Leaving lot for
secret. Or not
so. It’s a plan.
One I’m breaking–
Leaving lot for
secret. Or not
so. It’s a plan.
One I’m breaking–
slowly, my approach to
hope it pays, and if it doesn’t,
coffee, in brew, again,
I don’t want to halt, even for
a sediment of a second
how does that sound
totem pole stroll
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.
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
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
Still 39 degrees. Much more pleasant in the cabin of this new car, with heat’s help.
Passers, with visible mist
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?
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.
If the world collapses, I’ll be sure 2have no lapses..
Recite my fastest, make sure I skip past it.
Ignore the monastic, dynastic–
Promote only the fantastic, chastise the plastic.
Coins– more on floor than in pocket.. hope I’m
not the subject of audit.. readers, would you please applaud
it? Know I’m 1 of a billion causes.
The writer pauses, only to re-ignite.. me, in spite–
Quite punctuated, nothing light. Keep lips tight cuz I would
rather write. Volcano, low, Palo Alto to Plano–
Won’t let geography boggle me.. Connect red
Dots plausibly. Caught then freed.. need something else
2read– Three deeds deceased.. no longer assigned
ridiculous treatise, conspicuous weeks keyed.
Tired of the session, too old to need Life lessons–
Admired, but temper reddened, afraid of what I might
Time management.. How do I
“Manage” this thing? Too complicated,
2stressful. Was going to rest but
Would feel guilty if I did, I know.
Sing my way to pictures, hoping I
Advantageously aggravate them.
internally, reflected through poetry.
what else do I do.. separate, for final
balcony talk.. measured skip, over
reservoirs, parted shape skit.
No acting. Stages went to mist grips.
Plate tectonic placement, galleried.
just. want. still.
not rusted coin in solitude.
wishing well skeleton, written in bulbs–
didn’t pay electricity, shown 2B truant.
looking down at parched lawn.. me, elevated minion,
with too many opinions.
cloud spaces colored for rimed mirror. Finally.
Month end. New project.
How many more.
Studio off Alvarado,
Can’t see ocean. Coffee first?
Gulls keep gulling. Telling
Passers to quicker
Pass. We’re interrupting,
Loud latte machine, shoring–
Tide with whipped cream–
166 degrees, the lady ordered.
Other woman, with her baby, stroller’d,
by the wharf.
Parking spot by ATM, taken, by old
Motorcycle. I keep walking–
Clam chowder notes taken,
No writing need. No jots.
Reach to another space–
But I’m afraid of erase.
If I fail, I’ll press delete,
Restart, so no obsolete,
What else is dealt?
Solidly, promises and wishes,
Fall to three.
Fortune spun for sick seasons–
Decided to stand still, admire perfect walls..
Intimidated by stares of beloved dolls.
Plates broken in floors, slamming invisible
Doors. Ignore the call for to any chores.