Posts Tagged With: Self-publishing

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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table marks

i dont know what they

are or what they say, i just

try to interpret

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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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