Posts Tagged With: Songs

Vintaged Mood Mud

Clocking in late, 9:51.. rough morning with little Kerouac and his unwillingness to go to school, get ready, just being defiant to I believe see how I’d react.. but I’m here now with my head in a million places with Ross’ funeral tomorrow, the move, packing, getting all the documents for the loan, me calling in classes today. Wouldn’t say there’s IMG_5348tremendous guilt, but a little, and a little, as they say, goes quite a long way. So I dive, headfirst, olympianly, into the coffee. Was going to write at SBUX but decided no, the people just annoy me, and then the library but then I saw myself only being frustrated while there– BUT WAIT!! There were some books I wanted to rent.. maybe.. no. I need to stay put, here on couch and type. Jazz to be activated in a minute, and in such artful spirit I also need to visit some wine spot today, for my ‘Mock Somm’ series.. listening now to KCSM jazz online, wouldn’t have anything else frankly– this tune, not sure name, doesn’t display on website, but it motivates me and understands my mood, with the blues suggestion and slow New Orleans-esque pacing. Lovely. Again, just what the writer needs in and on a rough morning like this. Papers from yesterday, right.. and I think about the adjunct life and world and role, and how it, IT itself, may drive me away, and if not away then toward another FT attempt in wine, that bridge to my own label and wine-oriented outfit. Wine, always sharing a story, something expressive; some voice, there’s no criticism like with that greasy pig full-timer that slighted my writing and teaching and me, and at Mendocino College no less– no, wine is that sensory embrace that reassures you, brings you to a certain Reflective Equilibrium, leave you pleasurably pensive; spellbinds, find, sings in its own individualized chimes. The adjunct world, and Education collectively, notably at the JC level, and Univ’, seems to contradict, convolute and corrupt all it professes to endorse and support.
Jazz, wine, more closely linked that the classroom, teaching and real writing, real expression. Wine encourages; wine IS jazz.. more than poetry but a colorful Humanness that I can’t stay away from, it’s own auditory opiate– I want everything from this day forward to be jazz, in my Life.. everything is jazz and poetry and wine. LIFE. No struggle and if there is there’s victory and sight in the struggle.. so I write like I’m making sense and not at the same time– jazz, as I said. MY morning suddenly begins an incandescent insinuation about everything around me, and what I’m about. So my story has a new chapter and song.
Driving Jack to meet his grandmother, Cathy, somewhere between here and Monterey. More than likely in the city. Should I take a detour, do something new, find some Newness, that Beat time that she wrote about.. write by the wharf? I’m thinking too much, and all the clutter around me doesn’t help, the move, crunching my consciousness like frail dirt clusters under a determined tractor tire. Keep moving, you’re on stage, wine wine wine– The thought and alchemy to the reality ahead of me, what I want.. Eddie’s story. I’m soon to be there, I know, on the Road writing and talking about writing and wine and California, not so much how to write but certain ideas I have for starting a project (where my adjunct years will serve me). Not that I don’t want to teach, I just don’t want to be in this context, but that too I’ve written already. I’m tired of the consistency and the perpetual presence of certain certainties and realities.. I want the Newness.. the randomness, the not-ever-expected. And quite and noise, just like the breaks of this current track..
Blogging, not exactly how I want to do it, but I have to now, and it’s instant, as Amber said.. what she does now in India, what she writes or blogs or sees I can only imaging, but that’s that Newness! Experienced by one of my students; she’s passed me, ardently, admirably. I want too to walk those streets and smell what she does there and talk to those characters, drink that beer she mentioned, and just write in some kind of NEW. When, though? I have to ask. Humans always want the stew of stimuli to stream, especially us, the real writers. Not the people that post to a blog everysooften and say in passing, to people at a party or meeting new people in a tasting room, “I’m a writer,” or “I write.” Really? I always want to say, “How much?” “Oh, every few days or so,” they’d say, and I’ve heard this reaction, I have! Not saying I’m a better writer or person, but much a more frequent and serious penner than this character. I’m losing you and myself, but that’s what jazz does sometimes. Where’s my word journal, the little Paris book that Mom got in my city, for me? Shit.. kitchen? Upstairs? This house is a mess, and I doubt anyone’s reading still, I’m exhausted by this prose as well, but it’s truth and my Now and the room I’m in, the mood that has me, or rather had me.
2:30 or 2:45, have to get Kerouac. Then driving south, to wherever.. lunch, what to have? More writing? Sure.. reading, have to dive into my five MSS I promised to read. And that’s another facet to teaching English at the JC, or at all: you can’t read! Papers, yes, but not the books you wish. Robbery, the “profession” pummels us into stoic simplicity, and I’m tired of it. That’s not jazz, not Art, not Lit. And not wine. Wine wouldn’t do that to me, and doesn’t. I know, my relationship with wine is lovehate, I agree, but it doesn’t abuse me like the adjunct world. Why would I keep going? What would I be if I taught HS English? Failed, in certain strain. So, no.. I know me, and I wouldn’t be happy, or alive even.

And a note: job titles; they’re ridiculous. Do centralizing, and not in a beneficial way. And the title THEY determine, they decide what you’re called. And yes my mood’s back.. I need to keep moving, go get some more coffee.. the mocha I bought this morning from that barista, or brewer, or whatever she’d be called is plebeian and limp. My job title: what do I want it to be? I mean I guess I need one, so what, WHAT, what is it? Writer. And if someone asked me a couple years or maybe months (me being optimistic) down the TimeRoad, what do you do? I’ll say, “Write.” “Write what?” “A blog.” “About what?” At this point I’m thinking, “What the fuck? Why all the questions? What are my answers going to do for you?” But, being the mature “professional”, I’d respond “Life.” I write about Life. Yes, the dominant topic is being an adjunct, and wine, and writing, being a dad, and running as well.. so, why couldn’t I say ‘life’? Over thinking, and I blame the jazz, the crazy baritone sax that competes with the frenzied drumming, and the string bass, not sure if it’s a cello or.. but I’m trying to keep up. And the morning’s back on my side, no more mood, no worry, I’m not letting any anchors into my sight or senses this morning. I have toughen, and I will, have with this entry, with these tracks. So… what wine place to visit? No sipping, just smelling, and okay maybe a couple spits, but that’s it.. then coffee after, more coffee for the writer, and no planning! That too adds to this writer’s stress. Just live and write and play like this sax. Song title doesn’t matter, just like a job title. It’s jazz, it’s music, ART, and I love what it does to me. To the kitchen for some coffee, then some thinking, just listen to the sequence, this playlist, and think. No writing. Not now. Just live, note in Comp Book if you need.

Just noticed there’s a lot of blame in my writing. I blame my moods…..

(4/9/15)

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dayrime

Any thought secondary has to be buried,
rarely second guess self but I do when it comes to tell–
Observed surroundings, nothing astounding,
Attention span of a gnat, and I’m overly selective at that–

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sq6

napkin wipe away everything the

rumors and the saysos, okay?  I use it

again and make sure its gone, the

evidence of the mistake, over my lip and cheek right

but I’m wrong and I have to use it, drag or brush or

tap, who knows, charge and electric– seismology of the

normal, make glimmer, a sun or nova, one so super!

I fold it, I’ve done enough damage, it was once so

angular and vocal and present, now it’s worn,

beat, toppled, lowered, and because of me, I’m the

storm, the sickly sorcerer why i dont know, apart fall

clean up soon or else therell be a fall

out, clock knows so, so i go

basket, get away, no other word left and i turn to distract myself

(2/16/15)

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Sq 4

Slammed, no care,
leave, draw, more
color, or others, or
once the wine finds
my aorta, then
my song will
be in a speaker, or
million, million-ing, vision and
image, a prism
from pittance

(2/12/15)

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pilot ought oh

narrow my realism

for the sake of

what, suspected, I’m an arsonist, or

I will be, I’m about to

burn one of my own books,

so what does that make me,

wait let me– yes, okay, this I think I

said in another note I wrote

to mySelf, one morning before work, when

I was in one of my moods, sipping a cooling mocha and

eating one of those breakfast burritos,

in the market’s parking lot, this is so much

a writer’s foil, tall toil–

eating a candy I found in the

freezer, peanut butter,

my favorite, return to

the child, when things weren’t so necessary, or expected, or planned,

why does sit have to be mapped out, protractor’d,

that robs, I’m robbed, and

thinned, more than the road they set

me on, why can’t it taste this good, where are

the keys, the curls to a better ride?  I’ll

go for co-Colossus,

don’t think, just go, I’m riled but

sought slow, and that’s another song I’ll have to

somehow fake, more leaves

get a rake.  hope sincere,

that letter was already sent to supposed supporters.

light another match, for the writings in my desk.

hope the smoke heads west, to the pest press.

(6/26/14)

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stanza grey

Leaving lot for
secret. Or not
so. It’s a plan.
One I’m breaking–

3/22/14

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slowly, my approach to

today

hope it pays, and if it doesn’t,

I learn

something

new

 

coffee, in brew, again,

I don’t want to halt, even for

a sediment of a second

how does that sound

new song

totem pole stroll

 

(2/19/14)

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Thursday Song

A fence, chains pointed, separating the
cupped sanity from obligation’s
quills. Once humorous, now a
strangle. How it loves to see me in
this figure, they, those bats.

Even the air around me
notices, the off chords–
a new song, barely, a
tree looking back

from the other half
feeling sorry for me
but cheering. Me: grin.

travel from block here
to corner here.

agreeably incensed.

(1/30/14)

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Morning, Good.. I would

10/28/13–  Typing in the Safeway parking lot.  My mood this morning, toxic.. everything from rhythm to sight, to tone.  Not in the mood to do the same bloody thing I did yesterday, day before.  Before.  If I could just have the day to Self, to finish the bloody book, already.  Or just write freely.  I will, though.  This Friday.  If today were that day, I’d be on my way to Petaluma, by now, surely.  Once there, I’d grade for about an hour.  Then, to cafeteria to write in newJournal.  Freely.  To the second mocha of my day.

Wrote a healthy amount of verse, poem, yesterday while in tasting Room, visiting and revisiting wine to aid with knee pain.  No plans for a run today, obviously, in that I pickup little Kerouac from Lisa’s.  Do I want to run tomorrow?  Possibly.  Probably, actually.  But not too much distance, as to care for these aching structural portions.

My mood, rising, watching these cars race by on Calistoga, towards 12, where they choose to turn

left

or right.

8:44am.  How much longer can I write?  I’ll give Self till 9:05.  Precisely 20 minutes to finish, edit, post this prose.  Or poetry.  Whatever form it takes.  Cold this morning.  The reader, or “gauge,” reads 39’.  May as well be 32, as I’m quite affected by the sterile sharp atmosphere.  Reminds me of Sunriver, of course.  And then my mood rattles again, in wondering how long it’ll be till I up there again write.  Young family walks by, two children in roofed wagon, mama carrying littlest on person, in one of the strapped pouches.  Can’t remember name for them.

Listening to beats that I used when having my Literary lunches, Napa.  And my hands start to stiffen.  Don’t I have the heat on?  No.  Fixing that.  Maybe that’s why my temperament’s so coiled, boasting fang points.

So relaxed, here in car, with this 4shot energy boat, music, characters everywhere.

But I have somewhere to be.

That, precisely why I’m re

molding.

Still 39 degrees.  Much more pleasant in the cabin of this new car, with heat’s help.

Passers, with visible mist

talk.

Me, hidden from.

 

At lunch, I need to get this grading done.  Instead of 4 items, I will shoot for 8.  Four must be 1A papers, just the other night submitted.  Going to use a new 50pt rubric I found online.  Would write my own, but my writing energy, as it pertains to my teachings, stands better spent in other areas– lectures, lessons, assignments.

And, “Take Five” by Dave Brubeck appears, audibly.  And the writer’s mood, colorful.  No longer hunched.  Imagine my Self back in Paris.  By mySelf, writing, walking, no wine.. just the cafés, cuisine, characters, conversation.  Anymore, wine only harms the writer.. this writer at least.  And I’m all the more settled in me not making a wine this year.  I will return to it, yes.  But I want the writing to carry me, first.  Then, when means rotate upward, barrels get filled.

 

Today’s writing goal:  5 poems.  Due:  5 o’clock, not a second later, says

Professor Madigan.  (8:57am)

 

Posted 3pieces, Professor Madigan…  8:16pm, in kitchen’s nook.  Going back through blog, its word doc, here on laptop, reconciling.. guess that’s what you’d call it.  Caught Self OVERthinking, again.  “Oh, did I post this one.. this one?  THIS ONE?” Why concern Self like that, OVERconcern Self like that?  It’s all book-able.  No more of this 1-year-on-blog hogwash.  Some pages I post, others I don’t.  I’m a writer, not a blogger.

On new notes: didn’t have any advances at winery today pertaining to winemaking.  So, I’m resigning to not making wine this vintage–  NO!  Not ‘resigning’.. assigning.  What am I “assigning?” The Self, to only write, teach, read.. work with my students.  After leaving Kerouac with Ms. Lisa tomorrow, I’ll head straight to Petaluma.  A simulation for this coming Friday, where I plan to write for 5 straight hours, 10a-3p.  Or possibly more.  I’ll print my 41pg work as well.  Bet on it–  Actually, don’t.  You might lose.  Just know I’ll try, angrily.

 

Poetry tonight.  Three verses, comprising 1 song.  That’s it.  Something to perform.  Going to designate tonight’s piece my signature work.. or touring pages, if that makes sense.  And maybe I’ll test them on the English 5 class, this Thursday at open mic.  Or, “open mic with Mike,” as Jess said.

 

Tonight, I’ll grade 4 items.  Didn’t hit the eight or whatever I wanted to at lunch.  Instead, I went on a winery visit with a coworker.  Deerfield, all their single varietals, a couple blends.  Love how the tasting Room’s in the cave.  Always thought that was an appealing facet to their experience.  Was I a huge fan of their wines.. not really.  But I enjoyed the unexpected dash to another tasting Room, being on the bar’s other side.  Is there anything I can report from day, other than the slow start, and the uncomfortably easing rush at conclusion, the two annoying people from Reno I poured?  Not that it was Saturday-busy, it was just quirky, discomforting.  Rushed to gather little Kerouac, then back to condo castle.  Now, I’m in professor mode.. more, more.

Hungry.  Should probably open night’s wine, to pair with this Mexican casserole Alice made.  Long day for us both.  Want to get us into our own house, away from neighbors.  Older the writer gets, I don’t enjoy nearness to other voices, movements.  I prefer the isolated places.

10:14pm.  I should be grading those papers.. but no surprise, I’m not.  I’m enjoying my evening.  Quiet.  Writing.  And running tomorrow?  Not sure.  Maybe, actually.  Even if for only 30 minutes or so.  Have to remind Self that not every run should be a record-breaker.  The fact that I go out, interval on pavement, or trail, is victory to itself.

Poetry, to mySelf, here in the semi-solace.  Maybe I shouldn’t run tomorrow.. but Thursday.  Can I keep that promise to mySelf?

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BeforeFlightAftr

Climb, remotely2deciding–
No coffee yet. Or 2much.
One wouldn’t be able2tell. But
I’m in line, typing poem into phone,
Imagining travel.. Flying, looking down
At whitened edges, peaks, intimidated
Clouds. Rushing to gate. Check in2
Room. Rest. RunWrite. Am I
Planning too much?
Day2– hardly somethingNew. Anothr
Schedule. So sick of them. Walk away
Run away zoom somehow… Singing
To grounds, floating in introduction–
Why do I let mySelf wait. Ever.

8/18/13

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