Posts Tagged With: Self-publishing

(5/17/15:)

With this move, there’s always something to do, so I come home to an empty house, Alice and Jack at the store and I have to rush this session. I need a session unrushed, which I’ll get on Tuesday, after the final, the 7AM 1A meeting. Heated quiche from the other night in microwave. Soon as I came home I started my snacking, so hungry and barely eating a thing all day. Have to finish the short story I started drafting yesterday– or last night posted. And more winemaking notes for this vintage and my label.. thinking of writing a certain piece, something like a manifesto but not really about how my label will be executed and how I’ll make wine, and how I’ll sell, and everything about the model the business will take. And I’m learning more than I ever expected to from Arista, just in the one and half months of being there, seeing how Ben and Mark interact with guests and ‘list members’ at the even yesterday.
On that ride back up to the pavilion, Ben pulling us on tractor, how I just thought, narrated internally and I wish I could have recorded it somehow damnit but maybe that’s what makes it so rich is that I can’t remember precisely what I mentally wrote but that I knew and know that I took time to Self to merely think, observe and appreciate the moment. The Estate, the Ride, the Road, ME.
Quiche finished.. and the novel, the novel, and how I’ll fund it as I noted earlier with the media and the blogging and videos.. all for the novel. I’ll have this blog be like my day job, if you will, and all else, which is printed, my true focus. This beer tasted incredible, especially after going to the condo and removing mold with Dad, best we could. This new house will be a pristine palace for my family, a safest of safe places. No impurities or clutter or filth– it shall be clean like my prose, and welcoming, something my son and second little Madigan can be quite proud of.
Can’t believe the semester’s over, but I have to get over the nostalgia, bid adieu to the two most forwarding and inventive student groups I’ve had in years. And I keep thinking, thinking about the adjunct role and what to do with it, how I can use it and how it’s entirely my story, my novel, even more than wine is. Wine is merely something that I relatively recently fell in love with. It’s more what I do contrasted to who Mike Madigan truly is: a writer, Literature lover, teacher. And that’s why I write about wine the way I do and why I think my approach to wine is more than merely “marketable” and that this business idea will catalyze and fund my printed projects. Me, in that haircut place today, scribbling like Paradise on the Road, in the back of a truck or in some field somewhere, journey path progression– all! And why stop? Like Michael said to me the other week: “It’s still being written.” His counsel and narrative, like tutelary talk, arrive punctually and with gravitational sagacity.

I’m not sure how much time I have left in this quite house– ha, used to say “condo”– but I breathe, and refuse to get stressed about anything this move, or now just a matter of selling the condo, involves. I told Alice over the phone that we should consider this prepping the condo for sale, and just selling it, like a war. And I know I always note in those emotive curvatures, but I’m quite serious. That goddamn structure, with its mold and its cracks and its bloody surroundings–from the neighbors (but not Ken & Jen) to the neighborhood to busying Yulupa Avenue–needs to be forced from our lives. Done. Departed and divorced, and thematically scorched.
So.. what do you want, Mike? I mean, what do you really want? Enough bullshit. Enough of the goddamn wishlisting. What does this writer want? ‘Well, to write, and live from it, buy some land somewhere, in Central Oregon maybe, Sisters I’m thinking, and take my family there every summer, play and relax and be in Nature and just reflect on life and my children and how lovely it now all finally is, and be with true Personhood.’ But who knows, I can only wish, I guess, but not anymore, no, what am I saying– I will make certain things happen and keep noting in this Comp Book I’ve kept all semester and draw my existence from the view required to be the writer I need be. Like Hem with his residence in the Keys.
I don’t have the luxury of preliminary anything, I realize. Just leap, and act and publish and do– oh now I’m rolling, and I should write Bear Republic a thank-you for this very Racer 5, the one that gave me a thousand rushed words before Ms. Alice and little Kerouac came home. No, no preliminary, this is the actual, the tangible, the pages that will make the remainder of my presence, stage, me in role in character in actuality, in this new ME. No distractions no devices right now I just don’t have time for anything that doesn’t directly involve the page– I watch the footage I shot from the trailer, and I need to be around vineyards, always, and there’s more money in the wine world that can fund my Self-publishing aims and visions, the plateau that all writers want: approval on everything, passage on all projects, and who better to rely on than mySELF? Oh.. and don’t think this entry is parergon to anything! Just like I’m not an adjunct! This sitting is whole, it is coherent and tells its own story, the capture of a rushed adjunct between houses, and between ideas, and between stages, sections, one mundane and the other radically cosmological! Just wait, reader. Just wait…..
Been dying for the keys all day, and here I am, and there’s my mind, out there, wishlisting, and what’s wrong with wishes? But they can be made immediate, not so distant and not so theoretical.

So this novel, this novel, this bloody fucking novel. What about it? What will it tell? The adjunct’s life and what he thinks of, or how he regrets what he chose but he knows what he chose, to be an English Professor, and now thinks ‘oh maybe something else.’ This has to be Bear Republic talking. It has to be–

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2day’s story–

IMG_57786:54, just got to campus. Optional day for students. Thinking of new ideas for what I’m building in being a writer, and putting the novel on hold, or rather having it be my toy truck project. One student in room with me. My adjunct days, or the dependent/co-dependent days of living so are coming to an end. Won’t go off on that and I know you think I will, but I’ll refrain..
The wines from yesterday, and just how I felt driving around, introducing myself and finding new interpretations of varietals and business models.. has me thinking of expansion, and doing something MAMMOTH in the industry.. blogging and tasting and Art and photography.. all of it, and blending it with literature.. saying this wine would pair well with– OOOO!!! Just thought of something else.. have to type it.. “class” if you’d call it that starts in 3 minutes, now 2. Jackie and I up at 2 till after 3 watching cartoons, but I have coffee don’t worry. Told Alice I would sleep between classes but I don’t see myself doing that, knowing me and how much I want to write after yesterday’s RRV mission…

Home. And I’m writing. Posted wine review, see what happens.. think there’sIMG_5746 something quite valuable and antagonistic, valuably antagonistic in this MOCK SOMM column.. again, we’ll see. I am tired but I know if I have just one cup I’ll write luminously and with seismic force.. I say that and cringe, thinking of the people in Nepal. How and why does life do that to people? Wish I could fly there, document it to tell there story, and help in other ways. But I know me and I’m certain I wouldn’t be able to handle it; the pain, the death, and the sight of harmed children. Was going to watch a WWII doc the other night and stopped when I saw a baby crying, atop rubble. I felt sad, sick, and ashamed I even saw that pained curvature to its eyes, mouth, brow, arm.. ugh, no more.
And my baby, little Kerouac, up early this morning with his cough and me bringing him downstairs to get his mind away from the discomfort, turning on cartoons. He was much better, more talkative and expressive for it, and we all went to bed for a couple hours following, so I have no regret in what I executed but my body and sight, thinking is affected. I’m slower, and sensitive I notice to sound and how I touch things, even these keys. But I’m sped in my keypushes so I’m determined and strangely comfortable, at Peace with this sitting (on floor, against couch, next to backpack).
Consolidating blogs at semester’s close, my left knee.. more coffee.. a nap.. haircut….. Jackie….. Just a few subjects strangling my sensibility at the moment, and how I discussed this morning with two of my stronger matriculants the contradictory and widely ugly hypocrisy of academia.. more I think about me and my story and role as adjunct I see these pages taking me away, and soon, and the inventiveness must perpetuate.. bottledaux as a company.. ‘WRITen’ as an idea, and the whole vinoLit philosophy I formed in ’09/’10… Think, don’t stop thinking.. brainstorm as I urge the students. When I look at some of their journals and see how heaping they are with thought and just true stormings of the brain, I realize I need to anger my own efforts. Antagonize them. TAUNT them. Treat them as caged cats that only want to fight back. SO I do I will I’m going to.. all day. No nap. Fuck a nap. What would that do but make me dead for an hour or more.. no writing when you’re sleeping. That sure as shit won’t finish a MS.
And back from a distraction. Email, social media, pushing the blog and what have.. So quiet in the condo, and I know I won’t sleep. And I’m not that tempted anymore. One of the social media tributaries is slow, or clogged, simply not functioning but I won’t let it damper. No.. I write on.. and I’m hoping tomorrow at Arista gives me more material on wine and wine thoughts and words as it has since I started. Huh, look at the writer fly across his keyboard. You know what, reader, I will have that next cup, if you don’t mind… And I’ll rise in a minute from this floor. Wine.. wine tasting.. winemaking. With more and more flowering showing up in the vineyards, my wine nears, my Cab. OR Pinot. Shit, what do I want. Why not try Pinot? The chemistry dimension or segment you can find assistance for, with. But how it tastes is my conduction. I’ll again study what we’re pouring and elect what tones I want visible. Yes, I’m challenging Pinot just as I’m sure it will challenge the writer.
Already coming to a thousand for the day and I can’t wait for tomorrow, for the reactions from how I describe the wines, which a better 99-point-something percent take to. And, sometime I instruct myself there, in the moment, in the TR while I’m connecting with a local or tourist on how the wine presents itself that day. Wine shifts shapes, I evermore appreciate and see and think that’s what people forget. “How will this taste in two or three years?” How the hell IMG_5793should I know, however the wine wants itself to taste. Now some winemakers will give you a thought that’s smattered in formula and some obscurely worded prediction (if they have their dictionary or thesaurus or ‘phonics’ book close by) . But I’ve found the wine is more cognitive that we give it credit. And, again, that’s why wine is quite plainly FUN. Why would you want to know what you’re going to get for your birthday, or xmas, or any occasion. Isn’t the tradition of surprise much of what contributes to and establishes life’s allure and cherished chase?
Looking at a picture from yesterday, of the soil in one of the VML vineyards. And I’m not sure, why, just the richness and texture and visual voice.. that image and.. I don’t know, but I’m captured and developing in my survey.. the seen, the scene.. I react and.. and….. I don’t know. Splendor, sense, Art, writing, a story, new ME: NEW MIKE. One I like, or even love. Again, I
don’t
know–

Ideas.. a broadcast in addition to the writing.. just keep writing and working and thinking and capturing..

(4/30/15)

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Beauty Brooding

IMG_5691Attestedly, Pinot and I have a flimsy relationship– we bicker, we contest, we ardently altercate. But not tonight.. tonight we dance, thanks to this Russian River producer.. the fruit is not in any angle contrived or forced, or one-columned. I’m being spoken to, in song, in verse, this ’13 is like a convincing cloud of sensory force that I’ve never met; that other Pinots in set would envy and downright deplore for its palate prose. And maybe this would be the glass, my second, spurring the writer, but it’s Truth– this Pinot is its own mandate, a sovereign sewing of empyreal ebullience– wild herbs and field-y tones taunting the caesura of raspberry and maple, slight cedar– but I‘m not approaching the wine that way, with the dumbed cataloguing of notes and ‘descriptors’. This character deserves more, and more, and by ‘more’ I intend a story, and I envisage, some world, or setting, or moment where character like myself and another like-penner perambulate in words and recitals and– some crowd, listening to our words, all prompted by this Burgundy, from Westside Road… Next sip, forcing my diffidence, causing me to reject any and all boxes, and cherish my own chatter. When I find a wine like this, this is what materializes. And Pinot, of all forms, genres. This is no wine review, no silver-tongued sentence sequence, just me writing to wine; evidence irrefutable of the writer tilted and terrifically taunted by a new wine find. And Pinot… Pinot! I don’t want to be one of this new fashionable fold but it looks like I am. But that wasn’t the writer’s desideratum, by any measure. And that’s my understanding of Pinot as a presence: vagary, the espial; ensuing enclosure. But I’m digging too far as I tend to do, this writer-slash-professor.. I should have just sipped and scribbled, jotted some humdrum banality and skipped along with the glass-tilts. But that’s not how we arrange on page, we writers, the word-warpers loving simple syllabics with a bit of sip. And like Kerouac, there was a decision I’ve been meaning to stamp and solidify but it’s been tossed away from my perceptive plain, and pleasurably. And I thank the PInot, this ’13, for getting me to clarity some coherence of paragraph, composition.. wine wine always in a wine, me and my cyclical sentiments… my Beat.
And my glass empty. A lull ebbs in my Personhood. And to do.. what. Nothing. Just stare at this bloody glass as any Beat would. My curves and coursings opaque in any rationale, and so mundane when I re-write, and re-re-write. But this bottle’s solved that. And I’m untroubled. From this Pinot. Why does it confront me from sides blind? It, this contained vivacity light but not so, aims to have its Self heard. And I know you’re asking, “Where? From where? What winery?”
Why does it matter? I’m a writer, find love, a wine, mine, mind molded and resulted. Freed, me.. That’s REAL capsuled composition. So I sip again…..

(4/26/14)

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4/18/15: A Matter a matter

First, walk with Alice and Jack up Bennett Valley climbs (by golf course, those streets, with those houses that cause fantasy in me), then coffee (mocha for the writer), then rush ready for work then a frenzied day of pours and preferences and varying attitudes from so many from so many somewheres.  Now I’m in the nook, ever-focused on consolidation for the students, writing the most interwoven and intricate and antagonistic lectures I can.. so the maddenedread blog will be executed at this term’s end, which is now only a matter of week from the when in which I sit.  Tonight’s wine, a Zin, the Dry Creek option from Arista.. then later write about the RRV Pinot, then just, quite bluntly, keep Self writing, and no TV, no shows, not even the writing documentaries I frequently use to push Self.  Monday a day off for the writing adjunct and I’ll spend it completely in adjunct role, and I’ll write a lecture on Sedaris and the essay form, around 1500 words worth.  I’ll have them all silent and connected and eager to respond but reluctant to as well.  I have to keep writing and posting and SELF-publishing to this bloody blog so one day I can print and disseminate my own efforts.  I do value the traditional printing and distribution of page, but this is what I have to do for the being time.

I do find my Self in a bit of a mood, here at the nook table, acknowledging Time’s assault on me and my work and my knees and the patience I may have never had.  I want to walk outside, and I would on the Road, at whatever hotel I’d be put in, just walk and with no aim or destination, stay away from the bars and people– just find the moments for Self, look at sky, knowing it’s the same as Yulupa’s but with varied angles and positionings.  The Life– topic and glow, in the pages I’ll show, who’ll read and who’ll conceive?  I’m quite overthinking the prospects and punctuations of my presence, with any.. but there I am, HERE I am.  And I don’t know what to do with this mood.. concentrating on wine, making wine, wine of my own and with my interpretive sieve.  Know Eddie thought of this once, maybe once or twice before he was published, but I can only wonder, and I’m getting tired of wondering, why am I still pouring wine like a local dunce and why do I let my Self be lead, carrot’d as an adjunct by Them– those chairs and deans and presidents– doing whatever on stage on professional development days, trying to look like one of us or give some convivial impression.  And who’s now the dullard?  You should have seen him, this guy, this ‘president’, dimwit dope with that assured grin knowing what his salary is while adjuncts laugh at him and thinking of throwing something.

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4/14/15 journal — “Tackle”

Done with 1B grading, and ready to leave. Will write more after class, planning on going to Redwood Café for some short fiction and a water with lemon.. no coffee, no more for me thank you.. or should I come back here, to the condo, which we’ll on inhabit for another 24 days or so, and nap? Oh how I wish I could nap now, but no, no I need to keep today in proper motion with the lectures and the short fiction ahead; the café and people waiting for their plates and coffees and people they’re meeting there.. and the conversation in 1B, centered around Baldwin and his views, his world views.. more later…..

IMG_5443

Little Kerouac with his new truck…..

Classes done, no nap, and wasn’t in the mood to write, earlier. And who else to prompt me to pen but little Kerouac himself. We now, just back from store where I bought him a truck and now we have our usual end-of-day conversations and cartoons and play with trucks and cars and the usual chase down the hallway and through the kitchen. While driving he waved at all the trucks around us, and individually, methodically at the corner of Yulupa and Hoen. Why do I stress as I do, and why do I let so much bother me? Money and classes and so much that’s out of my control? Yesterday was given the greenlight to write about an Arista wine for the purpose of generating sales, case movements. I’ll write up some copy tonight, some short prose and post some pictures– but, shit, those were erased when I restarted the phone, I think… Yes, gone. But I refuse to let it bother me. If I do, then tech wins, and I’m taking my war with it quite seriously. More writing by hand and less of the typing but I’m typing now, that’s what the Story renders and I can’t be divergent with the Story, ever. I can’t afford to.
Now I’m in the living room seated, leaning against the couch, while check claims that he’s stuck between the arm and the endtable. I laugh while and after he says whatever he does in that dialect of his, the Jackie tongue.
Nothing to report, bored and still not in much mood to write. Just want to be lazy and watch Jack, no assignment or prompt around this moment-set. Now he engages me, running away when I threaten to get him.. here comes the ‘Daddy Monster’ I impend. And then we together laugh, hysterically sometimes. And now he’s back to his own language with a little bit of a higher octave to his words and this funny squished face he does.. I laugh now, and continue, don’t want

IMG_54479:36PM. Tomorrow I vow to wake early, and write track after track, just like a singer-songwriter locked in studio. But fiction, all fiction, short rushed panicked fiction. Back from Mom’s birthday dinner at this new spot, or relatively new stop in Windsor call.. what is it?– oh, ‘Kin’. no complaints, really. No, at all, none. Great service, great wine selection.. amazing Cab the waitress selected to pair with the burger I ordered (which was cooked flawlessly)– sometimes I feel I should be a food critic, or blogger, some tweeting foodie that just talks and tweets and posts and doesn’t care, just puts themselves out there– and why not? Why not do that with the fiction? With the small pieces? So much on mind right now with this new house and the sale of this condo and moving and Summer & Fall semesters, booking the Fall classes this Friday.. and work tomorrow….. Need breathe, just calm and forget about everything, just write and react to what’s here in front of my game, this adjunct plate, and not stop– a social media friend of mine, a blogger she is (not sure about what), said that “you can never put out enough”, referring to blog posts, tweets, material, copy and photography.. just put yourself out there, all of you, and some of her work isn’t precisely mind-strangling.. so if she can make a living doing what she does, then a writer like me, this writer here at this nook table, should have no problem transcending.. and why has it taken me so long? I’m just venting, and I should, I deserve to after what I’ve been through this last week and what’s been on my mind– the grading and the prep and the money and all arranged into that maturity box.
Sipping still water from glass, and getting tired. Bed, go soon, so you can wake early and what– vent to the page as you always do. IS that what Baldwin does? I find his essays scenic and instructional, but a tad prolix. He’s it, though, lived as a writer and done the traveling trek that I dream of, and when I listen to NPR in the morning, of these journalists traveling the world and seeing war and recording it and relaying the findings by page to us in America, I feel ferociously failed. And I know I shouldn’t. I can just hear Mom saying something like, “Don’t be like that, don’t doubt yourself.” OR, simply, “Stop.” And that’s why my mother is invaluable, and I have to note that today, on her birthday.. if it weren’t for her, I’d be nothing like this writer, here in the kitchen nook of the condo we’re about to sell thinking of the next words to write.. sip the water again, more than absolving.

Day, time to end. No more writing. Just living, thinking, like Mom told me earlier when I called her stressed, she told me to just sit and think, don’t write. And that’s what I need do now.. soon phone to be OFF, this devil laptop, too. And then to bed, and I have to note how thankful I am that I’m not in wine’s throws at current current.. just this water, Equilibrium, and thinking of the day’s lectures, this morning’s 1A especially, on the symmetry and value of living, being one of the living, that tomorrow’s not exactly assured.. now I enjoy my night, for thinking. Writing done.

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Connective Shelves

IMG_5372Sipping some of my wine, the ’12 NDC. That’s New Dad Cuvée, if you forgot. And I get not so much weepy, but .. no, not nostalgic.. just reflective, and realizing that I can make wine and have my own label and write about it if I wish and create some new story for this writer. Discerning this moment and how the wine amalgamates with my current sentiment.. the adjunct war, coming to an end as I want it to– no surrender, no armistice, no walkaway. I’m sipping, here in the nook, to a bottle I, with much help from my friend Blair, produced. And I have to settle on varietals, I know. Don’t want Pinot. Just Cab, and SB, and Merlot.. that’s it. All Bordeaux. This sip… The Cabernet romps silence the Grenache assertions (and Grenache is the lead voice in this assembly, as I recall..). I feel this wine is its own occult oscillation, with the dark notes and visual, with the undercurrent of conviction and avant-garde story.. this wine speaks to me, and I made it!– Well, with Blair’s help. I’m not winemaker, but I’ve made wine with the activity and prowess of IMG_5371professionals. And here I am, after a day completely enraptured in the thought of wine, and I think more, about the winery I today visited and the Pinot I took home and the other wines I tasted in that rustic garage-like cove, making me think of what I can write and what I can do with wine and what I can write to while I do what I do with wine– postmodern repetition and mirroring; the Plath realization looking at the puddled cogitation in this bowl, this night’s pouring vessel. I’m just rambling I know, but like I said this was a night and day of wine…
Tomorrow, Ross’ funeral. I guess I’m ready, and I guess that’s why I’m sipping with such fervency. Who knows. I’m not blaming Uncle Ross, not at all, I’m blaming me, and my inability to decide that death is integral in this existential equation. I’m the problem, as I’m a writer; I’m to blame, I’m a writer, and death is everywhere, and I can’t hide from it; I’ve evaded it once, defeated it, to be technical and keep score, but I know it wants another scuffle with this Beat, so what do I do? For the moment, just enjoy the wine Blair and I made..

Now: still with caramel and raspberry and minty earth and herb. Need to share this, and the Merlot Blair with me aided, with the Arista faction. And soon. Saturday, then.. decided, for the next episode of the ‘cast Tome and I shoot every week.

IMG_5351Scattered in my thinking and I know tomorrow wil try me but I’ll continue, and stay in writer mode even though Tobias Wolff said in that lecture, specifically, that if you’re a writer at a funeral you should take time to grieve, not observe– but I have to disagree. I can’t just de-activate it, as some do, or can, or think they can.

So the wine’s done, and so am I. So till tomorrow, where I bid adieu to my uncle, my father’s brother…..

(4/9/15)

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Papers Ahead…..

And I’m here in the nook hiding behind my entry. But not so. I’ll get in there eventually I just need to keep the jazz playing and the coffee in cup.. this morning’s coffee, from the shop down the street, like I’m in the adjunct office, like it’s a work day, I’m in my role– I’ll grade all day starting at 11, 3 papers at a time, truly “Swiss-Cheese it” as Dad says.. already have rubric set up, all I need to do is mark the papers, or finish anyway. Gorgeous outside, that after rain feel, but I still incredibly am moved by the petrichor still in air, and falling from that intense blue. And I stumbled upon that word, “petrichor”, in a science journal, as it’s a new word used to describe the smell of rain; so I’m guessing it’s a noun and adjective, either way I thought I’d give it a home on page.
The coffee works but the jazz station stalls.. this isn’t helping theIMG_5343 adjunct. There, think I got it to work– and….. There. And revisited the rubric which I will dive into in .. less than two hours. Too lazy to do exact math. It’s interesting, the relationship between adjunct and coffee. This cup, telling me to keep typing and forget about the papers, just for a minute, but then I think it orders me to go grade one, just ONE. I will, just after this paragraph.. while in RRV, I’ll take pictures, see how the vines are progressing, and see how this drought is straining our dearest vines. Don’t think the rain was enough to introduce any mold or rot, still think it’s too early for that, and maybe too early for shatter, I don’t know. That is one area I wish I was more learned in: vineyards and vineyard management and truly what’s out there stemming from the soil..

And I did it, graded ONE paper, one from the 1B section. He wrote about the connection between Plath’s Art and her eventual self-termination. First, the font looked suspiciously sizable. He has fortified points, but I thought they would benefit from that word-by-word approach with the poems, especially, and then the entries, maybe not as much focus on Bell Jar. This ‘word’ approach that I cite has benefited me greatly, this semester and a bit before, enabling me not only as writer but reader, teacher and Human.. in de-cluttering the house for our eventual and nearing move, there are certain books I refuse to stow away, and Ms. Alice this knows quite roundly. Plath is among them, with her entries and the collected poems.
The sun outside and the blue, the petrichor’d pavement and all the leaves with their newly augmented notes and songs, call me. Should I go for a drive now? Just leap out there to the car, head to the winery to get the paycheck stubs (my main and Adult/responsible/mature intention for driving there), take some pictures, maybe take the comp book and a couple papers up there and just find a new stage, some new surroundings? I can write and grade somewhere else, write?– I mean, RIGHT? I don’t have to be confined to the kitchen nook? This harsh wooden chair, paining my tuchus. Love that word, as it reminds me of Grandma.. Still can’t believe she’s been gone for well over a year, two years this June.. and now Ross.. Life too fragile. I have to just follow impulse, and not worry not fret not fear and to some extent not care, or not so much. Yes, anxiety and any worry is entirely much a cell; a jail; a still death to itself. So no thanks. The coffee, still falling into my core and I don’t let the narrative stop and just remembered I owe this day a short bit of fiction as I have the past several days and I have to print that poem as I want to share it with class tomorrow, read it to them, let them KNOW and SEE that I’m one that does, not just a ‘teach’.
Loading up backpack.. going to be a traveling driver, writer.. but to where? How ‘bout the bakery? Or Flying Goat? Or…. huh, can’t think of anywhere right now.. the bakery might work.. just need a scene shift.. and if I go to Healdsburg I’ll be nearer to Arista. Makes sense. The papers nor the students frighten me. I remember when I first started teaching I was afraid of student reaction, like they wouldn’t like me or they would tell someone, some department chair or dean that I was a horrible person and professor. Now I wildly don’t care, and just do my job (that’s what I meant earlier by ‘not care, or not so much’).

The morning calls me, calls me out, out there, under that blue, about the airborne notes of post-rain and newly glazed cement. I need to be out there, that will get the papers graded quicker, and make me proud of myself for finishing them so early, and so quick. So I ready then, after this sitting, and I’ll write while I grade, write what I find, have comments for them when I get back and welcome them to discussion (which few professors or teachers or instructors, whatever they call us, do), have them ask questions, have them ask how to strengthen their writing, how to make it explode from the page, how to have their convictions beautify the page and all the paragraphs cascading from their impulses.
Find myself now easily distracted and a bit tired. Pulled by emails and messages and this goddamn phone. I would love to murder it, make Poe proud and bury it alive. Not going to bring all the papers with me as that will only overwhelm the adjunct, put me in a bad mood and stall me further.. so I’m thinking, 20 items, pulled from stack (which I’m, again, surprised isn’t that towering, think I may be able to finish today, leaving for me tomorrow only to plan and write in the earliest of early’s, there in the adjunct office). Almost checked my phone, but no, NO! Staying away from that thing.. this is a jazz session, all my sittings be and just as the drummer and pianist can’t halt in their touches neither can this writer.
Adjunct in need of his succeeding demitasse…..

(4/8/15)

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Time to leave

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

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

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

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

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2:21PM. Still sick, but

better after nap. Coffee.. trying to download this newsletter thing and of course it’s not cooperating. Says that I may have to pay? Yeah, then nogo, as my budget is in an envelope upstairs for my blog/startup/vision/dream/whatever/slef-publishing freedom whatever. Thinking about the last winery and how I’d be there normally now, and so glad I’m not– always with a knot in my stomach and always with nonsense, nonsense there following me. I’m here, at Arista (not now physically of course, but comfortable and in a breeze everconstant of Zen. Have the heater on a little as the adjunct experiences chills, not severe ones but just enough to notice I have them.. have to get ready, Alice and I to look at a house off Fulton.. see how it shines in the presence of the others over there. Alice loves the house but the garage style is something that I guess concerns me. We’ll see. Adjunct thinks about tomorrow, how there’s no class, but if he feels up to it, he’ll wake at the same time, write, grade, post to teaching blog.. maybe he shouldn’t do a newsletter for his creative writing or Life blog, or the teaching blog. That’s just one other thing to manage, right? He’d post a letter, no more than 500 words to both sites, both their own ‘management’ form. He looks back through his photos, the IMG_0855last winery.. should I take a shot at them? No.. please, he thought. “What would that do but just cause more trouble and if he were to cite them fictionally, then there would be not fallout or repercussions.. he’d be forever triumphant and blameless! Find picture.. my dear friend, my fellow Beat, Dav, when we’d all go across the street to the Kenwood for an afterword calmer. Dav and I haven’t exchanged our huge letters in some time. Now realize, coming across this old photo, my beloved friend, that those are the only letters I’ll write– Kerouac didn’t write bloody newsletters outside his projects, neither did Plath, Hem, Joyce.. none! That’s off my consciousness– I will market myIMG_5067 Self and my blogs and the writings in them by brickNmortar means. Watch, I’ll be victorious like no one else has with such pushes, efforts.. IMG_50692:36.. go.. will let you know what I think…. House was more agreeable than I ever thought to measure. Barely able to finish entry, though.. feeling the cold’s rebuild and re-assault. I’ll be in bed before 8, easily. Chicken noodle soup helped, but I still have those landmark aches, foggyhead associated with a cold, flu. Hope it’s not that. Goal: better for tomorrow’s RRV mission.

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