Posts Tagged With: Philosophy

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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thousand words from today’s 3 pages…

Writing retreat in reverse, the kind I need honestly.  No wine distractions.  Listening to those chilled “wine bar beats” that I used to on the lunches I’d take working at the box, crossing the street to the Roasting Co, but it’s distracting, this music set, I feel unfamiliar.  So, remedy: jazz.  Ah…  There.  This morning is about getting closer to New Mike.  Have to budget for the new printer and the gifts I want to get Alice, Jack, Mom & Dad, my little sister.  This desk and its clutter, not “getting to me” today, at all.  Even the filthy laundry room here in the complex; dusty, gray, unsettling, I’m always in a rush to leave it, but when so I drag one of our clothing articles unintentionally across the interior vent or whatever it’s called and get some of that lint shit on the piece, be it a sock a shirt, one of little Kerouac’s blankets or what.  I hate that room and it’s always the sun in my motivating spirit; sending ires of fire and explosive forwards into my prose.  In my head writing in there this morning, just before Alice left, telling myself I’m going to put more money into the house fund, a huge part of this New Mike, and what a problem pummeled away: getting my family out of here.  Oh this jazz, this retreat, just what the writer needs.  Still very much feel the run last night, on that blasted belt.  But I have enough in me this morning for a jaunt, I don’t know about the 13.1 I intended, but certainly something meaningful.  Need to get rid of– sell or give away– some of the books in the closet, make a section designated for my Kerouac research and exploration.. hate that term, “research”, so clinical.  ‘Exploration’ I much prefer.  I can’t get over how renewing this feels, how Transcendental, being up this early (current: 6:15AM), jazz and my coffee and these words, which are begining to bore me in their usualness.  Don’t want to just regurgitate a thesaurus’ innards, but I need more in my arsenal, in my salvo and cache.  This goddamn closet–  Finally spoke to Katie’s wine compatriot at SSU, yesterday.  Interesting opportunities but it’d take from the writing, and it’s just another form of the adjunct cell they keep us in.  Can I make it work for me?  I don;t know.  She did mention and interesting idea, this lady, Liz, and it involved writing press released for wine, new wines and releases.. but to construct a whole semester of such, that’d be a stretch from me and it’d take a tremendous momentum from the writing and the Kerouac reading and me as an Artist.  And at this age, I can’t I’m afraid.. I’ll email her and mention some ideas, but kind and passively apologize that I simply can’t at this point.  I will be grounded and consumed, incarcerated by my Literature, my Beat.

After this page I begin my clean, the one I intended to do that night Alice was away but became too relaxed and lazy with that Lagunitas Ale (only one bottle, remember) and a touch of my Merlot.  This morning, it’s a cup-after-cup approach, not to exceed three.  If I developed an immunity to coffee I’d be devastated, but I’ll impugn that feasibility with the staunch conviction that coffee’s my entrenched ally in this marathon writing of mine to free me from the clock, from the blood job notion.  Was reading a piece in ‘Atop/Underwood‘ where JK talks about having a job and how his aversion to the job expectation pushes him.  That’s me, especially this morning.  Approaching this page’s lowest tier, so I have to start my de-clutter, if I don’t now I’ll never do it, I know me and my tendencies, ones that will always frustrate me.  My first cup, just deceased.  Second already in cue downstairs, but I’ll hold for now.  If the first sign of lethargia show in the next halfhour, then I’ll fly downstairs for my caffeinated aid.

7:02, done with desk for the most part– next I take the roaming writings as I call them, scattered sheets and notes and expressions forgotten till now and I’ll put them in this containing holding the Eng 5 Spring ’14 papers.  Then I was thinking of getting ready for my run, just get it out of the way, maybe a 10k in the spirit of next Saturday’s race.  Something.  Then when back home, coffee, shower, or shower then coffee, or make the coffee put it on bathroom counter so I can sip right when I get out.  Reiving today of massive material.  Legs weak now that I analyze, and think about what this structure, this aging frame is saying to me at the moment.. can’t remember how cold it was outside when I tended to the laundry.  But I’m sure a bit brisk, maybe a little bit.  So I should wait to run, right?  The story tells me now that I need more coffee– looking at all collected in the closet and all that I have to now throw away that I should have thrown away months ago, sickening.  Why do we collect so much.. shit.. stuff, this evil clutter!

7:29, back from a break and I reason to forget about de-clutter for a bit and just write.  Was going to skip out on run but I can, I have to run, as running is writing and I want to smell the wet pavement and the richness of what soil and dirt even mud surround the streets I choose.  thinking I’ll do my old “big daddy” run as I called it.  After I finish this second cup.  Shouldn’t have brewed it but I noticed myself getting tired.  And if I feel a crash coming whilst in stomp, I’ll slow, and just enjoy my run– “Just forget the numbers, and just enjoy your run..” as I chant to myself many times between leg reaches.  Have to be at Mom and Dad’s in just under 5 hours– (12/5/14)

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from today’s 3page effort sofar –

…in Mendocino.. funny) — Jackie throws some fit, mybe strategic or just a product of him being 2.  Not sure, but I was interrupted anyway.  Now he’s fine, I’m fine when he interrupts me– ugh, I loathe my words this morning.  This day’s early hourset seems to want to keep me in place, block my expression and make sure my ebb stays buried.  But I fight, even though non-ire’d clash is my principle ideology of late, that of the Beat, a stemming from my studies.

And today, another at the winery.  I’ll make notes every hour– no every half, not stopping with my scribbles even when it’s busy, they want me focused on sales and making ‘the company’ look good, which I am too, frankly, but not at the expense of freethought, my dreams, the image.  Coffee cup 1 dead nearly.  Vignettes, thinking of vignettes, and micro fiction like yesterday.  Does each piece have to be a separate topic and story or can it be sequenced?  Outside the box, like I used to preach to students in ’06, ’07, ’08 too I think — And on the teaching note, haven’t heard from my sister’s bigshot wine business SSU friend.  And I’m not surprised.  You can’t depend on these people, in wine’s “business” or temple or zone, more like a vocational maelstrom.  Ever.  They never get back to you, and if they do by the time you call them back or plan a meeting they’ve taken a position somewhere else.  They’re fickle, scattered, childish, and superficially animated in their wine knowledge and communicative/social navigation.  I’m sticking with wine’s element as I need it — The magazine, whoso, given more of a wine focus, and I’m having it printed by 1/1/15.. no fail.  And my ‘QS’ novel, done by the time next term starts, so I have something to show for myself, more than just this goddamn blog I keep and the teaching itself — Novelist.  What I am.  Clock says 7:33 but I won’t be pressured as I always am.  Actually, I might go in a bit late today.  Thinking about it.  Yes, knowing me I won’t but it’s something that’s on my perceptive plate.  In the loft today: vignette, journal entry, and a little to this 3page project.  Again, just thinking.. no more plans as I never follow them.  Moment molding; I’ll mold the moment as it forms before my pen, then put into paragraphs — Of course, I’m addressing or honoring the same principles as “spontaneous prose”.  I just want to have my own sovereign tag, punctuating my Creative individualism and form.

Stomach still a bit circular from last night’s icecream and the overall diet of the 4th.  Today, starvation.. feed from that feeling and have it push you forward, the intrinsic propeller in my character.  Magazine, novel, publishing company —   …I’m pushed now this morning to do everything that I’m thought of not, and told I can’t.  7:40, should finish coffee, put this device in bag after a couple more minutes of charge then go– cup of black from Market, write on estate in overflow lot.  Not sure that’s what the story wants, and I don’t care.  It’s what I order.

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3 pages excerpt (11/29/14– no edits)

Still waking up.  Think the coffee may be a bit stronger that I’m expecting, or my body’s expecting.  Sip the next cup slow, much slower.  And the rain, nothing.. not a drop I hear.  I’m sure it’ll pick up later, but I need it now to convince me.  Of what, “Convince you?” Yes.  That today will be part of the story that needs to be read and that tonight will produce more material than last.  That I can write whatever I want and I can’t ask what I’ll write today as the story hasn’t started.  So in that case, in that respect I mean, I’m a follower, just walking just behind or alongside the day itself.  Need a café.  OR, I need more so a day off to enjoy the café.  Four more sessions for Mendo, counting final.  Five for JC, counting last day, handing in final paper.  I did it.  But as Dav predicted, I’m “burnt out”.  Not doing that again ever, ever.  Well, as long as I’m near 40 hours, and sometimes over, at the winery.  Glad I had the good sense to get shaving cream last night on the way home.  Not in the mood to go outside now, not yet.  upping volume on jazz, there I’m waking, and the coffee lands on my CNS to liven me and my character and I won’t stop in my types, not this morning or ever.  And I won’t be stopped or distracted or slowed, just the way I am when running.  I never stop till I reach time or mileage, like my 10.5 miler on .. when?  Oh, Thanksgiving.  Can’t believe that’s over, already, time just flying by like pilots avoiding a storm; and time’s avoiding me, avoiding my want to appreciate the story more, no it just moves.  Another cup…

Of course my luck, having to fill that water tower (think that’s what it’s called), costing more time and more of the morning so I run to catch up, like when you have to stop your run around Spring Lake or wherever ‘cause you see you lace undoing.  You don’t want to stop but you have to, and I did, and I’m back.  Full cup need to let cool so I listen to the jazz and relax into this cushion as my son does.  “I’m cozy,” he now often relays.  As am I, Jackie, and I still rejoice that I didn’t have more wine than I did last night.  In fact, recalculating, I only had a beer and some of my Merlot that I opened night before last.  Any effect left by my sips is long away, precipitating a lively Mike, one I like/love, one my son and wife would be proud of here writing and thinking of ways to get us out of this condo and into a nice home, giving Jackie a little backyard and Alice and I a study or office of some kind.  She needs one just as much as I do, probably more given she’s a full-time teacher, always lessonplanning and arranging her activities for students in certain ways (if that’s how I should phrase).. I’ve always praised Alice’s staunchness with her teaching ambitions, never having to pour wine in a tasting room or get some second job.. study that, study that I tell myself.  And I am.  I have been, but I don’t know what precisely to conclude.  Well, one thing: do something specific everyday to get you to where you truly see yourself.. that vision, remember?  But I look on the CCC and no full-time professor jobs.  Shit!  So what else.. lecture independently, speak on Beat ideology and Buddhist principles, my understanding and research on Zen.. Kerouc & Hem, then by extension Emerson and Thoreau, then a bit of Plath (introspection)–  You know what, I should write this down on paper, in the teaching Comp Book, but don’t go past 5 focus authors, king obviously being Kerouac.. was thinking David Eggers but I don’t know his work well enough shamefully.  I’ll post to the teaching blog before jumping in the shower– shit, if I have enough time.  It’s already 7:40.  IS that sun?  See?  If the weatherbums can have a job doing what they’re doing then I can to.  I’m much stronger and apt and respectable a writer than they are doing.. whatever it is they do.  Which in my opinion is a mine of nothing.

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another day of three pages. Thanksgiving with family. Semester end, can’t wait. I’m beat, beaten, beaten down till I can only sing. Nightcap then sleep, I need sleep if tomorrow’s meant to be the “black friday” they say. I don’t want to capitalize because of the energy I’d have to spend, allocate, now the run’s getting to me. Could use some of that turkey I took from Katie’s house, on that role, one of them, with the spicy mustard Alice bought me the other day. Why, why do I have to work tomorrow, it’s supposed to rain, and I only want to write, scribble, notes and vignettes, just obscure words, one I found tonight: raduliform. IS that a word or is my source conning me? Teaching, such a funny thing, or it’s funny to me anyway, how we’re expected to assign a certain number of assignments and conform and fit into a word count, one stipulated by the department or the board, some “board” or something. I hate them all, the powers, whatever be. This, this moment and couch and pillow at my right, I could use them, I might, it’s that kind of night. I’m in need of another run, and I could do it, I’m bored, I want to test my Self. Sleep sounds and appears amazing when I think of it. The Merlot, just one sip, appearing a bit oxygen-clawed. Why? See, I’d never be successful as a winemaker, so why do I think of doing it again, really– Tomorrow night needs to be productive and not how supervisors say you need to be, but something unique and renowned, somehow. Like Poe and how he thought of his bride, abide, ride, and I’ll write tomorrow night till I can’t and not at all hide. I’ll make it a ‘mine’ and a ‘my’.

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Brainstorm 1

Six students in first meeting.  Surprised.  Pleased.  All showed with enthusiasm and sincere interest.  Changed my mood for better.  10:24, and three still remain.  Love enthusiasm in students, when I see it.  Makes me feel like I’m successfully executing instruction.  Coffee still working for me, internally.  Need to write letters today.  Want to write one to Shelly, an old friend from the old neighborhood who now lives in NYC and is a therapist and who studies and practices Zen, Yoga too I believe, and has been sober for THREE YEARS!  Good for her, I noted yesterday.  I want to see how and why she does what she does.  How she builds her Personhood, and how she views love and life and occupation, the job.. and what New York is like compared to San Carlos where we grew up.

10:44.  And the last two leave.  I envy the student life, researching and having binders and notebooks and thoughts to develop and brainstormings for essays.  And I can have that now, I will immerse myself in student life and practice and I will start with this book, ‘Big Sur’, all the different voices of Kerouac and the Beat Generation and the notion of “Beat Time” that Paula, a student in the SRJC 6PM 1A section introduced in her first submission for the semester.  I read the first couple pages of this novel and only experience paranoia and uneasiness and curiosity; depreciation of Self among other things.  I need a binder for my findings, like Morgan, one of the students that showed today and just left with Ms. Suzanne, another strong student in this 9:30AM section.

Now the first student of the 11AM section shows.  He’s usually the first to show after 9:30 lets out.  I compose myself, and think of me, this Me, as a student, and I’ll add this to my to-do’s for Friday night’s retreat, after getting home from Mom and Dad’s– made dinner plans last night, couldn’t resist; the company of Mom and Dad always generates ideas and material and reminds me of when I was a student in Mr. Coleman’s class, the conversations with Dad– I always thought Mr. Coleman and Dad were essentially the same person, just different vocations and avocations and placements.

Another 11AM-er shows, sits, opens her laptop.  Ready for work.  So am I.

Still only two so far.  I’m wondering how many will show at SRJC.  I’m actually anticipating about the same or maybe less, hard to tell, each campus with its own climate– I need to get a couple articles for a critical paper I want to write on Kerouac and his Buddhist voice, and his maturation in Zen; the centeredness of his core.  Okay, time to get to work…

Turns out they just came here to have a quiet place to work and type and build their ideas, these three.  Coincidence, me too!  I take notes on the notion of ‘toska’, mentioned by one of the students here, the second to arrive.  And I see much of that sentiment in Kerouac’s work, and the healing nuances in his short prose style, meant to mend this malady.  I’ll start my formal writing on JK with a 500-word reaction to the opening three chapters of Big Sur, the irregular meter and punctuation pattern and his mood and fear and paranoia.  And even a low estimation of self, the name Duluoz.. there something in it.  ‘Dull’, I hear, but ‘u’ and ‘oz’ I’m not quite sure of.–  But then with a little internet excavation I find that Duluoz, pronounced ‘de-LOOZ’, is French-Canadian slang for ‘louse’, a contemptible person, one unpleasant and unwanted even.

My students, Erin and Aurora, not saying a word.  “Are you guys okay, can I help you?” I asked.  “No, I’m fine,” Aurora said, Erin shaking her head.  I am let to go further into my work, and I find gem atop gem– sources that provide precisely what will build my ideas and topics for my papers.. the etymology of Kerouac’s alter ego’d name.. and why, search for identity in going to Paris, to track his lineage and family, and Self.  To find some steady source and honing of Personhood.

Dad and I have always talked about Self and the notion of and what it takes to be “intellectually” sovereign, to think for yourself.  And this too is at the anchor of Kerouc’s ambitious vessel, both holding him back and pushing himself forward.  As seen in ‘Road’, Kerouac’s search for newness drives him, the hunger and thirst for the visual, for the experience, for new Life.  Duality, I’m thinking, hence the doppelgänger, if you want to tag it so.  Conflict in Kerouac, the universal attributes of such.  And escape, running from something.. think of his writing style, the whim’d or “spontaneous” prose that’s known as his.

Love feeling a student today, and I credit my students.  Aurora just asked Erin and I another question about Kerouac, to gather thoughts for her paper.  Then silence.  Right now, we’re three writers in our own composition bubbles.  Kerouac talks about the natural elements around him as if they’re menacing (chapter 3).  Highlighting not so much paranoia but specific fear and a sense of victimhood, being the prey in a situation, much the way he was preyed upon after the publication of ‘Road’.  Another thought Dad and I often take apart apply then put back together is “intellectual honesty”.  Kerouac is exemplary in such ideology and application in the way he writes, especially if truly with cathartic intent.  And if that catharsis is not reached, then what?  I don’t think Kerouac’s brain went there.  I think he just leapt, hence the long paragraphs in ‘Big Sur’ and his narrative in the Duluoz works, all of which I will concede I haven’t read.  But I will.  When I was in grad school, my Theory Seminar professor, Jake Fuchs, had one author within, upon, and about which he build his pedagogical life, Alexander Pope.  That was his.  Kerouac is mine.  At this age, I know, I know, I’m certain.

Fire about me this morning.  The search.. that’s what student life is about, searching for what YOU want.  The ideas.  Being on your own Road.  And going backwards to chapter two, JK mentions a “fear of eerie death dripping” (10) and I can only think of that idea of Toska, something inside you, whether emotional, perceptive, or thoughtful, that’s nothing but parasitic, eating at your reason and composure.

Everything on this desk right now, at class’ head or front or helm, conveying the scholastic sensation.  Textbook, notebook, calendar, pen, laptop and bag.  I’m a student, studying.  And I don’t want a thesis or specific forward for this research yet.  I want to enjoy the journey.  I’ll get to a destination eventually.  No rush.

I feel like the three of us in here are a study group, occasionally getting offtopic and talking about news events, like the Michael Brown matter in MO, but then we return to silence and typing and our papers.  This is what the American Scholar is.  In a room.  Quiet.  Writing.  Steadied.


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Decided that I’m not

budging.  This is my writing style, or mode, or voice and that’s all I’ll ever do, responding to my moments and days– now: quiet downstairs, rain stopped for a couple hours the forecasts says; Alice asleep upstairs, or falling asleep and Jackie asleep for who knows how long.  No coffee in house so tomorrow’s set to be rough.  OH well.  That’s the stage for morrow.  And the rain, coming back.  I’ll wait.  One of Jackie’s stuffed animals, the Cookie Monster bloke, on the floor.  What’s it doing down here, I wonder.  Never know with the little Artist.  His habits and ways change whenever he sees adequate.

Think I have a new story idea but I’m going to let it simmer a bit, or age, or ferment– analogy prolonged.  And what kind of writer am I?  I don’t know.  One trying to write, trying to fucking finish something.  What if I go in late tomorrow, spend more of the morning writing?  Am I allowed to do that?  My students get to, I’m sure, so why can’t I?  What can’t I just be a Literary delinquent?  Playing hooky not to go party, or taste wine, or dine out, or be lazy with Alice or anyone.. but just to write, read over my work, send it out?  Be meditative all day on this couch.  Coffee, jazz, pages, me, cognitive drops of resolution, radiate…

Who says you can’t?

True, but there’s a new affairs set.

So what?

10:16.  Should get to bed soon.  I know the little Artist is going to wake around 3, or 4, and it’s my turn to fall back to sleep with him.  Am I up for it?  Hope so.  I’ll fall asleep I’m sure thinking of the 9:30 student’s reading, about addiction and breaking from the pain pill addiction and being drowned in withdrawal symptoms.  Was horrifying to hear but motivating, he was there, in chair, eager with his standalone submission, and we all listened, applauded.  Great moment for me, yes as a “teacher”, but more so as writer, Human.


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Today, everything


Everything.  Nothing, NOTHING foists my fruition, or aim, or images.  Everything recorded.  Not even wine club members with their tireless pestering.  Nothing.  I’m a wine club member…  Or, “I’m a member…” Not even a hello.  Good for you, but I’m not listening.  I’m looking at the vineyard, the leaves, red and green and yellow, light gentle mocha brown.. dessert and lunch, coffee, rest for me, meditation.  Zen, principle in my personhood.  Transfixing my sight to pages and books to be written.  Collection tomorrow and today.


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Quiet in this bottom floor hall.  Prep’d for rough draft workshop but the stomach ache I had last night/early morning, that nearly made me sick still shimmies a bit.  If after the second Mendo section I feel like this, I’ll leave straight for home, rest, and the run from last night also influences my standing today.  Hate feeling like this when I have to work with students– when I’m fiery and lively, I’m me, the sturdiest of me’s.  But now, I’m only half-character and I hate it.

whoso issue due in ten days.  So I need to edit.  Wanted a picture or some kind of image on the cover but it’s just “not in the budget” as they say.

Feel not me, and I hate it.  But I have to gather Self for students..  8:52, so I have a little time to meditate.  Not in the mood to write, either–  I should just go home now, rest, re-collect, maybe even take tomorrow.  If I leave here, Mendo, I won’t get paid as there’s no sick time accrued.  But there is at SRJC and the winery, so something to think about.  Again, if this feeling remains.  Hemingway would power through it.. I know I know.  But I’m not him.  I’m a different Literary shape, and speaking of.. what sources can I offer on Hem?  Didn’t have time to look last night with the Giant’s game and the Syrah I chose to sip.

12:56PM.  Out of classes, just finished meeting with student.  Now to SRJC.–  And a student stops by to see me.  Tired, even though I feel much better than I did this morning.  Definitely need coffee.  Not going to this oncampus café.  Too crowded and I don’t want all those voices around me.  Okay, I’m telling myself… two more draft workshops then I can rest, be home, sleep.. and I yawn as I type this, ready for some home, some motionlessness, just actual REST.

1:08.  How did time pass that fast?  Don’t want to write anymore.. leaving… thinking of Hemingway and him saying all around him was his.  At this point in my life I can only think as he does, my own lit mag started and a self-published novel right behind the inaugural issue.  Collecting the 500-word pieces for a possible other book (didn’t write one yesterday unfortunately but I will later, or try depending on how I feel or if I wake up or not..).  I can’t “fail” as a writer.  I just won’t allow it.  This is how I will make my tender eventually and the only way.  That crazy wedding planner that I blogged for years ago told me: “You need to focus on what it is you want to really do.” Or something like that.  Either way it stuck, loony as she was.  But I am Hemingway, Hemingway-ian, or -esque, and I will impose my writing presence wherever I am, and now on page and not just a bloody blog.

5PM.  Library, third floor, in corner with most beneficial view I’ve ever had in a sitting here.  Hear female students laughing somewhere to right, in the stacks.  The novel is done, I have written the last “new word” in it, just a couple minutes ago.  So if I add anything else it’ll be an older writing and the character will have it as something he stumbled across, upon, ran into or whatever.  Still need to do a 500-word piece for today, but I’m tiring.  I’ll write one tomorrow morning, early like Hemingway.  In fact, I’ll only write in 500-word standalone bursts tomorrow.  I should easily have three.  Right now I just need to meditate in this seat with the view across the street, at the Emeritus quad.  Ran into a student from Spring ’14, he was in the café where I bought this Dr. Pepper and he was reading War and Peace, which surprised me as he wasn’t the strongest student in that class, always sitting in the back and rarely volunteering a thought.

Can’t wait for the next class to be done.  I’m tired.  Feeling much better, yes, but tired.  I may go right–

Had to move.  Students of course chose to sit right behind me.  Now I’m on the third floor.  No view.  Only of books.  Which is fine.  The books I can see are on paintings, the Vatican, Art theory.. let’s see….. the “power of art”.. this can’t be coincidence.  In one of the sources I found on Hemingway, it stated he viewed his art, writing, as more of a job than anything.  And I now, only now at 35, am seeing the dire nature to what I want to do for a living.  So I need to write a 500-word piece now, now– NOW!

Now in Emeritus.  Somehow, some twinge of misluck, a former employee of the winery, Alec, stumbled into my safe quiet zone.  I won’t hide my annoyance on this page.  I was already forced to move now I’m made to be here in the conference room, but I suppose this is only a boon, as no students will be scouring these halls, and if they are it won’t be for me.

With the novel done, I’ll wait to start another.  I need to edit, I know, and I’ll start tonight, one page at a time and minimally!  I don’t want this to be antichaos I want it to be BEAT, and Cubist, and JAZZ.  Musical if you have my intention understood.  The exhaustion compiled in this day is now becoming visible, I can see it.  This last class, the 6PM, has to be casual, conversational.  The 3PM took a lot from me even though I was sipping the Sumatra blend– hot in its nightish movement and casings.  I’m starting to taste whatever I’ll eat when home and feel the comfort of those sheets, and imagine the next day as I fall asleep.

Just looked at the first page of the novel.  Not bad.  Definitely me, rushed and frantic and obsessed with coffee, but how can I write otherwise, you know?

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My night’s cap, ’11 Syrah.  Not in anyway conforming to the stereotypes and misnomers of the 2011 voice collective.  I’m connecting to this wine and hearing its intent.  Looking through past blog posts that were altogether centered on wine, and with a palpable forward in a pursuit of wine, consumption and production– giving wine a last chance.  Was going to write “second chance”, but this is more of a final attempt to make wine my own.  So where else does the writer start?  Well, drinking it of course.  But I sip slow as tomorrow’s my long day.  Drive to Mendo, then back to SR.  FOUR rough draft workshops and a Hemingway introduction.  Already have the quote decided that I’ll use to introduce one of my most followed fiction authors.  He won the Pulitzer and the Nobel– truly dedicated his Life to fiction.  Fiction.. fiction.. the story, and they’re everywhere, I was thinking tonight watching the first game of the World Series, Giants winning, I think 7-1.

Alice with a cold, my poor sweet…  Me coming back from my 7.01 mile run and hearing her sniffle, sneeze, seeing her lowered eyelids, I can tell she’s in discomfort, and it bothers me just as intensely as when little Kerouac ails.  Still have some of that Syrah in the kitchen, should sip soon.  Saw Sam doing a punchdown of some CF in the tank room, guess it was skins that were going to be disposed and he, Sam, halted the removal, decided to use it himself.. the color was intense as was the invisible thrust to the nose.  Have to make wine again, I told myself.. next vintage, for sure, ’15 will be mine, in so many wined ways.  Ordered some wine today in addition to my wine club shipment from AV winery.  Not much just a couple extra bottles, the cuvée that Alice likes, some SB that I and Mom & Dad love, well as some ’08 Cabs that are mindblowing.  Making wine everything right now, yes now I need a sip to get further into this character, and I drink not to feel intoxication but to prompt and provoke sentences and visions and dreams, further the wishlist.

Lots of grip and ricochet on taste sensory; cherry, cinnamon and a little green but not much; none of that expected gamey Syrah song, not here with this ’11.  Mom and Dad scheduled to come over Saturday night for pizza.. will open something dastardly delightful for them, like one of the 08’s, or maybe that Hamel Red that Alex and India gave me– either way something strong, something artful and a bottle that rallies writing.

9:56.  Should be in bed soon.  Not editing cuz I don’t have the time and I still have one more sip there in the kitchen.  Everyone’s going after the 12’s.. I’m beginning a quest to pin some expository and resplendent 11’s!  How’s that, wine critics and bullshit bloggers!?  Feel like a wine monster, wanting to examine every character that me crosses– but oh!  I need change the character, of ME, as races approach, so I can’t sip too much.  If I want to do that ‘full’ in Santa Cruz, it’s less that 7 months away.  And I should, to show everyone and mySelf that I can.

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