Posts Tagged With: Self-publishing

…opened not today but

yesterday still encircles a sipper with swagger and sense.  But I have to stay focuses, and centered, even if my current subject is this varietal, Merlot, wish I could have another glass but I need to wake early tomorrow and take little Kerouac to his school and ready myself for a run that very well may be in the rain, but I’ll still go.  I can’t forget about my marathon which is I-don’t-even-know-how-close.  After the run, which should put me here at home near 10AM, I’ll go to campus, get into character, print an article before the 1PM collection of the 3PM groups’s papers.  Why don’t they just have the final time at the regular meeting time?  Yet another convoluted convenience in academia.  My budget, have to get it done.  Think I have one more check to write then I’m secured.  The Merlot’s starting to catch me but I’ll ignore it for the most part– self-publishing!  City Lights tradition!  Beatnikology!

Rain.  And it’s back, for me, for this street, Yulupa, and for my drive tomorrow and for the view from the 4th floor.  I fully expect to change seats a couple times in that four hour span of meditation.  But as long as the drops continue so will I.  I have to commend this weather’s inexorable intent.  And I sleep better because of it, and like other morning with those drops on the sunroof window, like little kisses to my vision for me to keep going, more than encouragement like a love letter more so, one genuine and not plotted or plan just for the moment, for me, for the connectedness of everything connected to a sentence, to new words and stories, as each rain storm or flurry or even drizzle’s a story, abbreviated or extended.  And the rain doesn’t worry about edits or revisions or even reformatting, it just pours, drops and descends, writes what it wants to.  How is that not enviable?  It just rains!  I only hear applause in my wiring.  This is a beatnik’s moving, not a movement as people understand but a moving, a new motion, one unplanned, scattered, disorganized and delicious!  Paragraphs overlapping and intermingled and blended kaleidoscopically.  I want my son to read this one day, and love and appreciate the rain as I do.  And Alice, my wife, the resolute reader, I hope one night sits to one of my pourings, one of my emotional and confessing deluges, downpours, or like tomorrow: hurricanes.  OR would it be a tornado?  Tomorrow’s writing will break any record or feat or milestone I’ve consummated.  Over 2000 words for the day.. how would the meteorologist report that?  How would I?  Not so much a storm but certainly a front visit.  Today is notable, but not historic.  I don’t even know if it’s a memorable raining of sentiments or thoughts but again it’s there, for you to read if you’re still reading.  And now I have to get ready for bed, and for tomorrow.  My first run since 12/6.  No more knee pain, and the hips seem to be brave enough, so we’ll see.  Bonne nuit, lecteurs!

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Loft. 34 minutes maybe a little more

and I think of today so far, and standing out are the two cups of coffee I took from the 3rd floor and the cheese sampling in the back kitchen (our only kitchen).  Visited a couple of the wines, nothing riveting, and talked to Zach and his wife Katie on the crushpad.  Didn’t turn the lights on on up here, wanted and still want to see how the dark affects me.  Nice crowd in here, talking but not with too much invasiveness, and the rest of the day who knows.  Just deleted a sentence, shame, I need to keep typing like a real Beat and not regret a thing.  MY budget nearly done and thinking about ‘Mp’ all the time behind that bloody bar, even researching Ferlinghetti’s City Lights Books & Publishers.  The key is simplicity I again realizing and going big with small standalone pieces.  Steely Dan playing in the background and  I’m dristract by Time again, how I only have so much and what I do have is so/too quickly quelled in obligation.  So the next day will be the same, and the same and…  Love the dark up here.. wine, on mind, a wine bar, thinking of writing that 1,000 word piece on MY wine bar/shop, the idea, to form into something for my character and how she’d handle it.  Want to ask Katie but don’t want to be too obvious, what would that do but break my cover, totally crack it rending stale ineffective and moot.  Keep with my types, Kenwood, where I work and now break and break away from that goddamn clock–  Thought from the other day, before I forget: the architects sketching on pieces of scratch paper, actually solving a long-standing dilemma from their San Francisco office, they just used the backside of the menu paper, worked on what looked like one part of a commercial building or space, a 90’ angle, and then from there they were distracted by what bottles they wanted to purchase and what they’d have in the office, and what — Company started not too long ago, again, and only 24-26 members, small firm and wildly successful, just like my press; small to large and to that ‘large’ from the smaller pieces.  I have to get out, and I will by day 100, this is all about switching my Life to what I want for me and little Kerouac, and my queen Ms. Alice.. a house, property, the office, freedom, simplicity.. and it’s little Kerouac that really pushes me, fires further my fire.  No more orders or schedules or clocks, can you imagine?  Leaving the house whenever you want to or have to based on your project/s, their demands, and what you saw in that image of yourself, the defiance and the Autonomy, better than any bottle of wine.  One of the owners of that architecture firm had to stay behind in the office to meet his deadline, and one of the other owners that was present that day said he was upset he didn’t get to join their retreat.  Thought the dynamic was interesting and–  Did I tell you this already?  23 minutes.  Goddamn time.  When back I hope to taste a couple more wines in the tasting room and figure out what exactly my target or specialty wine is, or would be in the shop for my character.  Much I talk about owning a wine shop, I won’t, I don’t think.  Rather, I’ll confine it to page, I’ll confine everything to page and sell them.  Minimal overhead, as I want the majority of my stashes going to the house, the residence where little Kerouac and his future sibling will enjoy a backyard, build their thoughts and perceptions and form their own characters.  The dialogues downstairs become louder, more intent, I hear some people, I think Teddy being one of them (my bartending friend), is one of the participants–  Interrupted by Jeff’s wife, and I don’t mind, I actually learned from our brief interaction, about her needing a couple cases of Chardonnay and one of the neighboring wineries won’t sell directly to her and that winery’s distributor won’t return her calls.  Don’t understand why the industry has to be so complicated when it comes to getting wine to a location.  Where’s the formula, where’s the consistency and Humanness?  I’ll never understand that, why wine’s industry overthinks so much.  Oh.. have 16 minutes left, which gives me more than enough to edit.. tomorrow back at school, but just to collect those final papers.  Run in the morning, then finish whoso edits, then 1A collection then write for over 4 hours, in library, and I want more than just ‘progress’, I want my character definitively changes and I want to bask in the stressful energy from the students.. and I want to write in the Comp Book, just brainstorm freely and wildly, and on the 4th floor by the Kerouac books.  There will be a definition settled upon tomorrow, I can understand now, sitting here and my seated table in the loft’s darkness and I know what I’m doing, or I tell myself I do, just trusting that what I’m doing is what the story wants me to do– Thinking.  Noting.  Sharing.  Mp should be a nucleus of not only written engagement but thought aid to other writers and thinkers, teachers.

And I’m still.. focus on singulars.  Like.. the sample I tasted on the pad with Zach and Katie.. Cab blend, I’m guessing, and telling in its vocality and positioning.  But not what I say is distinct.  It wasn’t a poor wine, not at all, it just wasn’t a project that would set the globe ablaze, but I don’t think it’s meant to be, and they confirmed that: intended for the anytime sip.  But I’m distracted by wine and if I should make it and that shop idea.. what if I did?  And what if that became the family business, like Scooter & the Lighthouse?  Something to sew, unsew and re-sew on the way back to the overflow lot.  I should contact my sister I’m thinking now, afterall.  See what her thoughts are on what be, wine and wineshops and labels and Cab fads and anything.

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9:12PM.  Mendo tomorrow morning and I’m not looking forward to it.

NOTES:  overwhelming urge to write, finish novel and magazine.  Tuesday, I keep telling myself, Thursday, Friday.  But I have to grade, last semester like this I won’t let this happen again.  And I festoon in late hour with my words and thoughts of tomorrow and the semester ending and the next run, whenever I can fit that in.  Grading certainly takes from the writing but that’s my world now, my role, an English teacher, but as I dive garrulously into the journalism world, and HST, I find that I need to be devoted solely to story, the reality of what I’m finding.  And now, with the GOP gaining more ground in Congress, I’m following, I’m checking reports– wish I was in Washington.  HST was right, it’s much better than sex, MUCH better.  This urge to write and report and do something and travel with my notebook and come back to type it all, keeping me awake, what made me pour out the Lagunitas so I can focus and dream more clearly.

Last night with that Red, interesting how it’s tasting now, and how I’m responding to wine, especially reds like that, and why everyone likes it, meaning people coming into the TR, members or new characters.  They love it, what I was sipping last night, and I mean true love, as in they can’t have enough, and when we sold out of the last vintage, ’10, they fitted, hysterics, nearly lynching the teller, me, behind the bar just being a journalist of sorts, delivering fact, reality.  Time for bed for me, the tired writer, with only dread for my commute and destination, but loving that I have no winery appt come Tuesday.  This is only good news, beneficial development in a way that makes me accelerate in written spinnings.  Love.  My dying tort for the sui generis, left in the parking lot, I don’t need it anymore, so I can only be honest, what’s the worst that can happen I say to myself.

8:54AM, and I feel I’m behind on everything.  Luckily I have the day off tomorrow.  Have to take Passat in.  Again.  Always something with that bloody car.  Letting students go early, having them finish some Hemingway readings and start on their longer reaction to his work.  Rest of the semester planned and organized, for the most part.  Tired this morning, as I always am, but I’m waking more directly and with more gemness than earlier with that mocha.  Cold this morning, my car temp reader showing 47 degrees.  Hate the sound this office’s keyboard makes when keys are pressed, like hollow thin plastic, small and clerical.. I just hate it, plainly.  Behind on all projects.. the lit mag.. will be done tomorrow, I swear.. “Deadlines, Mikey…” Nate said the other day, when I told him I hadn’t finished editing down the issue.  Shameful, really.

9AM.  There it is.  That time.  I should get to class before the students, I can pick up this entry and edit– there, I edited the first few lines of the first article in the issue.  I feel anxious in this office, and I blame the office, and this campus, and the drive, not the mocha, and not me.  Tomorrow, all mine.  Going to wake early as I did the other morning and start grading the Wolff papers, and further planning the rest of the term.  December 17th, that’s the magic day, which is…  44 days away.  14 days, 1 month.  I can do it I keep telling mySelf.  Dav was right, I was doomed to get burned out.  Good thing I put in for the days off this week.  Going to do the same for next month, 12/2, 4 & 5.  And that should seal the semester sufficiently I think.  Going to class, giving them instruction, then leaving.  It’d be lovely if I could get this whoso issue to print tomorrow.  And why not?  Okay, done, scheduled, that’s what I’ll do.

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Late Punch-in

10/28/14–  5:37AM, couldn’t sleep, kept thinking about freelancing as a writer, or journalist, or diarist.  Woke about 25 mins ago and all I’ve been thinking about is how my interest in teaching, if you could call it that now, has suffered.  So what else to do, write, standalone to standalone.  And I start with the magazine, MY magazine, whoso, and the other pieces I send out.

Fridge doing its usual hum in the dark and I wait for Alice to wake up, around 6 or 6:15.  Not sure if I’m staying home today, even though I’ve pretty much assured that in yesterday’s entries.  Running today after Alice, it’ll be in the dark which I don’t particularly care for but I have no choice this time of year.  Should be healthy for me to get outside any zone of comfort and go out there and “get the story”, right?  As a journalist would do.  Already gathering material for the next issue, starting with that longer short “No Notice” and the Palooza piece.  That’s about six occupied pages of material right there.  Of course, last night I had one of those moments where I second-guessed the whole idea of the magazine.  No, not now, not at this point, I’m sick of me doing that.  Need a brief bio for this new lit mag I’m targeting as well as others that demand or expect the same from their writers– and just that, “their writers”, like we’re their property– but I can’t think like that, not now.

I love these early sessions.  And my battery eroded so I have to scoot to the other end of the couch, left, where the charger is, my wife’s.  Hear someone upstairs, turning and stirring.  Sounds like Jack but I can’t tell.  Can they hear the keys as I touch them?  Trying to be as quiet as I can.

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And wine, more

in the mind and on my cognitive conveyor than ever.  Not since I started blogging in 2009.  FIVE years ago.  And my approach to wine is still very much Literary but it’s about wine, journalism in wine and the novels and stories and short stories–vignettes and poems–in WINE.

10/27, Mendo office.  8:54AM.  And I’m noticing myself getting a little disorganized.  whoso will help with this.. oh!  I have to print the draft!  Here I go!

I did it!  I did it!  I printed a draft!  The magazine’s on its way and nothing will stop me or my fellow writers from being read!  I love the cover; simple, worded, no visual.  Not yet.  Just did a quick read through.. nice.  Finally I print!  And I used Mendo’s money to do so.  My revenge for the review, or just one facet of it.. this morning’s lecture, Hemingway, the first. We’ll start with some writing and–  I can’t concentrate!  All I want to do is write.  Thinking the next issue of whoso will be all prose, no poems.  Want some short stories, some essays, that Palooza piece, wine material.. this Saturday night will help.  I’ll only allow myself one beer and one glass of whatever wine’s opened at Blair’s house.  Need to get home and work, writing, editing, PRINTING!  And I will write a short piece while here, after class, print it for the colleagues at SRJC, just as a letter or communication but in fiction form.  Happening, all happening for me this morning.

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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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Over 3,000 words for the day, and I’m exhausted, but I still want to write.  And my writer friends, can only wonder what they’d say.  And my friends that teach like I do, all of them with FT jobs mind you, never having to worry about pouring for tourists, answering stupid questions about wine that they are convinced are so glowingly important– no sales goals, no threatening, no reprimanding, being treated like a wandering toddler with a gnat’s attention span– none of that.  I sit here, an adjunct, in a shared office, in a noose of malignity.  And I’m more or less prepared to meet with students, those that choose to show.  And my notebook is…

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



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


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


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


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

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


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

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note, 7/5/14

Coffee, now shower.  Thinking about that measly check from yesterday.  I’m going there today with a predator mood.  I want blood.  I need it.  I’m the orangutan.  They, my rue.  Making it known today, I’m moving on– mentally at first, then tangibly second.  What is that wage going to do for my family?  It’s not my Beat, that’s for sure.  So much time of my life, and for what?  My hangover, not tearing at me too tyrannically at the moment.  Glad I switched over to water last night before bed.  Mocha, now, just at right, reassuring me it’ll be a good day.  Hope it’s right.  Keep saying to myself, ‘my Beat, my Beat’…  And what it is.  Thought I figured it out at the end of Spring semester.  Think now– or realize now that I’m just starting to put pieces together.

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And an offer.  $15 per hour.  IS that what I’m worth?  I’m fed up, and I can’t take anymore of the dismissal, and the reduction, and the interviews, and the applying.. I’m hiring mySelf, and I’ve said that before, but I’m changing, tonight, doing what I want, curing mySelf of this regularity and boredom.  Would have another beer, but I’m saving it for another time, for the Road.. may write at 3rd Street tomorrow, or somewhere else I can observe characters, other lives, and just record.. indulge in whatever, whomever I want.  The objective: escape.. through fiction.  Have to wake early tomorrow, start more than early on something.. anything.. not necessarily project focused, but more on the process, the writing.. the characters.  Will I run as I aimed?  I doubt it, as tonight I’m too very much fixated on the writing.  I can run another day, but if I don’t make progress on a MS tomorrow, then that potential advance will be lost.  So the pages deserve more attentions, immediate attention.. MORE immediate attention and address.  I don’t want to die never having seen the Road.  That would be defeat, that would be failure, and I won’t be a failed writer, I’m not a failed writer, and I never will be.


And the location, any location, any setting, a scene and character to itself: a subject, something for standalone submission, to my own publishing company.  You should read this offer letter, it’s humorous.. but I won’t go on about it.  I’m already bored, after being insulted.  $15 an hour, me.. wow, thanks.  Already know where I’m going tomorrow to write, to plan tomorrow night’s lecture.  And poems.  What if I surprise mySelf, over lunch, a couple afternoon beers, finally get what I want.. in one day!  It can happen, right?  I’m fed up, completely, utterly.. I don’t need another entity, 2B FREE!  Time for some sparkling water, sip it slow, hydrate, percolate…


Drinking this sparkling lemon water like it’s scotch.  I don’t drink scotch.  I never have– well, that’s not completely true.. I had some at that 2006 wedding, my sister-in-law’s, in Virginia.  I hated it, the scotch.. like hell vintage elbowing and clawing its way through my orbit.  Tomorrow, I’m writing in the Comp Book, and I’ll sip like I’m on the Road, at whatever pub or bar or restaurant I find mySelf at.  And I’m going there, wherever ‘there’ is, for material.. to add to the book, the next one, after the poetry chap.  Adding more money to the petty cash.. what I’ll use for my chapbooks.  What’s in Schwab is for MY wine label.  At least that’s the now-plan…

I haven’t given up on wine, nor am I dismissing it, but everything has to be on MY terms.. everything.. even the quick stills I snap at the estate…

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