Coffee ready. Utterly drained from yesterday. Was reading an article about a writer/blogger who was murdered, read yesterday on lunch at the little Mexican place across the street from Oakville. He wrote about religion, from what I gathered, as well as freethinking and Atheism. I’ll confide I didn’t read the entire article, but enough to be haunted by the idea today, of going from one thing (job) to writing and blogging for a living. And he was murdered for his beliefs, essentially, and again from what I can remember. So many tell me to watch what I say and be careful what I write and post to the blog in fears of backlash, or fallout, or making it harder to find some measly job in the wine industry again that would pay spit seeds. That’s what I’m holding back for? That’s for what I’m self-muting? Not anymore, not longer. Ugh… I’m 36 nearly, and with a son who thinks highly of me, loves me, but would his opinion be contrasted and reformatted if he were older and saw what I was doing in the wine terrain? And what am I doing? What am I hoping to accomplish? Huh.. ‘accomplish’… I can’t accomplish a thing, or advance, or be promoted, how? They make sure that doesn’t happen. Even my sister who’s a winemaker for a large producer is held back or only allowed to build, or accomplish, so much. And she’s loved when there’s something highly scored but then when a bottle perhaps isn’t heralded in mainstream or is put on the cover of some drooping wine page-pool (magazine, which is focused on ads not so much or not at all the writing and the actual content, if you could call it that). And another article, where some critic of Vladimir Putin was murdered, just the other day, and he too had a blog and wrote and started his own movement, if you would. There are people dying out there for causes not even punctuated on and proximal to their heart but completely comprising their heart. And these wine industry people think that what they do and what they represent and sell makes the world. I know, I know there are exceptions, many actually, in fact I met on the other day for coffee (Friday, right? Yeah Friday..). This man, also expecting his first child, was kind, gentle, inviting of my thoughts and perspectives on wine and life, and just listened. He was in no rush and didn’t try to dominate the discussion even though I would have been fine with that as I was sitting there, at the SBUX on Vine St. to listen to him, not give him some lecture and share what I’ve shared here. So I’m reasonable, I want you knowing. But I won’t be quiet about what happened to me the 2.5 years on the estate, and with days like yesterday, where I didn’t pour or talk about one wine but rather… You know what, it’s not important. Today is new, and I’m excited to be back in the tasting room. Just know my eyes are open, I’m writing and posting all to this blog, and I’m a writer/professor before anything else, and I want Jackie and my next child to know so, to see so. Oh.. almost forgot about coffee.
Posts Tagged With: Philosophy
And I’m typing, I wrote yesterday but I feel like I didn’t write anything, not a thing, not a word, not a character or observation or word. Yesterday. But I did, but I did! I keep saying to myself. Up with Jackie before having to get ready for work, wondering when I’m going to have time to grade these first papers. With this new tasting room chapter it’s difficult, more than difficult to get the papers marked, read, even a quick skim-through. Need coffee and you might think “Why hasn’t he poured himself a cup already?” I don’t know, but I’m tired, and with thoughts that things, matters and elements and dilemmas are accumulating, like they did last semester. But I won’t permit that, somehow, somehow I’ll stop the accumulation before it becomes tidal. I’ll grade 10 of the 1A submissions tonight, then 10 tomorrow, then 10 more Monday. My desired, or envisioned practice is the old ‘twenty today and twenty tomorrow’ perspective, but that’s quite tough to pull off– I just realized how much I love this, this knot, this entanglement over my passion and to-do with the students and what I assign them; I assign the prompt, and they write, they submit, they sit at their respective tables and compose, then press ‘print’, then submit. Which is far more noble and worth of readership than this blog. At least that’s what I’m singing to myself now.
Should be running today, this morning rather, when Alice wakes. Just want 5 miles logged, that’s all, and that’s all I have time for this morning. What assignments this next week, I think, about how to keep the sessions original, and electric. The only way for me to teach is, for lack of a better word (again, no coffee yet), theatrically. Not just in my presentation, but in the ideas themselves. To show the students that I am the consummate thinker, the “teacher” that lives and breathes the idea; he takes it home; he’s always writing; he knows what he wants and what he wants to do.
At one point in the day yesterday, earlier, right when I bought my mocha from the SBUX down the street, it rained, gently, but not enough to compromise anything, be they thoughts or motions or efforts. But there was a mood, one subtle but thematic. It made me think of Mom and Dad in Paris, and if it’s raining there, and how it rained voluminously when we were there in ’09. The small water ticks also had me wondering when the season will show actual change, shove us all into Spring. That would motivate new topics, new scribbles, and I don’t have time in this new tasting room to collect a written thought as I did at the last winery (the estate). So I have to plan more, which is mature but I don’t care much for executing. But I have to, I don’t want to feel what I did last night, or this morning as soon as I woke, like I wrote nothing, like I’m not a writer, like I’m just floating, and hovering above a blank page, imagining and dreaming, and wishing I were a “real” writer. I couldn’t let that be the case this morning. And again, I did write yesterday, and the real most sincere way with ink onto lines, and my Comp Book left with me, to be put back in the car (trunk) more full and more paginated with my day and story of the adjunct– And I know, the Massamen novel, when am I going to start it, officially, and when am I editing ‘Forced Avarice’? I know I know, I say to myself, followed with the old promise of “soon.” Famous last words. It’s always what I do aside from adjuncting that interferes. Even if I had a load of six classes I wouldn’t struggle this much to pin a few moments for projects. Why? ‘Cause I’d have the weekends, Saturday and Sunday consecutively just for my Self, and meditation, and the projects that will define my writing “career”.
The clock, I can’t stop looking at the time, why, I hate those numbers and how they control me and intercede with vivacity. Shame. But it’s normal, and certainly a universal address, and time for us as writers, as I shared with both classes (esp 1B), can be both foe and motivating force. Right now, it’s a bit of both.
Thinking I’ll wake early tomorrow, have no wine tonight and be in bed early, start March with an intense early morning interval, possibly around 7 miles, or 7.5, something around there, like I used to do with Bonnie a while back. Running makes me a more devoted writer and one with a path outside of teaching, and while running I can’t write which sometimes bothers me and others I feel’s a boon to my journals and to my story collectively. So I need to run more, significantly more, show everyone around me that I’m a ‘real’ runner, or a serious one anyway. That I’m focused on my races, I wait for them to arrive at my present day the same way a child waits for their birthday; their day, the whole day is theirs, it’s all about them. That’s how my race days will feel. And I’ll be sad when training’s over, as that means the race is here, and will soon be over. But then I’m excited again, childlike, as there’s another race a month, or a couple months away.
6:39, Alice still asleep. I look left, through the blinds, and the sun’s not yet in its noted rise but there’s just enough atmosphere color to call it “day”. Would love to run in this, this light and the metallic air with its cooled shadows and partial comfort (as you have to stay running to remain “comfortable” or not with shiver).
Coffee ready. Only allowing Self one cup and that’s it. Want my energy and momentum, all motions, to be natural and not forced. Tuesday: Meditation, talk about the concept in Hem’s work vs Kerouac’s.. find the meditation, and ask the students why we meditate (find definition and explore, experiment with connotation and denotation)…
My Body is an Alter
Ink drills into skin
Anchors sink into flesh
Needles pass stories
Carve into me
Christian eyes machetes
Bodies are temples
Jesus an eraser
Purity scrubs skin white
Honor your temple
you were mistaken
my body is no temple
my body is an alter
every line an offering
chiseled strokes plague skin
every curve an artist commandment
every wrinkle a part in the sea of color
I will sink rainbows into my skin
To cleanse away holy water
Poison masked as promise
turn flesh to testament of resistance
Needles to inscribe stories stolen
Peach pages waiting for calling
needles pass through palms
they sink into feet
colors transverse skin
Sacrifice to memory
Christian eyes set to crucify
Will find this alter covered
Blanketed in permanent protection
Sewn into skin altared
Sometimes I wonder what it felt like
Chemo coursing through your veins
Was it like hot lava flowing
Circulating destruction death
Did you force smiles for my comfort
While poison tunneled pillaged cells
Burn your body inside out
Did you burn yourself
To kill the invader
With an invader
To murder the murderer
They said it was appropriate technology
They cited statistics
They employed ethics
They beamed over a chemo room
Adorned with art
They masked the truth
Covered up a dirty little secret
The cure is worse than illness
Who is the killer now
The medical industry
Sometimes I wonder
Would you do it all over again
Let every glass of cold water become
A agent of death suffocation
Let every meal become
A menu of bile of vomit
Let every brief walk become
A crippling marathon
Let every last minute
Be fraught with pain
Sometimes I wonder
Will I do the same
My uterus has yet to meet
For lover I’ll kiss every morning
For faith I gave up the day you died
Will I burn myself for them
Was that fire for me
Amber Jean Coyne is a masters of Public Health student focusing on LGBTQ+ heath equity with a minor in Queer Studies. She received her Bachelors of Science in Molecular Cell Biology from Sonoma State University in 2012 graduating summa cum laude. Amber is a writer and theatre enthusiast performing in such plays as The Vagina Monologues and The Class Menagerie. She is previously published in Language, Violence & Resistance (2014) by The Alter Collective and Queer Studies at Oregon State University.
Let’s see how many I get to. Jackie slept in his own bed all night. He made some odd noise, or cry around 11:30 and I was certain I’d have to transport him to our station, but no, he surprised us, greatly. First item on list was that I made sure I started with coffee, and that’s satisfied, wildly. And, if you might note, the coffee tastes better this morrow, for some reasoning peculiar. Heater on, cozy, Jackie playing on his board, the ABC’s and all the numbers he has set in the corner over there near the toy rack Dad and I assembled for him. Next item on list, write, then call the car repair people to set an appointment for the window. Can’t believe that happened, still..
Wanted to visit a winery, just haven’t decided which one. And I’ll go strictly for taking pictures with the camera, not phone.. music on in a second… no tasting, need stay quick this morning. One thing on list is music, lots of music, all day music, experimental prose and poetry, anything to perform.. tomorrow night going to Redwood Café for open mic with the students. Quite excited, really, to hear what they have to read and how their emotions and expression and pieces outside of class are put to paper.
Hutcherson on and I want more coffee, want to move as fast as I can today. Like I noted yesterday I want to be seen as a writer, yes I have a blog but I don’t want to be read down the road, when Jack’s in college, and all stating “yeah he was a great blogger”, or “he was a blogger”. NO. I’m. A. WRITER! 7:16 and I’m already making progress and seeing things for day and for my character and letting my convictions dominate my thoughts.. need to write to students at some point.. there, added to list. I also want to communicate with a student from last semester, Paula, who recently contacted me and in well on a straight to nursedom. And I can see her very well apt to do so and caring for patients as my nurses did when I was in a bed, and how the nurses cared for Ms. Alice and little Kerouac in Feb ’12. Whoa, I think, how did Time do that, pass so fast and with such dismissive arrows. Lots added to list, just now, much with teaching, and grading. All’s connected to my life in Literature and in the classroom, and I know the author I most admire shunned and spat at academia, and I understand believe me, but there’s a gem there, several, and it’s who I am, and I do need a job of some kind. And I love the teaching aspect and the notes I prepare and the students and how they react and the prospect of going back to school myself and chasing that PhD, studying.. away from a timeclock, or a timecard, or anything having to do with THEIR time, devils. And I’m not talking about the current tasting room I’m associated with, I’m addressing the Man, the Devil, those corporations and centers that strip away your individuality and that muffle thought and talent and curiosity and expression. Oh I can see myself and the students reading tomorrow– and I just realize it! I’m reading! Tomorrow! With my students! I couldn’t be happier! This is Literature and Love and I send it all the way to Paris, for Mom and Dad, Uncle Bryan and Ms. Kathie (sp?). Should write her again, Mom, as I haven’t heard from her yet, and I understand.. she’s in my city, the city, Paris– my french! Je ne ai pas oublié! (I did not forget!) I will continue such study today, which will help me when in a doc’ program. Also need to find French podcasts… Need bigger laptop, more memory, will look at them today (more added to list for day). Need another cup.. oh this jazz, putting me in Parisian sense. Belle! Belle! This is my day, maybe this is that awesome day I’ve been wishing for since ’11, when at the box.. huh, the box.. wow, so long ago, so miserable… I remember asking myself when there, “Did I do something horribly wrong to land here?” But it was part of my story, and the main character, me, Mr. Madigan/Massamen, needed to hurt for his character, for this fortitude you see now, listening to this jazz, so at peace in his condo sipping coffee and dreaming, empowered, envisioning.
Only 7:30. God I love this! But I need more coffee and I need to look at the list but that will strip me of the words, or from them, and I’ll sit tilted and squiggly. And I’m anything but hinky right now, or exaggerative, everything this morning and with writings from me now, just before 36, and much before are layered in Truth. It’s the Hemingway circle, the practice of Grim– the empowerment and definition and resoluteness that you don’t witness in non-writers. Am I vain, with vanity in my veins? Maybe. Or maybe that’s how critics would interpret it. It’s expansive confidence, I’d like to think… And critics, criticism.. that’s hilarity to me. The -ism of the critic, why should I listen? There I go, I’ve started… No, I’m ebullient, like Jackie when he wakes and when he plays with his toys first thing in a day! Am I “full” of energy? No, I’m personifying Creative energy’s concept, idea, practice and pull. Look at me!
And now my computer stalls, just trying to update my credit card for something.. ugh, technology.. need to back off, as I promised in the ’35 Laws’, and soon. It’s been bugging me lately like it never has. There, made it work. Many of these songs I heard/listened to when I’d have my morning typing sessions before work, but this morning there’s no rush, and I don’t have to cross that goddamn parking lot in the cold to put my forefinger on that devilish scanner.. all the realizations this morning paint everything better, so much better! (2/25/15)
mindful of time. Yes I have more than enough clockspace to write what I want and have some bracket of accomplishment or usefulness, or efficiency this morning, but I’m mindful of it, the clock, and I stress a bit, feel the anxiety, have a list going in head of what I need to do as I have to be on H Square early this morning, a bit. So I had two cups of coffee which contributed to agility and the usefulness aforementioned but I develop a sluggy syndrome in that the worry itself slows me, how postmodern I say to myself. Then I factor what I need get done for class, Tuesday, and the letter to my friend Ashley I still have yet to write (and I don’t know if her name is spelled ‘Ashley’ or ‘Ashlee’, I’ve spelled it both). 8:42.. quick shower, pack bag, go. And… go! Good honest work will save me and get me to where I need be, in my own office. Upstairs looking for something, in that hell of a hole of a closet of mind again pushes me, tells me to get on it! Get your office! Promote the blog more! And I will, especially on the Square.
Kept the window up, from the Stanford site, about the young female students that landed a grant to go explore Alaska’s old mining territory. I want such trails and treks, even if at times it’s a trudge. Everything starts at the Square for me, I now know.. I need to get to the Square! Shower pack go. Don’t forget lunch in fridge, and don’t forget what you printed (app for…). Help Alice by cleaning a bit before I go, more tasks more items more stress. I love it! I’ll use it! I’ll be emboldened by it! Write from it! Look at me go, this morning! Thinking I should leave the laptop here but then I think how wonderful it’d be to type on the corner where the Oakville market is, watch people pass, listen to their conversations, see the spirit of my black coffee climb the nonvisible aircurves, to look down from above the historic structures around me– see? I’m not even on the Square and it impacts, has its ‘impression’– which is something I noted yesterday while in the tasting room, one of the only notes I rushed, for the PhD sample, and just an independent paper I want to write and topic I want to grow.. the students will benefit from my study, studies, new etymological echoes and throws. 8:49, and why am I still writing I ask myself but no reply and I don’t expect one in the shape, the Literary Condition I’m in, very much marathoning through my sentiments and inner sensibility, seeing pages be printed and me reading them– shit! The poetry reading! Have to find one! Thinking the Redwood Café, but I think that’s Thursday 1 of every month. Can’t wait that long.. so what then. Visions and images rushing past me like speeding college students down East Cotati, I slow and day start, now, promise, movement…..
Timer set, 25 min to write and post. Was going to use bathroom to splash water on face but one of the cleaning gents is in there now, tending to his character’s role, and job, and I think of what else I can do to the characters of yesterday’s short, and nothing I conclude. Oh, and I recognize I misspelled Dostoevsky’s name yesterday (think it was yester’).. anyway, apologies Fyodor! This morning, light mist and or drizzle on drive over, and I thought of my dissertation or writing sample for a PhD program, which now is very much possible in that I’ll be teaching more and more classes earning my family more and more money and pouring at a new TR, soon! I only think of Jack and how he sees me, and I want him to see his father as a FULL professor and writer, one who’s gone as far as he can go with his credentials, and that his father is alway studying, always working. The coffee works slow this morning and my typos are multitudinous, scattered, me keeping the delete button busy then retyping. Hemingway’s up today, along with Plath and Dickinson. Haven’t seen the students in a week, so they’ll be tired I’m sure.. I’ll wake them up with music and writing and an animated professor! Have to keep sipping, the connection’s coming, I know. Hemingway, with his hard stare and direct prose should also shake them in the latter part of class when we read aloud. To get a feel for his sentences and rhythm.. putting that in lecture notes…
Think he may be out of the restroom now, but I only have 17-something left to write. AND post! Not enough time, I’ll rush in there after these sentences.. sneeze twice. Allergies already, this lovely weather’s tariff. Should have brought that other Comp Book, the one I had set aside for MY studies. Can’t wait to one day go back to school, and I know my wife also empathizes, wanting to one day get her Master’s and already haven taken some added seminars for college credit and raised pay. And I was thinking, money won’t be an issue when returning to school as by then the writing and blogging will already be in flight AND I’ll be teaching, so there will be NO financial harm to my matriculation. AND, if I can as Michael suggested, I’ll be in-program for free. I mean, why should I pay? Even if it is Stanford, or Berkley, or Davis?
Today, get more into the students and their stories and have them be more interested in each other’s stories and how their lives work and how the functionality of their respective stories reaches the person asking (make sense?). Not so much an interview but a genuine discussion– And I feel it again, that morning rush I have so many times in this adjunct nook (no longer calling it a ‘cell’.. that’s what my job at the winery did to me, gave me that mood, made me see it and Life that way.. so happy to be free.. Fredrick Douglas said that ‘Knowledge makes man unfit to be a slave’. Now I understand.. and I’m not trivializing his experience or words, I’m just seeing more of what I went through after stumbling upon his quote this morning..).
Little over 10 mins to Self. Alice messages that J is still asleep. My poor tired little Artist, partying last night at Mom’s house, all the fun he had over the weekend… Nap will do him quite well at school today, I’m sure. I’ll get him early so he can rest and play with Papa at home. Wish I could be with him all the time, but that would harm him in keeping him from the world and other characters. He needs exposure to the reality around him, I’m learning this as ‘father’. I’m still learning, very much, and that’s one thing I’ve learned from this project is that the story WILL change and I WILL change with it. 6 minutes. Deadline approaches, time to get into character, time 6:41.. I’ll put on some spoken word beats with an ambient feel to them.. I’m here, I’m ready, a writer, professor, Human and character– Story changing, for me, my family, and scenery.. Namaste.
I’ll proof the letter to Dav momentarily, but now I enjoy quiet on the bottom floor, on carpet thinking about the run today, and when my next “race” is, next month, and how that 26.2 is just months away, the Santa Cruz beach and views and everything in my birthtown and zone, waiting for me to come back, another story, one more! A visit to be noted not just in this project and the future journal (as this book will long since been finished when that gun goes), but for my story collective and everything to me– in this morning’s run, the 4-miler with Alice and Mr. Jack, the weather couldn’t have been more optimal, air with slight chill but nothing invasive and the water still, ducks and geese and swans, and those from Canada, flying overhead then landing on water only to take off again, see what we can’t on the ground. Could use coffee now of course but I’ll refrain, wait for later perhaps– or no, stick to water. Should buy some of those iced coffee drinks at store so I can have my fix and caffeine push and not have to fire up that coffee machine. Tomorrow morning, one early, and right after 1A, a quick drive back here to home for my morning prose and additional cup and some meditation. Then, after 1B, to Howarth again like today but for a longer run. Saw a young woman when we just arrived, there, just finishing her run, going over to the lakeside to stretch away any tightness. I could tell she was a serious runner, one who has no trouble fitting in intervals into her life, like my wife; Alice always finds time to run, it matters to her. And it matters to me, but I always find some pretty rationale to NOT run. And that stops with today’s 4. Tomorrow I’ll get in at least 6.2– I’ll start at Howarth parking lot, run around most of lake then sprint to Annadel, run along that long paved path to end, then into forest a little, then turn around run the rest of lake then come home to shower before picking up the little Beat.
For lunch this afternoon, a wonderful salad Alice made; fresh avocado, tomatoes (little ones, think they’re called ‘cherry tomatoes’), olives, cheese and croutons, mushrooms.. perfect balance of all voices in the salad, both in presence and impression, wouldn’t have changed a thing! Not full, not experiencing any kind of food coma, lovely. Three more days in this project now, and I’m back to the thought of that daycare center at Mendo, for some reason, and my son… Alice and I brought Jackie to the toy store on Santa Rosa Ave. and bought him a toy, yet one more for his 3rd. Why not, we thought, and I see him aging, developing as I’ve noted throughout this journal but he’s looking at me differently now, like I’m there for him, he understands me role, his mother’s, that we’re always there, here, at his left, right, for him, everyday, always. He knows, now, and I know he knows. Can’t explain it fully or even adequately, but he sees me with more thoroughness, now. When on the couch, as he ate his veggies and dip, he took a couple seconds to turn right, look back, at me, smiling, and he didn’t blink, as if to convey, “I get it now, I know you, and I love you.” And I smile thinking about it, this event that flashed little over an hour ago. And gone. That’s Time, my enemy, and motivator.
Wanted to write a 500-word standalone fiction piece at some point today, to submit somewhere, just for smirks and light laughs, and maybe I will when done with this entry, this 3rd page.. but I have to just let the moment drive me now, from now on, my life’s remainder. Stop planning, follow moments, and don’t stress about what you can’t navigate/control/chain/manage.. that’s why the winery release didn’t and doesn’t bother me. It was out of my hands and dictators will be dictatorial, civility isn’t in their tongue.. but never mind that I’m too much into this moment and its gravity to be pulled by the negative.. to my short story. 510 words, max. Topic? Characters? What do I do with this blank page?
…I do rejoice in my letter to Dav and draft to Mom. And I think of how my budget is ZERO for writing, so everything has to go to the blog, EVERYTHING! And when those start flying and dropping money in my lap, then I’ll print again.. Front door open, little breeze but most sounds of a lazy day for everyone, President’s Day, and don’t ask me which president as I’m not quite convinced I care. But the lazy sounds and wind and even the birds don’t chirp as loudly and often, everyone’s napping or resting or just taking it easy, as they should on a day off.. huh, a “day off”, imagine that.. even Mom just messaged me and said she was taking a nap. But I’m in no mood to nap, and I haven’t had caffeine since before noon. This energy that I know chalk into my prose is innate, in my particles and nuclei…
after Jackie came back, and I have more optimistic steppings in my fold, my character and sight. A minute ago, I thought about something Mom messaged me, stating I shouldn’t stress about things or matters not in my control. and this brings me again to the concept of meditation, the Zen practice, to the concept of Wellness introduced as it was the other day on campus. So this evening, I had planned to get all the photos off my phone, and I know that will take a while and I may not be able to attach an image to this post, but so what.. what matters it the writing anyway, right? I want people to see me as a writer and I am a writer and I act like a writer, even going to lengths of depriving myself something I want, like now: I’d very much like a beer but I’ confirmed in the share between spirit and sense that it wouldn’t be best for my system now, so I stop. And I’ll see how long I can carry this energy, the non-sipping notedness of it all, of me, this new me in my bout with this bug.
Alice and Jack at the park with Lorielle and Addison. I didn’t go as I had to write, and show Self that I could come up here to the bedroom office, if you could call it that, and cut through a composition. The ledger I wrote of earlier, right below my elbows.. I stress about the possibility of not following through with logging all my writings in it, I did, I still do, but why? Just do your best, Emerson would be proud, he is, this Poet and American “Scholar”. Need to gather Self tonight for a day of work tomorrow, indeed; all my books and notebooks and thoughts on Hemingway and Plath and Dickinson, and maybe a little Dostoyevsky, who knows. Or Tolstoy! I want to through in a ‘random’ on Tuesday, if I may. Jazz in the room and I do feel musical and free and not at all stressed. Could use a sparkling water and some new thoughts and new words, new concepts and ideas that would ‘wow’ people around me, that if someone or a group of someones heard me speak at a conference they couldn’t help by sigh, gasp, listen… Read an article, a short one, about someone being asked what they wanted their legacy to be. It made them cry. Me, I get vocal, then quiet. I want to be remembered as a writer, reader, thinker, that I always thought and I always had questions, not necessarily ones that needed answering, but ones for which I track solutions on my own. And for my morality, my moral set, my moral writings.. remember earlier in this project, I think during one of the Kenwood lot sessions, I wrote ‘Moral Philosophy FOREVER’. And the morals of a character greatly determine their character and their choices and how they’re read. Just put together a ‘for downstairs pile’.. and my realistic goal for the evening, post to teaching blog.. one hundred words, one image, that’s it! Not a drop of material more!
My boy enjoys his third birthday, he and Alice and I all getting a hearty nap, about two and half hours, maybe a couple strings more. And there you go.. we’re all re-energized and my son is three, a very vocal and playful and curious THREE. IS this a victory for time or me? Hard to tell at the moment, something I have to think about. I continue to type till I hear another car speed down Yulupa.. there it is .. then I listen to this tune, “Reconciliation” by Andrew Hill. Want to hear jazz live, at some point, hear the air fly through the trumpet or sax, and the percussionist doing what he does, wildly, just hitting the hats then snares, bass kicks between, then having the whole audience guessing, ‘now what’s he gonna do?’. Jazz and I have a relationship I’ve found, not just in the spontaneity of it, but in the impact of so little.. right now, piano and drums, not much bass.. but the rhythm and pacing of the song has me awake, attentive, and trying to mimic it with how I jump and slither through the keys.. now I would a beer. Or maybe wine. No…
Slammed, no care,
leave, draw, more
color, or others, or
once the wine finds
my aorta, then
my song will
be in a speaker, or
million, million-ing, vision and
image, a prism
And on this 93rd day, an unusual one to be sure, I sit to coffee in the nook, not in class but having to leave for campus in 27 minutes exactly, “Launch at 730” I tell myself. Coffee ready and I have to walk over there, behind me and by fridge to retrieve but I don’t want to rise and ruin my run. Only bringing Comp Book as I said yesterday, and I’ll note everything, everything, and all things learned and other ideas the professors point out. I know people will notice me writing, and I hope they do! I hope they see me as one who not only teaches but does! Quiet in the condo now, with only the fridge and its hum, the sounds of the keys being committed to my vision, image and role, and the table rocking so slightly I almost have to stop typing to hear it, but then it doesn’t move, then no sound, it’s playing with me, obviously.
Coffee in possession and I sit thinking about how awful or awesome the coffee there at the meeting will be. Could be splendid. Could be shit. I notice myself fall into typo after typo this morning typing, how did Kerouac do it on an Underwood? Can’t think about that now and it’s not my bloody fault I have a laptop. The times.. the technology.. I didn’t decide it! And I use it how I want! In fact my poetess friend, Amber (whose word I still have to post to bottledaux) only writes on laptop, so it’s instantaneous.. and my dear friend Lila, refuses nearly to transfer her scribblings to laptop, as it’s “too much of a pain” as she once told me, basically then, for her, bringing nothing to fruition, and that’s a shame. So I’m here in nook, typing, Comp Book right, little pages left.. ready for day, to write everything, everything.. see who shows, try to find Michael right away.. and I have a thought for the Massamen novel– you know what, maybe I should bring my bag but only have the journals in them– no, bring Comp, then Massamen journal atop.. done. And his story, Mass’, starts where I did on the 28th, Jan, being let go to start new, and finally be in the position to fight the Adjunct War. And maybe “war” is too barbed a term for some but to us, my character and I and anyone who’s ever been an adjunct, it’s too light, perhaps. Either way, we’re both at work. And I’m xeriscaping my thoughts and writings, my novel coming, and I need give Self a timeline like with this project.. just looked at clock after taking call from Alice wishing me a well morning.. 7:15, the clock catches me but I’m grumbling in commitment to reach the bottom of the page, and to think of anything I forgot to mention yesterday in entry– OH! The skirmish and bad blood catalyzed by one of the tasting rooms in the Kenwood shopping center. Even slighting my friend Jeff, he’s the one who disclosed the whole story to me, day before yesterday, and again to Dwight and I yesterday with some added specifics. War in the wine world, and how some people are so oblivious to courtesies common and just general neighborlyisms. And then it starts; the stares, the snubbing, the rumors, the shootouts if any, and just that feeling that no one cites or points out but you know something’s off. And that happens on highway 12! It’s hard to believe! A place where much of the world frequents in their pursuit of wine and wineries and vineyards, to take pictures and experience what we all, or many of us, take for granted and just shine on, there can be conflict, foul attitude, negativity to this degree.
Battery low. See what I mean? Bloody tech.. anyway, I should prep myself for leave, and I’m just taking the Comp Book I decided. One project at a time, one binding at a time. Slow, like I tell Jackie when he eats; “Jackie, remember, we eat slooooooooooooow…” Same principle with writing, just not too slow, otherwise the project never finishes.