Posts Tagged With: Self-publishing

Haven’t posted a

thing to the blog today, cost of allday grading.  Not letting this happen again, ever.  Now on, 20 items graded, everyday.  And if there’s no grading to be charged through, then I write lectures.  Always in the mode of educator/writer…  Tomorrow’s set to be a bit stressful, but not if I manage it appropriately.  After 1A, come straight home and attack 1B pile.  And after 1B, WRITE.  Post profusely to blog and then keep writing.  Now, I’m tired, exhausted by all I’ve read, and the quality of some submissions.  It’s fine.. it’s early in term and I look forward to those struggling, or maybe afraid to write well, or write what they think of or see in a book like Kerouac’s.

Bag ready, clothes downstairs, even have a spare toothbrush and toothpaste in downstairs bathroom to further and speed up my slow morning movements.  Just breathe, I tell mySelf, breathe…  Not sure what to write.  How tired I am, how frustrated with myself that I was grading all day and didn’t, or haven’t stuck to my 20-a-day grading strategy.  Tomorrow’s new, and I can restart, new character with new habits.

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whoso magazine’s first featured writer: Amber Coyne

My Body is an Alter

Ink drills into skin
Anchors sink into flesh
Needles pass stories
Through me
Carve into me

Christian eyes machetes
Murder me
Mutilate me

Bodies are temples
Jesus an eraser
Purity scrubs skin white
Honor your temple

you were mistaken
my body is no temple
my body is an alter
every line an offering

chiseled strokes plague skin
every curve an artist commandment
every wrinkle a part in the sea of color

I will sink rainbows into my skin
To cleanse away holy water
Poison masked as promise

turn flesh to testament of resistance
Needles to inscribe stories stolen
Peach pages waiting for calling

needles pass through palms
they sink into feet
colors transverse skin
Sacrifice to memory

Christian eyes set to crucify
Will find this alter covered
Blanketed in permanent protection
Sewn into skin altared


Appropriate Technology

Sometimes I wonder what it felt like
Chemo coursing through your veins
Was it like hot lava flowing
Circulating destruction death

Did you force smiles for my comfort
While poison tunneled pillaged cells

Burn your body inside out
Did you burn yourself

For me
For dad
For hope

To kill the invader
With an invader
To murder the murderer

They said it was appropriate technology
They cited statistics
They employed ethics
They beamed over a chemo room

Adorned with art
Leather chairs
Beachfront views

They masked the truth
Covered up a dirty little secret
With distractions

The cure is worse than illness
Who is the killer now

The chemo
The cancer
The medical industry

Sometimes I wonder
Would you do it all over again
Let every glass of cold water become
A agent of death suffocation
Let every meal become
A menu of bile of vomit
Let every brief walk become
A crippling marathon
Let every last minute
Be fraught with pain
With burning

Sometimes I wonder
Will I do the same
For children
My uterus has yet to meet
For lover I’ll kiss every morning
For faith I gave up the day you died
Will I burn myself for them

Was that fire for me

femme3Amber Jean Coyne is a masters of Public Health student focusing on LGBTQ+ heath equity with a minor in Queer Studies. She received her Bachelors of Science in Molecular Cell Biology from Sonoma State University in 2012 graduating summa cum laude. Amber is a writer and theatre enthusiast performing in such plays as The Vagina Monologues and The Class Menagerie. She is previously published in Language, Violence & Resistance (2014) by The Alter Collective and Queer Studies at Oregon State University.


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DAY 98: tu 2/17/15: Raw, Rushed Moment Molding

Timer set, 25 min to write and post.  Was going to use bathroom to splash water on face but one of the cleaning gents is in there now, tending to his character’s role, and job, and I think of what else I can do to the characters of yesterday’s short, and nothing I conclude.  Oh, and I recognize I misspelled Dostoevsky’s name yesterday (think it was yester’).. anyway, apologies Fyodor!  This morning, light mist and or drizzle on drive over, and I thought of my dissertation or writing sample for a PhD program, which now is very much possible in that I’ll be teaching more and more classes earning my family more and more money and pouring at a new TR, soon!  I only think of Jack and how he sees me, and I want him to see his father as a FULL professor and writer, one who’s gone as far as he can go with his credentials, and that his father is alway studying, always working.  The coffee works slow this morning and my typos are multitudinous, scattered, me keeping the delete button busy then retyping.  Hemingway’s up today, along with Plath and Dickinson.  Haven’t seen the students in a week, so they’ll be tired I’m sure.. I’ll wake them up with music and writing and an animated professor!  Have to keep sipping, the connection’s coming, I know.  Hemingway, with his hard stare and direct prose should also shake them in the latter part of class when we read aloud.  To get a feel for his sentences and rhythm.. putting that in lecture notes…

Think he may be out of the restroom now, but I only have 17-something left to write.  AND post!  Not enough time, I’ll rush in there after these sentences.. sneeze twice.  Allergies already, this lovely weather’s tariff.  Should have brought that other Comp Book, the one I had set aside for MY studies.  Can’t wait to one day go back to school, and I know my wife also empathizes, wanting to one day get her Master’s and already haven taken some added seminars for college credit and raised pay.  And I was thinking, money won’t be an issue when returning to school as by then the writing and blogging will already be in flight AND I’ll be teaching, so there will be NO financial harm to my matriculation.  AND, if I can as Michael suggested, I’ll be in-program for free.  I mean, why should I pay?  Even if it is Stanford, or Berkley, or Davis?

Today, get more into the students and their stories and have them be more interested in each other’s stories and how their lives work and how the functionality of their respective stories reaches the person asking (make sense?).  Not so much an interview but a genuine discussion–  And I feel it again, that morning rush I have so many times in this adjunct nook (no longer calling it a ‘cell’.. that’s what my job at the winery did to me, gave me that mood, made me see it and Life that way.. so happy to be free.. Fredrick Douglas said that ‘Knowledge makes man unfit to be a slave’.  Now I understand.. and I’m not trivializing his experience or words, I’m just seeing more of what I went through after stumbling upon his quote this morning..).

Little over 10 mins to Self.  Alice messages that J is still asleep.  My poor tired little Artist, partying last night at Mom’s house, all the fun he had over the weekend…  Nap will do him quite well at school today, I’m sure.  I’ll get him early so he can rest and play with Papa at home.  Wish I could be with him all the time, but that would harm him in keeping him from the world and other characters.  He needs exposure to the reality around him, I’m learning this as ‘father’.  I’m still learning, very much, and that’s one thing I’ve learned from this project is that the story WILL change and I WILL change with it.  6 minutes.  Deadline approaches, time to get into character, time 6:41..  I’ll put on some spoken word beats with an ambient feel to them.. I’m here, I’m ready, a writer, professor, Human and character– Story changing, for me, my family, and scenery.. Namaste.

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DAY 93: th 2/12/15

And on this 93rd day, an unusual one to be sure, I sit to coffee in the nook, not in class but having to leave for campus in 27 minutes exactly, “Launch at 730” I tell myself. Coffee ready and I have to walk over there, behind me and by fridge to retrieve but I don’t want to rise and ruin my run. Only bringing Comp Book as I said yesterday, and I’ll note everything, everything, and all things learned and other ideas the professors point out. I know people will notice me writing, and I hope they do! I hope they see me as one who not only teaches but does! Quiet in the condo now, with only the fridge and its hum, the sounds of the keys being committed to my vision, image and role, and the table rocking so slightly I almost have to stop typing to hear it, but then it doesn’t move, then no sound, it’s playing with me, obviously.
Coffee in possession and I sit thinking about how awful or awesome the coffee there at the meeting will be. Could be splendid. Could be shit. I notice myself fall into typo after typo this morning typing, how did Kerouac do it on an Underwood? Can’t think about that now and it’s not my bloody fault I have a laptop. The times.. the technology.. I didn’t decide it! And I use it how I want! In fact my poetess friend, Amber (whose word I still have to post to bottledaux) only writes on laptop, so it’s instantaneous.. and my dear friend Lila, refuses nearly to transfer her scribblings to laptop, as it’s “too much of a pain” as she once told me, basically then, for her, bringing nothing to fruition, and that’s a shame. So I’m here in nook, typing, Comp Book right, little pages left.. ready for day, to write everything, everything.. see who shows, try to find Michael right away.. and I have a thought for the Massamen novel– you know what, maybe I should bring my bag but only have the journals in them– no, bring Comp, then Massamen journal atop.. done. And his story, Mass’, starts where I did on the 28th, Jan, being let go to start new, and finally be in the position to fight the Adjunct War. And maybe “war” is too barbed a term for some but to us, my character and I and anyone who’s ever been an adjunct, it’s too light, perhaps. Either way, we’re both at work. And I’m xeriscaping my thoughts and writings, my novel coming, and I need give Self a timeline like with this project.. just looked at clock after taking call from Alice wishing me a well morning.. 7:15, the clock catches me but I’m grumbling in commitment to reach the bottom of the page, and to think of anything I forgot to mention yesterday in entry– OH! The skirmish and bad blood catalyzed by one of the tasting rooms in the Kenwood shopping center. Even slighting my friend Jeff, he’s the one who disclosed the whole story to me, day before yesterday, and again to Dwight and I yesterday with some added specifics. War in the wine world, and how some people are so oblivious to courtesies common and just general neighborlyisms. And then it starts; the stares, the snubbing, the rumors, the shootouts if any, and just that feeling that no one cites or points out but you know something’s off. And that happens on highway 12! It’s hard to believe! A place where much of the world frequents in their pursuit of wine and wineries and vineyards, to take pictures and experience what we all, or many of us, take for granted and just shine on, there can be conflict, foul attitude, negativity to this degree.
Battery low. See what I mean? Bloody tech.. anyway, I should prep myself for leave, and I’m just taking the Comp Book I decided. One project at a time, one binding at a time. Slow, like I tell Jackie when he eats; “Jackie, remember, we eat slooooooooooooow…” Same principle with writing, just not too slow, otherwise the project never finishes.

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And I have to say (no edits)

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

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Day 82, excerpts (no edits)

…we’d be watching football and enjoying snacks and just hanging out as we did yesterday (told him this yesterday, before leaving for Mom and Dad’s, for dinner, where Mom cooked some beef dish with mushroom and carrots in a crockpot).  Now I hear him talking.. poor Alice, I’m sure she wants to sleep.  I’ll go up there and get him, and when down here with me I’ll write that cover letter for Dominican.. would love to have a class there, make that drive DOWN 101 to Marin, or Kentfield, or San Rafael, wherever it is down there, waiting for me and my words and instruction–  Hear the monster, my little boy making his way, sneaking down the stairs, in the dark, don’t like when he does that I fear he might fall.  “Then why don’t you stop in your project’s current proffer and get him?” I do just that and find him progressing to the condo’s bottom level, step by step, on him bum.  And now he’s eating his waffles, playing with cars atop the toy chest.  And I’m the observant father who tries to write and bring his project to a close and think of what to do next best for his family, bring money in and impress his students and come off as some sort of expert but I know that’s not possible.  And expert?  No.  But energetic, passionate, involved and immediate, present?  Yes, undisputedly–  Jack continues to bring me toys and items he likes to play with and I offer interest but only so much as I can’t help but think about it, this last Wednesday and how Alice is with me going back to being a fulltime adjunct and building my CV and teaching, lecturing, writing.. more coffee this morning and I’ll have the day’s 3 pages by 10, or before.  Alice said she wanted to go into her school, her office and get some work done, I’m only supportive as her passion is never flimsy or sporadic, it’s fiery and Roman and expansive.  I bend in awe, watching her prep and leave early as she does.. soon, this will be me again– well, I do wake at 5-something to ready for the 1A this semester.  But I mean a more viral and daily footing, practice.

Exterior stage, present and visible.  The day’s aloft, in flight.  Noticing a change in my writing habits, how I can’t leave the page and I fear this project’s end.  Most would say, I’m sure, “Aren’t you looking to finishing it, being done?” Or, “100 days?  Of three pages?  Are you crazy?” Well, yes, to the later, and NO to the former-former.  Once it’s done, I have to edit, all 300+ pages.  Yes, loosely, but I do have to read my entire MS.  And what is it?  A memoir?  A journal?  A nonfiction novel?…

I have to edit, all 300+ pages.  Yes, loosely, but I do have to read my entire MS.  And what is it?  A memoir?  A journal?  A nonfiction novel?  The character Mike Massamen will be more direct and shining on page; he’ll take the adjunct dilemma into his hands like other adjuncts don’t, and can’t.  He sees the others on campus and dread becoming like them one day.  He wants to be different, seen as a writer and as a scholar, one more in advocation of reading and literacy than the others; and he’ll never be complacent like the fulltimers, ever, even if he does eventually become one.

Starting a new poem…  for the whoso magazine on blog…..  Perambulating about the page in verse and meter.  Just finished it, I think, don’t want to make it too long.  Think ‘No Why Of’ might be a bit long.  And I can’t edit it, already have it posted–  Tired.  Think I may have whatever’s making Jackie cough as he does.  The father struggles, and he content on couch watching cartoons he requested.  To much in thought bay, so I put down the laptop and meditate, think of nothing, or as close to it as I can.

11:39, Alice at school and Jackie and I hanging out here at house.  Email Dominican contact and filed for UI just to do it, but it’s clear I won’t get anything as I made too much money in Fall ’14 and still make too much now with the 2 sections, SRJC.  Kinda funny to think I make too much money… WEnt for walk with J and Alice up to BV hills, up Woodview, and it reminded me of summer mornings at Steve & Linda’s; coolm slight cloudcover and that wild smell of morning and foliage and plants, guys playing golf (which reminded me of Sunriver, not Stever & Linda’s property).  Walking back down the hill we saw a sizable coyote.  Alice was alarmed but J and I were intrigued.. he yawns now next to me, could be nap time for him soon, forgot what Alice said.  But one thing I remember her saying, yesterday, was that I’m happy again, now that I’m not at the bloody winery again.. I’m reborn in my studies and in my passion, with my students and in my life as a writer..  Should write a letter to Dav today, respond to the one I just received, and follow my idea of Gorgeous American Grim.  Think this may be the most explosive idea I’ve had so far as an instructor, or “scholar”.  And I’m going to become more competitive as a teacher, like I will as a writer–  I can’t believe it!  I’m free!  No more counting the goddamn register and no more morning meetings that accomplish nothing and no more 30minute “lunches”, rushing out of my loft to get back on their foolery clock.

I’ll be back at Acre, later, but I don’t think I’ll have their coffee.  Maybe something else.  Think they have wine, actually, a glass of something white maybe.  Something to relax me and write smoothly and fluidly and with rich melody in every word I put to page.  And I remember the promise I made, to myself and readers and this project: after day 100, I start the novel.  But which one, Krystal or Massamen.  Has to be Massamen…

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…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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