Posts Tagged With: Freewriting

Time to leave

for Petaluma Campus. Another quick meeting of prompting students to write their stories (3 pages typed by next meeting, Tuesday), and collecting the ‘Hem papers’. Then, run when home. Need more coffee although right now I’m quite happy and functional. But could use a break from the key and from thinking too harshly as I have been since I sat here in the Emeritus conference room or whatever, since 8AM, about. Class doesn’t start for another over-2.5 hours, so I have time to think and collect and think about my ‘Wellness’. My new friend Phoebe’s topic and consistency and encompassing fervor with health has me thinking about my Life, and how Jack’s father needs to be as healthy as he can.. to be around and involved in everything. Tomorrow night, I’m thinking, for dinner I’ll make healthy quesadillas at home– onions, carrots, mushrooms inside.. and don’t sauté the ‘shrooms, not at all, just cook them and have them soak what they can from the cheese and be shriveled and soft as you like. Find some healthier chips to have on side; unsalted and, if you can, gluten-free.. Think I see a new Me approaching.. thanks my new friend, Phoebe…..

In the shared or “open” office, Petaluma. Went outside of character andIMG_5174 habit, any pattern, when I took the East Washington exit to downtown, left on the Blvd, then to Kentucky. I parked and went to the SBUX around the block (on Blvd), then went to the riverfront where I injected a couple more little pages of notes for Krystal, my character.. and new focus (Massamen novel on hold, indefinitely). No, it won’t be narrative, my story for her, but in present tense and from a 3rd person chant that conveys intimacy more so than obvious trite voice-over information.
Coffee done, now, and I count down till class.. no prep needed for 1B. IMG_5175Just going to tell them to write, hand in their papers and enjoy the weather.. find whatever push or ‘inspiration’ they need. Gorgeous outside.. in fact, it became too hot in the sun by the river, on that first bench, forcing me to move to another by the Blvd, completely sheltered by calm Petaluma-old-building/historic-edifice shade. Been some time, years I’m sure, since I walked around down there, with those buildings above me and the river and those bridges, the retired tracks–
Took only a couple pictures while there. Now I revisit a poem I wrote yesterday in the TR and forgot about, nearly, till I came across it just now about to upload the stills I shot by the river. And the day’s only starting.. 10:47AM. I have to run when back home, have to! Just five miles, then stop. No 6.2! Don’t even think about it, I tell myself. I look at my backpack, how heavy it gets when papers are submitted– the Krystal novel.. how to proceed with it.. just little blurbs at a time.. take inventory tomorrow night, on retreat.. don’t get distracted. And there they are, the Self-reminders from the grumbling writer. My Beat disrupted and renewed how can that be I have no idea this must be the caffeine speaking, so I finally take a minute to breathe…
Can’t wait to cook for myself tomorrow night, and open some new wine, meet some new character.. Syrah, have to find a Syrah.. go to Whole Foods on block, or down Yulupa rather, and be selective. Don’t set a budget.. in fact, aim high with price, treat yourself. Yes, this must be the caffeine talking.

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First time the adjunct’s had to sit and write, all day.

IMG_5081First accomplishment, if you could it so tag, running over 6.5 miles on tread. Then soonafter playing a bit of basketball. Felt amazing to workout again, feel my character come alive with elevated pulse and just the physicality that gets me closer to the 26.2 readiness. Then, delivering a sandwich to Alice at her school. Then the curious idea materialized on the way back home, before picking up lunch somewhere in our BV enclave; me getting a teaching credential, teaching high school English, preparing students for college composition; using my adjunct experience for prepping the students for what’s ahead; maybe being integral in the college application process; diving further into a more encompassing education; still entertaining the doctorate, feasibly in education, down the Road. Was going to investigate SSU’s program earlier but opted for a nap instead, woke to my alarm, brushed teeth only to have them again stained and coated in an added cup, that ‘breakfast blend’ coffee. Better today than whenever that first cup was. So much in my thoughts tonight after talking with Dad about a house purchase, seeing him so fluid and fluent and fanciful with numbers and budgets, anything organizational. And tomorrow I start, starting with the stash upstairs, and the change I have down here– no spending! No more lunches out! Nor dinners! This writer will be more than merely minimalist! Just the paper, pen, till the money comes from this blog and other associated paginated efforts– so I need not fret about printings… I’ve always wanted that ‘great consolidation’, I thought on the ride back from Alice’s school, and now I have all the reason to perpetuate and promulgate such. All to the blog, put all in the bottle, all of this Ox!
Sipping my cap, the Little Sumpin’.. tried an Oregon Pinot at Mom and Dad’s.. the… can’t remember it’s name.. took a picture of it. And speaking of wine, I’l get to RRV tomorrow after meeting with the two students.. I’m even arranging a lesson plan for the meeting, centralized around re-writing the Kerouac paper. I’m humbled that they’re so ardent in the meeting and the revision process. Should type the lesson plan and print it before bringing J to school..
Getting back into my studies of Poe, and not just for the Grim issue,IMG_5085 more for the exploration of consciousness and his shaping of imagery, and his word choice. His characters and the anonymous narratives only intrigue the reader further, and with the coming Creative Writing dimension to both the 1A and it’s all the more commissioned. My beer done, and I look forward to tomorrow, with the students most obviously, but the wine, the writing, the sights, photography– my last day of this ‘Spring Break’– which reminds me, ran into another adjunct at Whole Foods while picking up a Chardonnay (Monterey AVA, I think..) for Mom and some “Delicious IPA” from Stone for Dad. He was with his daughter and he posed, “Enjoying your break?” I told him I was and that I graded all before break. He said “Smart.” But then I confessed I had a wave about to land as soon as we all got back. We can’t escape it, the grading, as adjuncts or high school teachers or any educational level..
So tomorrow.. wine.. writing.. last day concept.. to make it fun, I do what. Going to let the story tell me. I’ll go to Arista after meeting the publisher for the Skyhawk Paper Mom told me about (meeting at 12 & Mission ‘muffin spot’..). Not sure she’d have much use for my prose, but it’d be nice to meet another writer/SELF-publisher. Hear Jackie whining upstairs. Hope he sleeps well, my little Artist. He has been, of late, but we’ll see. Time to close the day, my chapter append.. tomorrow will change the story just as it has me hemmed for better. (3/18/15)

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6:43. Been up well over an hour

since going down so early last night.  No RRV mission today.  Need to stay in.  The cold’s assault diminishes but its element is still enough present to slow me.  And I’m in a bit of a mood– why.  Money.  Stress over money.  Need to sell my writings.. enough of this blogging for free and doing anything for free for that matter.  Was contacted by a winery who passed on working with me, bringing me on board, saying they made a mistake hiring who they did and need someone ASAP.  And I supposed to what.. just jump?  It may pay more, but no way I’m leaving Arista.. and this other spot is just a small TR on 12.  I’d be stuck in that goddamn box.  Yes, I’m surely in a mood.  Alice in the shower and little Kerouac asleep.  Today I’m printing.. secret pages for Self and poems and performance pieces.. need the Road.. write lectures for Tuesday, Thursday.. ugh these symptoms.  Shouldn’t writers be immune to anything ‘common’, including the ‘common cold’?  I’ll write all day today, ALLFUCKINGDAY, till I’m driven mad by my own words and have some vendable manuscript and don’t have to worry about money as I know I’m going to sell what I’m typed, printed.. more aggressive.. more competitiveness from ME.

First coffee, in cup and I’m up.. sinus aches, sniffles, and frustration.. but I can stop it and I will by having my first TRUE lock-in.. only writing and only jazz.. no going out for lunch, find something here.. survive on words, have my renewed plight carry me to reason and Zen, Peace…  Namaste.

oh, I guess PS– the coffee I bought yesterday is not flavorful not helpful (even if Med Roast), will only go out to get better coffee, no SBUX trip.

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And I have to say (no edits)

my day was very much defined by the visit to Williamson.  Stopped by one winery, earlier, close to 11AM, and the guy acted like he was too busy for me, social awkward and pressured, when I told him I was just stopping by to say hello, and maybe do a tasting.  His Room wasn’t open yet, so I understand, but there was no call for his disposition.  Then I went to Lancaster to pickup my shipment and taste a bit.  Walked into the cave with Amanda, a new employee to the estate.  Hadn’t been in there since I worked there.  She showed me all the corners of the cave and they all looked the same, but now they have a concrete egg, for fermentation (I’m guessing ML, but I could be wrong).  Then I went to WW.  Had me again thinking that I need to make whatever relationship I have with wine my own, whatever it is and whatever context it takes.  Didn’t go to HBG as I wanted to get home, quick as I could, and write the letter to Dawn Williamson, well as the reaction piece to my time there.  WAS tempted to go up the street to the golf course as I did my last day at the Sonoma Valley winery, have a beer, maybe a burger.  But no.  I came straight home.  Had lunch, then the meanest most energizing cup of medium roast I’ve had in months.  And here I am, writing the last entry for the day with the last of the cab I opened last night.  Travel, in the hotel room with a bottle of red, writing, night before I’m to speak the next afternoon, tomorrow, a lecture on Kerouac and his punctuation shunning and embrace (embracing how he shuns conventional punctuation)–  Tomorrow’s lectures to be short, as the students in both classes have to arrange their rough drafts, first of term, so after 1A I’ll come back to the condo and start writing my Gorgeous American Grim statement, 500 words at a time I’m thinking– shit, just remembered I needed to backup everything on this monster today, but I didn’t have time and I can say that honestly, I stayed busy, so I can’t be too whip-wavy with my actions, character.  I need to just relax, enjoy the connection, or reconnection I made with WW today, and the wines I brought home, that Merlot and Rosé.  When should I open them?  Maybe this weekend, or Valentine’s weekend.  I felt a resurrection in my Sonoma presence today, with wine and my relationship with it, and I realized it was never tarnished, not in the most minuscule of manners.  Only have a TR’s worth left in my glass.  Damnit, why did I sip it so fast, the St. Francis Lagomarsino Cab?  This red is one that forces me to reconsider my own senses and how I interact with wine.  And my conclusion, the “result”, if you might: slow down; enjoy; don’t asses, just experience and sip, think…  And I finally have time to do just that, now.  I can see that others see the New ME, after last Wednesday, how I love, love, love to be in love, with everything and everyone positive surrounding me; the forefront of reflection lies in a smile, or a collection of.  I swirl the last sip in the glass, more than likely just over an ounce, smell… chocolate, cherry, vanilla, light oak and damp soil.  The palate’s not important.  Olfactory’s what adheres most to memory, and that’s what matters to the writer.  I couldn’t care less what these winemakers that can barely write their own tasting notes and these sommeliers that can’t write at all would say.  I’m noting what shakes me senses and currency, currently.  That’s poetic, and to paginated.

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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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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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63 no edits

Now at Petaluma situated in the Reading Room, from which I haven’t logged in well over a year, not since Fall ’13. But my 1B syll is copied, and now I can collect myself. Three other students in here with me, one definitely studying or doing homework with her laptop open, the other with just a book open (though now she packs, leaves..) and the other, the only male, looks as though he struggles to read from the book in front of him… Before leaving the mainland, I spoke to Michael, a full-timer, in fact one of the fulltimers I cited early with a seemingly elevated lean to him, with the lowered eyelids and bla bla, he actually wrote his disertation on Jack Kerouac, I found out after Anne-Marie introduced us and she said she thought of me when she saw some Kerouac book copies at a Petaluma bookstore and thought “I know someone who might be interested in this.” Michael, to my shame and humility and overall perceptive reshaping is quite kind, extremely well-read, just finished his dissertation last semester and looks tired. Excited to be done but tired. I told him I had, have still somewhat, the PhD bug. He told me only do it if I really want it, no if I feel I have to, and only do it if there’s no charge, if it’s free. I asked him how this was possible and he said that’s what he worked out with, I think, Ohio. He also said it was abusive, petty, among other harsh tags and reprimands– I find it hard to focus now as I’ve been up so long. Have a coffee, one free, I poured for myself in the copy room, first floor of the Pace building (I think it’s called). Class doesn’t begin for another 38 mins, and one hour. But I have plans to keep myself awake with writing and I know I can last and log every sight and feeling here on my again-new grounds. The parking lot, nearly empty. Maybe it’s too early for most and maybe this is just a commuter school, or with a heavy commuter element and/or population.
The coffee cools and I try not to I try to keep with this radicalized pace in my prose. May have to hike across the condensed quad to get another cup. And I will if I have to, but… This morning’s 1A went musically. More energy than I expected from such an early group. But with how tired I am now, after class, after this first meeting which is sure to be short (the 1A this morning lasting about 90 mins, including students that stuck around after session for clarifications, songs, remarks), how will I feel after the 1B? Will I want to return to the Redwood Café as I did in f ’13 for some writing (then doing so when on a layover before an evening 1A), or go home to nap as Alice said I should? I need to stay awake, write, fight the hunger to sleep, and eat– although that couch and the condo’s early afternoon quiet would surely revive me. But then, my café, and the memories still fresh of all those Fillmore cafés up the road from our hotel… Another student enters, definitely a commuter, an older gentleman with a construction/blue-collar character motion and dress (blue jeans) enters, now rises to leave as do the girl with the computer.. what do I do, what do I do? Do I stay here in the Reading Room or walk around the library? But what would I look for?
Logged the poem I wrote earlier, in the mailroom before meeting Michael. I’m quite upset with myself for judging him as I did last semester when I saw him talking to students in his office and talking to other fulltimers. Why do I do that, judge as I do sometimes? Something I’ll work on, like my talking frequency.. if I wrote much of what I voice, like at work for example, I’d have dozens of novels out. And on that noise and note: I need to print something this week– know I’ve said that before but I do. This blog can’t be the full and sole representation of my publishing marks and schemes. No, I will print something, maybe whoso minus Nate’s piece and Amber’s work… Maybe have whoso be an every-other-month release from me, Mike Madigan.. poems and scribbles and sketches, vignettes, short shorts.. whatever. Now I wake, waking up as I didn’t expect to. Alice just messaged me, demanding she pick up little Kerouac so I can sleep. So that’s what I’ll do, go home, rest, re-collect my ardor and fire, allow my Personhood to assess what it has collect on and in this first day of term.

So quiet in this room. Perfect for planning English 1B introduction. Going to advise students, as I did in 1A, to get to know Mr. Kerouac before reading him, have an idea of who you’re about to meet, his writing style and past and loves and perils, everything. And what is Beat? What does it mean to be “Beat”? The girl with the laptop remains as does the guy struggling with his book. He seems to be more connected to his task and less burdened, not moving as much but only to turn the page, and I underline portions of Big Sur to quote today, how JK saw everything as material and wanted to better understand everything and why he was part of that everything. I have to write a letter today, to someone, to either Amber or Nadav, or maybe to an old professor, but who? Gillian? Yes, Gillian, my only ever poetry mentor and idol. She always supported my poetic visions and practices and embrace of music as part of my scribblings, how I recited and went into the lines as I did. Wonder how she’s doing and what else she’s written lately, or published. Just learned she published a book of poems in early ’14, I think. But either way, I should write it now, here in this quiet room before I get too heavy-headed, and with eyelids soaked in exhaustion and all hours collected and pocketed since 4:50-something A.M.

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DAY 29: Tuesday 12/10/14

I should feel different this morning.  More excited or relieved or something, that this is the last Mendo day, the last drive up here, ever, ever…  But I’m laced in angst and anxiety, stressed– why?  What the hell is with me this morning?  Maybe it’s the 4-shot mocha, haven’t had one of those in some time.  And I feel like I failed with this Mendo assignment, in some regards.  But then I think I’m being too hard on myself so I don’t know, I don’t know.  But I’m here, on my last day, just stuffed the Dav letter and 500-word piece in an envelope I stole from the supply cabinet in the breakroom, or LUNCHROOM, as that one sourpussed adjunct snarled at me at the beginning of the term, the transaction going “Do you mind if I eat this here?” I said, referring to my salad — “It’s the lunchroom,” the twit replied.  I’d be miserable as well if this were my base as an part-time community college instructor.  Yes, I’m done.  On so many levels I don’t have time to produce a list.  Roll sheets printed, going to offer one last word of the day for the students, well as a quote, and I’m done.  When at SRJC I should have at least 2 hours of writing time.  There, today and tonight, I just plan on checking rough drafts, sticking around for 1-on-1’s if they want, then adjourning.  Semester done– so why am I in this misty swirl of an ebb and character pulse?  Need to do my budget, for ‘Mp’ and family and house savings.  Leaving me close to nothing.  But that’s fine, I don’t need anything other than books, pen and paper.  And in this new year I’m using this goddamn thing a lot less.  Writing, writing…  In fact, tomorrow at Palooza, in my loft office, writing will be doted in the parameters of the Comp Book.  Was thinking of something now I lost it– oh yes, the Comp Book.. where the hell is it?  There, found it, buried in bag.  Budget started, already I’m thinned.  Caffeine wearing, and I won’t drag as I did the other day, Monday, morning after Dad’s party, no not today.  I’m raising my mood and I should I’m free, free from this commute and this campus and the lack of centrality and now I have more time for me, ME, time to write and run and be with little Kerouac, my ever-artisanal son!

Need a quote for the day, but by whom?  Or FROM whom…  On way back, I’ll get a picture of that one vineyard in Hopland that I always glared at carefully driving south.  Think my phone’s charged, but if not I’ll charge my camera battery in the classroom, use that rather.  So quiet down here, this bottom floor, no one else.  No full-timers, or those constant adjuncts, nothing, just me and these words.. happenstance?  Who knows, but I’ll take it.  Ride home, already looking forward to it, or the ride to SRJC I mean, hours of writing on the Kerouac floor and I don’t care if students are around me I’ll stay there anyway, observe, immerse myself evermore in studentdom.  And the mood comes back–  What is going on with me, the entanglement, the roar of dull waves in an inner oceanic tilt.  I’ll write my way through it.  Asking myself the expected and trite hallmark card-ish question: “What did I learn from this assignment, up here in Mendo, from taking it to following through with it?” Hard to write, but not to take too much to the plate, and that all ends, anything that disgruntles you will eventually be extinguished.  And my expressive senses stand more solidified on this December 10th.  And here I am, realizing I never have to come here again, ever, if I don’t want to.  And that’s one thing adjuncts don’t realize, much of the power is with us, what we say ‘yes’ to and what we refuse.  We have the druthers, just as much as them.  True, they decide if we become full-time, but if I don’t want to take your dismal developmental section and whatever o’clock I don’t have to, and there’s nothing they can do.  Well, they could not hire me back for next semester, but I’ll live, I’ll always live, and as I said on Monday my focus is Life, MY Life and my family’s.  I’m a writer and I’ll write it all out, write myself away from commutes and campuses like this.  Up term’s close, I victor.  Now, for that quote…

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Winding down from a sixth day of 3 pages.

That means 94 more.  Thinking like I always do about what I want from my professional life, and I mean complete idealism is what I’m entertaining on this couch.  No wine tonight, I need the thoughts clearer than they’ve been.  French.. I need to get back to my French studies, and completely immerse myself in the language.  That’s one thing.  Another, I want to have another writing session in that second floor of Palooza tomorrow.  And talk to Jeff, see what he has planned in the way of events.  How do you build a business like that without hitting a wall?  Have to write it out, think, and talk to him.  Tired.  And more grading to do tomorrow.  This, note, will be the last time in my life I’m in this position.  And the cold or whatever’s about me, remaining; sore throat, slight sniffle, and tired.  But tomorrow I’ll be renewed.  And writing.  And upstairs I’m walking ready for new day but also needing rest.  Conflicted not so much as I’m eager, eager for Newness and for a new book, and for December, days of no class and more runs, running during daylight and not on a treadmill as I now HAVE to do.

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10/30 journal excerpt…

…maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental or presupposing.  Maybe he owns his own business, contracts this work and does quite well.  I don’t have for– that’s at the peak, the highest and most atmospheric of my wish list.  So cheers to this man carrying that plastic can.  If that is in fact the story with him.

8:57, and I agree with my pace this morning.  About to head to the small postoffice and mail Dav’s materials, finally.  Idea for short: teacher that thinks of retiring after hearing back from an education journal, asking him to speak at a school near its office.  He accepts the invitation, speaks, then is asked to consult at that school and others nearby.  He doesn’t but wishes he would have.  Writes several lectures and talks to be given to his high school teaching colleagues.  First, at a meeting.  Average reception.. second, typed and printed and put into mailboxes.. then…  not sure where it goes from there.  Just something I’m thinking of.  Staying in journal for now.

Burrito done.  Weedblower right behind my car.  Annoying.  But I shouldn’t be writing here, truth told.  Time to mail Dav’s papers.  Where are they?…  Somewhere in that workbag of mine.  And that’s another part of teaching–or adjuncting–that I deplore, carrying that goddamn bag around.  No wonder my lower back hurts from time to time.  It’s not the running.  Now quiet.  No groundsmen around me.  Strangely I feel alone, ignored, left to my word warpings and idea slab.

9:21PM.  Just went outside to laundry room to see if clothes were ready, and no– boring, I know.  But rain is coming, and the run for tomorrow morning, around 4 or 4:15 is still on.  No wine tonight.  And no ice cream.  About to have 7UP as night’s cap.  Tomorrow night I’ll open a Lancaster, probably an SB.  More than likely will be raining while I run in the dark.  Never done so and only have one such early morning run under belt, so I have no idea what to expect maybe some odd sounds or other early runners, hope I see one or two, no way I’ll see three.  I’ll be charging phone tonight and ready for this run– nearly feel like I do the night before a race.  Honestly.  And when back in home, I’ll write, hopefully a couple hundred words in journal, maybe start a standalone from the notes I took today at Palooza.  Only had one beer, wrote at counter instead of my upstairs safehouse or office.  Need to bring Jeff a bottle of wine sometime, show him how much I appreciate his pervasive and steadfast hospitality.  Thought of starting a series of standalones rooted in that beer room, something like ‘The Palooza Pages’, or ‘Pub Sketches’, or.. ‘beer writes’.  Again, just playing with ideas at the moment.  whoso due tomorrow, basically, but I won’t make deadline.  Goddamnit!  I’ll finish editing on the night of Nov 1st, my writing retreat night, and bring to printer the next morning.  That’s what must be done for me to move on and out of wine industry grips.

7UP open.  Only taking a couple sips then I quit.  Don’t want to be in constant visit to the bathroom, so like I said, only a couple extractions.  My anterior caprice…

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