did– but I can’t pay attention to anything other than what I type and what I think and what I have to do to get on the university campus– and whoso will provide that bridge.  After posting to the blog I’ll contribute something, something, some thought or entertainment from day, like the drive and the low intensity to the Sonoma/Mendocino sun driving on 101’s northerness.  An older man at one of the computer terminals, right about fifteen yards.  Wonder what he’s looking up, or studying, or just casually looking into.  Two ladies, older, at the table at 11 o’clock, reviewing each other’s answers to something, I’m guessing some math assignment.  They speak fluent spanish and one tells the other that their assignment is ‘loco’.  I almost laugh, as I’m sure some of my students think I or some of my paper prompts or ideas are a bit crazy as well.

Haven’t touched the novel in days.  What’s wrong with me?  There…  Just opened both documents containing its pages.  Need to stand by my deadlines, finish ALL projects.. creep through my old writings and ones not so old 300 pages at a time– that will be my life strategy, my life’s work.

There…  I’m up to 194 pages of content in the novel, with recent Spring ’14 adds.  There there THERE!!!  I’m back in my novelist character!  This is addicting, these adds.. a novel, mine, my story as writer father teacher winery drone wine drinker runner and roamer– on page, for readers, or maybe just for me, and who cares if it’s just for me?  Isn’t that real writing?  Idea for vignette– for whoso.  I’ll keep it internal, save it for later, and if I remember it then it’s meant for page, right?  Thinking of the presence of death in Wolff’s stories, and in Kerouac, and how that makes their material so much more REACHING, generating more sympathy.  I can only find it interesting, I have to say, and beautiful, not the way Poe saw death as beautiful.. different than that.  Not sure how to phrase it or articulate it, but that’s something I could pitch to the 6PM-ers for a paper topic.

Already not in the mood for the winery tomorrow.  Not in the mood for the people and what they ask and how they sip the wine and how they over-over-over-think it– battery low, need a charge.. to the 4th floor.

4th.  With a view that I’ve never been graced with– the quad, the bookstore, the trees and students rushing to class, some skateboarding, walking, just wandering– envy the life.  Forgot cord in car, so this laptop will die.  Well there you go, death in this writing session.  10% left– posting…

Internet down.  Writing in Comp Book.

10/9–  Payday tomorrow.  Good.  Need to somehow find time to go to Schwab and move some money around, for house and company.  This morning’s session in the Kenwood lot will be for whoso– feeling slow this morning, and guilty as I haven’t run in a while, and I have the ‘half’ coming up, three days away.  At this time on Sunday, I’ll either already be there or be on my way to Healdsburg, to that starting point.  I’m just looking for finish in under 1:50:00.  I’m not even looking to beat my last ‘half’ time.  Not at all.  Want to have a nice run and enjoy my day off.  Right now little Jack is enraptured by his toys, arrangeing the smaller trucks in the bed or back-bin of the larger one.  “Dada, sit down!” he orders.  And I do, but I have to spackle this page, my pages my journal.  Need to do some word hunting, pack the thesaurus– have today be a day of words, empty the work bag of all those papers that were handed in yesterday, all the short reactions, and the students delaying or playing games with their instructor, like the one in the 930 section will only lose, to themselves, not to me– this semester has already tried me in like instances of students trying to skirt the system, trying to compile excuses into some impenetrable defense or rationale to where and which I have no explanation I have to either pass them or give them the grade they want.  No, sorry.  7:21– and I think about the day ahead, have to make it work for me, who am I with in the reserf room? Back from a sip of coffee Jackie says “Look a car, my Dada!” I walk to him, situate on one knee and once stationed, hug him tightly, let my little Artist know I’m not ignoring him, that I see him, that I see him playing and love what he’s doing.  Kiss on top of his soft knotty blonde head, back to keyboard.  Oh…  And to my delight, I’m not in the res room.  I’m at the bar, lovely.  But no tasting today, even if Blair asks me to the bbls.  And if he does, I’ll only smell the petite Sirah, that’s it.  The wines are developing rapidly and I don’t want to miss any of the transfers or “rackings” as they call them, from tank to bbl or bbl to bbl.  Now 7:28, need another sip of coffee, trying to be as axial as I can in my plan, this morning’s scribed map.  The novel, another racking at some point today.  MY friend has the day off so I won’t be distracted to lunch or some other type diversion on my lunch “break”.  I’ll go to the Warm Springs park and write, work on the novel as I haven’t touched it in a while– that’s not true, I racked about 10 pgs yesterday.  “Dada, wha’ doing?” he now asks, little Kerouac.  I stop, will make a recrudescence in about 5 hours.  For the novel, magazine touched in Kenwood lot.  And poems and words an odd phrases through out the day, glacial pats and Yukon-like contemplativeness–

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Not much sleep last night.  Second cup at 7:38.  Worked on Lit Mag last night and novel not at all.  Feeling much better that yesterday, no more cold evidence or ripple, and am ready for tomorrow, my observation, or as much as I can be.  Doesn’t really matter as I’m not letting myself teach at Mendo next term anyway.  Had thoughts this morning about sending bits of the novel off.. but I don’t have time to wait for the acceptance or rejection or the silence even.  I just need to publish myself, start a real company, or “label” as these winemakers say, and just go for it.. and by ‘it’ I mean everything.  Starting to feel more awake with the inaugural sips of this second cup.. Jackie coughing last night, so Alice nor the writer slept much.  Not sure if I want a mocha this morning or a large cup of the blackest of blackest coffees.  I’ll let the Story tell me.

Still no letter from Dav.  Thinking of writing my next letter to Amber, as she’s better about communication, with her grad student routine, majoring in public health with I think her eyes still on M.D.  Good for her.  I remember when she was a student in my class she always had a fire about her, a determination and refusal; she would have her way– I need react the same to everything.. why am I so safe all the time, so responsible, so scared?  Of what.  Well, always the threat that you’ll lose your job or be let go or unjustly beheaded.  And They love that, that they instill that fear.  I don’t show it obviously but I log it– I’m not that fearful really, but I don’t want to be in that position, the panic and shame and regret that follows a dismissal.  But if such happens I’ll still write, in fact I’ll have more time– so wait…  Oh I hope they send me to those gorgeous gallows.

So what’s more for the writer on a morning like this?  Mocha or coffee?  Never thought of it that way.. I want to say mocha but the coffee revs me more and especially when paired with the jazz, that Hutcherson station I always cue.. Tell me, Story!

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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.


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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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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.


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