Posts Tagged With: Spoken Word

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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Re-blended Blend

Tonight, writing freely.  Won’t touch book till Tuesday morning.  Hoping to run in earliest of morrows, tomorrow.  No matter how drained I seem.  Took home a bottle of Merlot tonight.  Already opened, but nearly 100% full.  Complete glass to right.  Plath to left.  First piece of memorable dialogue this morning, the only except worthy of record, for day’s whole: one of the stockers, a 20 y/o JC student, quoting this morning’s poem back to me, approaching, repeating “whisked white whispers.” Made my whole day.  Was nearly tempted to leave early, pretend I was sick or something, flee to nearest coffee spot to write.

More punchdowns this evening, after a glass of this same Merlot.  I noticed the aromatics intensifying, the temperature contrasts more pronounced.  And the color, differentiating in intensity, barrel to barrel, trapping me.  Again, with winemaking ardency, insistence.  Love the way the cap looks, above the juice, and how the juice looks when rising through the skins.  The process, more than the finished product…  Always animated, for me.  Just took first sip of this glass, and still quite impressed.  Wish I could have bought my Merlot, but I’m moving forward with this 2013 Meritage.  Need to think of my own suggestions for this Bordeaux blend they’re doing.  I don’t want to be in their way, with no contributing ideas.  The most recent issue of WineMaker Magazine, just above Merlot glass, here on table.

Can still smell skins on hands,

fermenting pools.

Gorgeous vampiric strips.

 

Ms. Plath, on the cover of her collected poems publication, staring right at me, telling me to stay focused, be an Artist.. write your poems, and now that the first chapbook is finished.. bloody release it!  Time, readers, 8:51pm.  Always looking at time, so how free am I in this writing?  Only one more glass after this, then to decaf.  Have to run, everyday this week, M-F.  Just set two alarms: 1, 4:15am; 2, 5am.  Met a gentleman today, visiting with his wife from New York (Staten Island), who runs all days of week, waking at 4am.  Wish I could do so.  Well, tomorrow’s my chance to try– or do.  No “try” for this penner, never.  Not at 34.

 

iconic, but off to drop it– what,

the pouring, to coffee’s sleeves,

no, my inner incline never resigns,

please.. to cold to fold2mold, poetry my

sole street.

 

Again, so thankful to the coworker this morning, reciting my lines.  What’s more remunerative for the Artist?  Plath, still looking at me.  Should open her book–

“All the Dead Dears,” first piece I see.  Interesting, her reflection on artifacts captured, how they’re seen, and what we should think of her, Plath, observing it.

Social media, anything technological.. disgusting, too easily infusing.

Not may notes from day.  Actually, only a couple lines added to a poem I started a couple days past.  Didn’t date, so certainty’s only a wish.  Thinking the next release should be a collection of poems and not the flash fiction effort I before pinned.  What do you think, reader?  Ms. Plath, too much in this writer’s wheel, winds.  So tell me then, what do I do?

“Do what you feel to write,” I hear Grandma saying.  “It’s your Life, you have your choice.”

(10/13/13)

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newest journalist journalism

10/6/13–  Spicy pasta from Alice, tonight.  Tired from day.  Sipping last Ale, and the writer’s about finished.  Want to wake at Barleycorn time.  Not to run, but to write.  Still very much feel yesterday’s Lawndale jaunt.  Today, party of 42, handled by Ed, also a teacher, and mySelf.  All from Norway.  Interesting group.  Not many questions, but still.. considerable interest in our wines.  Opened a random 375 from downstairs stash, just a minute ago.  On cork, in permanent marker, “EP”.  I opened it, thinking it was ‘extra pours’ of Lancaster Nicole’s Blend.  But…  Extra Port, from a friend’s [Lauren’s] boyfriend, who works for, I think, Fritz, in Russian River.  At my age, I’m convinced, I can’t do hard alcohol, or Port, or anything Port-like.

Was finishing this last bowl of pasta, imagining mySelf eating it on an overnight in some hotel, east coast.

Visited my wines today.  But only to top them.  Didn’t taste.  Only tasted the topping wines– a Grenache, for NDC [New Dad Cuvée], then an incredibly dark, smokey Malbec for the Merlot [MMFM Merlot].  Have the winemaking bug, again.  Making wines as a writer, not winemaker, if that makes sense.  IT should, to writers.

Distracted, by old videos I shot around estate.  Would love to go for an early early morning run.  Maybe I’d see a mountain lion–  Oh!  Maybe I would.  Annadel, promising such interaction.  They wouldn’t hurt the writer, I’m sure.

So pleased to be in base.  Ready for bed, I feel, after today, that group Ed and I had.  This entry: 300, no more.  Words conserved.  Need days off.  Don’t I have some “professional development” day, soon?  Yeah…  I’ll develop professionally.. with these pages, nothing to do with that JC, the activities they have planned, on how I can be a better educator.

The umbrellas, at work.. labor symbol, excess.

 

10:04pm.  Sipping sparkling berry water, preparing for early rise, a Barleycorn session.  Need the Road, my Newness.. sick of waiting, already.  Little Kerouac, crying.  Think he may be excessively tired.  Turned off internet connect, reducing–or rather improving–this device to a typewriter.  Can’t wait for morrow’s morrow, the harshest hours.  Setting alarm for 5am.  Want at least 1,000 salable words before Kerouac wakes.  And his crying, stopped.  For now.

Quiet.  Not elevating the TV’s volume even a millimeter.  Oh, just, remembered.. out of cups for machine.  Will have to brew own cup.  Not a big deal.  Having trouble focusing on any details, as the exhaustion gifted from day’s more persistent that I can handle.

Finished water.

Watching advertisements, muted, screened.  So many colors, promises.  Interesting, to us thinking types.  The semester, nearing its halfway point.  Not fair.  Should I start composing the book, for the term, that’ll ‘do something for me’?  No.  Not yet.  Not rush.  Wait till morning, when head’s clearer.  No way I’m touching that ‘EP’, Extra Port.  That has to be what it stands for, right?  Doesn’t matter, ‘cause I’m not going near that poison.

What if I just stopped writing, for the night?  Should really be playing with words, rhymes, ‘stead of this run-on prose.  Decreed, then– in morrow, poetry, solely.  Caffeine, in doses mean.

Want another water, but I don’t want to wake the little Artist.  He seems especially sensitive this eve.

 

journal, 10/8/13

Jack, exhausted.  Still with cold.  Me, not so.  Second cup.  Larger than first.  [coffee]  Want to remain home, write.  Print.  Not as upset about losing long verse on phone.  Printing this morning.  Not losing anything else to devilish tech.  Annoyed by more systems.. not getting too specific, or at all so, but I’m in revolt against pattern.  Artists don’t engage with such.  And certainly not of my form– fiction, diarist, poem.

 

7:40pm.  No evening class.  Home, with sick mini-artist.  Red wine, Cab.  Tired, after 1,800+ words.  Still need to post to teaching blog, answer student emails.  When Thursday comes, I’ll be a dragon of diligence, direction.  They’ll never know what hit them.  No, I shouldn’t say it like that.. I’m just anxious for a better day.  In English 5, felt heavy, soaked surreally, with lower inner light, bent peddals.  Better now.  And after I read some Plath, I’ll be even higher, standing more straight.. more Literarily.

No social media distractions tonight, as I’m turning devil phone OFF.  Not giving to the chutzpah.  And no TV.  That’s just as bad– no, worse.  Thought I heard the Artist upstairs.  Poor little man, with his sniffles.  I’ll never get used to seeing him sick, or even slightly desensitized to it.

After these however-many words.. to newJournal.  Why don’t I have a bloody book out, already?  Honestly, with as much as I write.  This is truly laughable.  OR pathetic.  Or maybe both.  Can I have another glass now, of this fabulous Cab?

Getting annoyed with doors of other units I hear closing.  Don’t they know my little boy’s sick, trying to sleep?  Irritated, angry at Self for earlier weak state.  Should always have Self in militant, vicious Artist mode.

At home, all day with Jack tomorrow, taking care of him, making sure he defeats this system bug.  Have to get some reading, writing done.  The three boxes of k-cups I bought, little over an hour ago, maybe more, just behind this screen.  Should be set for month.  Maybe less, knowing me, how much I drink in morning.  Sure I’ll go through more than a few in morrow’s skatings.  So quiet down here.  Little Kerouac, finally getting some rest, poor bloke.  And his father, hoping to shift everything.  Won’t go on some wishing rant, but there will be reconfiguration.  No more nonsense.

More of the spicy pasta leftovers from Alice.  The writer needs a break from his page.  Some laziness.  We’re allowed to do that, right?  OR maybe I should lookup a Plath quote, post it to some social media site.. see if any of my “friends” respond, or “Like” it.  So contaminative, the whole thing.  That’s why I’m stopping.

Another glass, Professor MADigan?  Why yes, thank you.  I look at it, after a sip & .5, at my right, moving slightly, the purple puddle, as I type, slapping keys like a recommitted journalist (aren’t I?).  Want to watch a movie tonight, with a writing theme.  But what?  Ugh.. what was that Sylvia Plath movie, starring Gwyneth Paltrow…  Oh, “Sylvia.” Why didn’t I know that?  Anyway, hoping to watch it tonight.  Or some of it.

Keep writing, Mike.  Don’t stop.  Don’t let this devilish wine catch you.  Decaf is starting to sound good.  And I can’t get too diverted, as I want to be ready for Thursday’s class, by day’s end, tomorrow.  Thursday morning: running, the only priority.

***

And this moment, here at table.. just re-collection.  The wine, respecting my pace, my aims, what I want done tonight.  That I want to get poetry onto ACTUAL page, later.  Looking at this tower of coffee boxes behind laptop’s screen.  Find it funny, honestly.  I truly, and quite quietly, laugh to Self, as to not wake the little Artist.  The writer surely loves his coffee.  Why do I find this so comical?

Glass, empty.  Good.  Leave it that way, for a bit.  Need to fill the untouched Comp Book I recently bought, with notes on ‘Johnny Panic’.  What Ms. Plath is, where she’s going.  “When in doubt, put it back on the author,” I’ve always told students.  Time to practice while I bloody preach.  Drat!  Left her book in car.  No surprise, with this crazy day.  Tomorrow, off, but not.  Little Kerouac, his little sneezes, sniffles.  Would take it from him in a blink, nevermind a heartbeat.  Reading some of her poems online.. should bring these, or some of them into class.  “Blackberrying,” just read for first time.  Beautiful imagery, language, voice, temperament and tonality, stanza balance.  One of my students, making her journal a gallery, each entry with prose, painting.. showing the most vicious of ownerships.  Mimicking, starting tomorrow, with my reading journal, the new one I mean.  Putting Self in role of student, in own class.  But I’ll be with Kerouac, THE Kerouac, as well, for Thursday.  His form, style, voice, veritable page journey.. only massively applicable.  How can people not read him, admire each of his writings, typings?

Cutting Self off at 1,000 words.  I’ve already gone on FAR2long.  Kerouac.. what else can I find from him, online…  Only poetry.  Was hoping for some prose, or journal entries.  Maybe I can find them at bookstore, if I have a chance to go, tomorrow.  Probably not.  Should keep little Kerouac inside, with Papa.

 

24% on laptop.  Tired of this machine.  On couch now.  With this little buttoned monster charging.  Nightcap in kitchen.. ON kitchen counter, make it longer last.  Looking back at day, knowing I need not let Self get so frazzled, worried, stressed, depressed, what have.  There’ll be a day after, theoretically.  So calm, writer.. calm.  Peace.  And I’ll have true peace tomorrow with Jackie, sipping my coffee [one of the 3 types I bought tonight] while he zooms about this condo’s lowest floor.

 

umbrella tops, tickled by

polite fronts, pacific and

wherever.. picnic by houses on 19th–

oh the city, busy with its tempestuous

tizzies, lamp moths, fixate on

gas station drizzle, hoping to

square their dares.  hope they fly,

flee west.

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pile in basket

retiring for night,  only for

light, rewrite–

that’s a gripe I just voiced, now

for 1st time.. lazy, not writing, only

venting, everyone

does that.

so why do I?

cuz its easy, look i’m doing it

right NOW–

 

Wish I could have some coffee, but

that’d be irresponsible.. I’m an adult,

with a job– is that a job?  Ask Plath.

 

frames above a TV obviously see me.

expecting, nothing but vein selecting.

 

10/7/13

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Autumnal Concernz

Hard to keep up with Kerouac this morning.  And before you ask, no.  No run.  Still feel Wednesday’s.  And today’s only Friday.  Friday, that means nothing to me.  I’m writing till I see that bloody office of mine– till I’m scribbling by that espresso machine.  Jack just leaned off his toy car, over the keyboard, seemingly saying “why, why…”

7:41am.  19 minutes till we get ready for Ms. Lisa’s.  Not making wine this year, I’m thinking.  Want to devote EVERYTHING to page.  All of it, Life.

Narrative, of a teacher, writer, Literary addict.  That’s what’ll get me to Stanford.  And the shorts– be them stories, vignettes, or poem.  Thinking about everything this morning.  Want little Kerouac to have a certain father type.  And I’m almost there, I swear.

Going to finish 2nd cup, then [--]

 

Next day, 10/5…  Upstairs, with coffee.  Just posted to teaching blog.  Almost wrote a full 3PAGES last night, but the Cabernet caught up to me.  As did the run from Wednesday morning.  Running Lawndale, for one of the last times this year, after work today.  Days, so much shorter.  May have to join the gym, like Alice did, to get my workout in.  Oh, and yesterday A.M.’s entry, interrupted by Kerouac’s little sprints around the downstairs play area, kitchen.  Just for specifics…

Only thing on my mind.. teaching.  Each day, I’ll do ONE primary act for sakes of getting my into the classRoom, fulltime.  OR, to teach, lecture fulltime.  Need more coffee–  But lost track of time.  8:09am.  Should get in shower, get ready for “work.”

8:04pm.  Lawndale, again toppled.  My favorite such run, on that challenging course, to date.  Lower sun, cooler temps.. even smelled someone’s fire, chimney’d.  What aromas on that rural run.  Didn’t hit goal, of finishing under 50min.  Still have some training to do before I get there.  BUT, in end: 59:14 total time, 8:14/mi pace, 7.2 miles total distance.  May run a bit tomorrow, like 3 miles or something close.  Maybe I should do an intense 25 min workout.  Not sure, but I will run tomorrow.  Not in morning, as I want the vessel to rest.  But when home, yes.  Or should I take the day off?  I’ll let you know.

Will grade 10 items tonight.  Also, post to teaching blog.  Will grade ten items tonight!  The inclass pieces from English 5.  Everyday, take a major step towards Artistic Autonomy, I tell Self.  Just finished 1st beer, may be time for another.  I’ll have the rest of the ’09 Cab I last night opened with dinner.

Memorable characters today, in tasting Room, all the clowns showing up right before close, asking “is it too late to do a tasting?” Technically, no, but we close in three minutes.  There are several signs outside those tasting Room doors disclosing our hours, did they miss those?

Gorgeous on estate today.  Exciting varietals on crush pad, Cab Franc and Barbera.  Took a few pictures, shot a quick video.  Love this time.  Heard today that I may be getting some Merlot.  But it’s not locked-in, not yet.  Speaking of winemaking, I’ll finish that short story, yesterday’s 3PAGES, 2nite.  Then, into the old entries for this first chapbook.  Like the ‘barreling philosophy’ I have with blog posts.  At least 1 year of aging before it’s bookable, manuscript-worthy.. “ready to bottle,” as the winemakers voice.

How is it that next week is Week8 of my best semester EVER?  Not sure, but I need come at students next week with methods, activities, interactions, WRITTEN lectures they won’t expect.  May have to sacrifice running time, much I hate to.  But it’s for the writing.  It’s for my path to Stanford.  And if I never see Stanford, not fatal.  But if I never travel, see the Road, my office, write for Life.. that would be terminal.  Don’t even want to think about it–  So I won’t.  That won’t happen.  Not sure why I mentioned.

Running past a Kenwood winery’s vineyard, to left, watching vines’ tips pass as I passed.  Cool, no traffic, peace.. won’t forget that, ever.  Need to train on hills more.  Lawndale did succeed in slowing the writer this evening with those 4 hills.  Would have been lower than 50min had I trained on steepness, like Woodview (where my wife walks, runs), or its neighboring inclines.  Can’t be too hard on Self.  I’m running, consistently, that’s what pushes pages.  Don’t get too competitive, writer.. detract from your books.

Funny, seeing the vines without grapes.  This harvest came so fast.  But I love the fall patterns, what is does to writing, or just the walk by vines.  Not everything has to be captured.  Sometimes, many times, simply living, observing’s enough.

***

Full glass of the ’09.  Thinking of today’s run.  And if I could get up tomorrow at 5am, but for writing’s sake, not a jaunt.  Would write in poem, as I did this morning.  Want to read to audiences, see them speaking with me, singing with me.  Isn’t that the most full form of Art, that level interaction?  May not get to yesterday’s short story.  Better for tomorrow morning, probably.  This Cab, not as illustrative as last night.  Still enjoyable, but not with the same skip.  But it catches me quick.  Need to keep typing.  Won’t get to teaching blog tonight, sadly.  I have mySelf too stressed with efforts.  Need to simply let all “flow,” much I hate the term, when people say that.  When I ask students what ‘coherence’ means, regarding a finished paper, to have a sense of [...], they always say something like, “like the flow of the paper…” But either way, that’s what I’m thinking right now.  After this sitting, going to perform poem surgery on some lines I’ve been safeguarding, adding to, for the last few days.

Getting sick of this laptop anyway, as I always am.  Hoping for one verse tonight, that’s it.  Wish the rain would come back, that always helps with poetry’s tap.  And I could use it now, this moment, while I’m here at this table sipping Cabernet.. more than any time usually sprouting.  Again thinking, what Literary shape do I want to take?  Have an idea, but I don’t want to settle on anything right now.  What does that indicate, psychoanalytically?  Probably a lot.

Near glass’ end.  Lovely.  Wonder if the production crew’s still on Estate’s crush pad.  Pulses…  Thinking…  My Merlot– or, my POTENTIAL Merlot.  Like the writer I want to be, that I may already be.. Literary shape.  Want readers to go agape away from page.  Is that wrong, self-centered?  Isn’t that necessary for writing Life?

 

images, study, re-read,

suggestion, reply, letters,

visit–

calculate tape, check, monitor,

scattered scrimshawing, look–

 

Watching some murder mystery, or just murder report, nonfiction telejournalism, on TV.  Volume quite low, as Alice texted me from upstairs, letting me know Kerouac was sitting up, strait.  Talk about the writer I’d like to be, or type.. that’d be it.  Him.  Mr. Kerouac.  I’m Literary, not musical.  Although I’d like this writing, MY writing, 2B more musical.

No grading getting done tonight, as I poured what was left of the ’09.  This may be one of my last Lawndale runs– may have been.  Grammar jumbled.  I blame the wine.  And the run, ironically.  Looking forward to coffee.  And the day I can sip coffee from lobbies, in early morning, only up so early to write, capture all characters in my favorite stage type– the hotel.  All the roles, doing what they’re cast 2do.

 

Cabernet call.  All, no stall.

Report rumor.

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entriez, 2days, orMORE

10/1/13–  Finding it more difficult, stinging, to get everything done I wish.  3:43pm.. budgeting till 4p, precisely, for this entry.  Done with lunch, sipping sparkling lime water from bookstore.  Surprised how warm it is, thinking back on this morning’s chill.  Students, proving even more inspiring than gambled.  More organized after visit to office supply store this morning, somewhat.  Just have to stay atop grading.. that’s the most important menu item.  Give mySelf more time to read, enjoy student perspective on assigned authors.

In morrow’s cruelly chilled, dark hour, I’ll run.  For 60 minutes, not a pulse more.  Then, to work.  Readers.. out for readers, new readers.  Need inject more newness to these pages, act more out of character– or at least do what’s newest to me, MY role in this story.  Speaking of fiction, didn’t touch the 500-word piece last night, shamefully.  Maybe I’ll make that my only aim tonight–  NO.  Stop doing that, promising what you’ll do.  Just do.

Or do not.

Not much to type form this adjunct coffin.  Other than I’m eager to explore ‘Johnny Panic’, the Plath piece I picked, with the English 5 group.  BUT, this semester’s main event, left to the 1A section, with Mr. Poe.

Too enclosed in here.  Need air, again.  And maybe a coffee, eventually.  Yes, the writer more than likely will.  As I’m tiring.  Maybe I should have it now.  No– wait for class, get it just before.  Going through more of Walls’ ‘Glass Castle’, after watching a movie clip I meant to show them last class.

Need that air, I think.  And that coffee.  It’s 3:58p.  Bringing some papers and laptop back to car, put in old bag, in trunk.  For what it’s worth, I have maintained admirable habit, day2day, this far this Fall term.

***

Found most of my students are night writers.  Think I’d benefit from more P.M. prose, poetry.. pages, whatever the shape.

4pm–  Depart.

10:12pm.  Set to rise at 5am for run.  Sipping decaf, which I probably shouldn’t be.  And some of the remaining peanut MnMs.  Which, also, I’d be better off without.  Posted twice to teaching blog, already thinking of first discussion on ‘Johnny Panic’ with English 5 section.  But I can’t go on, here, about how I’m going to approach Thursday’s sessions, or how I need to go through old entries for sakes of this first chapBOOK [and that’s how I’ll be writing that, from now on..].  Need to finish story, now, that 500 word piece.  This decaf, romantically sensory.  Glad I used that [descriptor] on coffee, not wine.

And please let it be noted, readers.. I’m not at odds with wine, its world.  I just reserve the right to reiterate that I’m a writer.  Above and before all else.  And that my artistic aim can only be sequenced in one arena, one quite distant from anything relating to wine, the ripples it leaves in those sipping.  Tonight, accented example: I’m sharp, awake, acute, astute.  Wine wouldn’t allow that.

Either way, bon nuit, my readers.  Off to my fiction…

10:55pm–  Done.  Mostly dialogue in this piece.  And limited to 1 page, only 458 words.  Fine by me.  And I like its rhythm.  Have to give it a read, obviously, but I’m enjoying being done with it.  Should get to bed, if I’m to do this run tomorrow, write about– have something to write about– any newness.

Going to watch a little of the news, then bed.  So glad I renounced wine this evening.  Would not have been able to walk anywhere near what I’ve written this evening.

Hoping I hear new sounds, feel new atmosphere.. only sip newness on tomorrow’s run.  I will.  No music.  Only bringing device with me to track/measure progress.

Prêt pour mon prochain jour…

10/2/13–  Finally did it, this morning.  My 5am run.  7.5 miles, 1 hour.  Couldn’t have been more pleased.  But I want to note, tonight, with this glass of ’09 Cab (the bottle I unexpectedly located in upstairs stash): those reading these exhaustive, “rabbit hole” entries– Alice, Cindy at work, one of my [easily stronger] students.. thank you for your eyes, your thoughts, reactions.  OF course I want the cash from these pieces.  However, what rewards me more, the cognitive confirmation.  So again: Alice, Cindy, —-…  Thank you.

Tomorrow, dropping off little Kerouac, then to Petaluma.  Running again Friday morning.  Not looking to outdo what I this morning feat’d.  Looking to duplicate.  My goal, when I woke this morning, at 4:46am, and after a long talk with Self, finally getting the writer out the door, into that dark, strange setting.. 1hour, set on device.  Glad I charged it last night.  So quiet this morning, as I expected.  But what I most loved, that I literally outran the sun, with dark surround upon departure AND return.  I remember being somewhat afraid, when I started.  But that faded, quickly.  Had just enough light, especially on the run back up Yulupa.

Not touching book tonight.  BUT, wrote quiet a bit of poetry, spoken word.  Haikus from home, from after Jack’s dream descent.  This sequence, still being scribbled.  And this Cab, starting to catch me.  But I type faster.  I won’t let this devilish wine catch me.  Looking forward to the 1st Plath discussion, tomorrow.  I find the introduction, written by Ted Hughes, quite interesting, how Plath struggled with prose, had somewhat of a life plan, Literarily, spanning fiction, non, and even journalism.  Just want to see what they see in her.  And what do I now see in her, as I’m now a student in my own class?  I see dedication.. a certain obsessiveness.

This Cab, taking on more boastful a stride, in the last five minutes.  So intriguing in fact, I’m without content in glass.  So, the only logical remedy.. one more splash.  How many papers do I have to grade in morrow…  Not many.  Did manage to make a respectable dent, past couple days, especially Tuesday.  I’m right on schedule, but I need to be 10 leaps, not steps, further, at 12 [o’clock, as in plane-speak], consistently.  So tomorrow, taking Kerouac to Lisa’s, coming home to shower, shave.. then instantly leave.. speed to PC [Petaluma Campus].  May pick up a mocha before, but I’ll have to get another one of the mochas made on campus while there, probably right before class as I did on Tuesday.  Better than the usual mochas I buy from that corporate coffee brothel.. this one, from campus, 2shot, small, with something sprinkled atop, possibly caramel.  So sensual in how it slid across senses.. back, forth.. teasing.

Just poured Self another glass, keeping in kitchen so I have to rise2sip, making the glass longer last.  Had another thought, while taking first sip of this final glass– starting my own wine business.. a wine shop, as I once dreamed.. but seriously investigating.  Beat “the industry” at its game– or not that, just be a serious player in their game.  I don’t hate wine, at all, or the industry.  I just hold certain qualms with its, wine’s, dimension.  But yes, I agree, I need to reshape my objection’s page approach.  Very well.. so what business do I build.  Or a better question.. what do I want it to be, look like to customers?  If that one clotpole in Sebastopol can run a business, wine shop/art gallery, for over 8 years now, then I can succeed with fractional seriousness in effort.

Going to research a “catalogue” from a Napa-based wine business.  Parent company to the box, actually.  Watching news, now.  Still can’t believe I finally did it, that I’ve been awake since 4:46am.  And I’ll do the same come Friday.  And you know what, reader…  I do want a better run.  Want to start my stomping before 5am.  And go past 8 miles.  Go into work, into MY day, with even MORE confidence than I today had.  Loved the feeling, this morning, walking through those 2 tall doors.  Never in my Life has the writer been more confident, healthy, quick, more LETHAL, a WRITER, than I am 2day.  Praise the Craft.. sip, sip…

Re-reading these older entries.  So pleased, and yes PROUD, I’ve written as much as I have–

10:59pm.  On a poetry binge.  Want people to want to hear me, see me, speak.  Prose, still on radar, on my manuscript menu.  But poetry, above elevated.  There more invitation for innovation.. with words, rhythm, speech.

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Straw Sign

9:14am.  Cut out run.  Here in condo, about to inject words to blog.  The aviation short will begin typing today, after Eng 5 class.  Will be out door at 10:30a, latest.  Enjoying 4shot mocha.  Thinking of character, Kelly.  After this first chapbook, thinking I’ll release a collection of shorts.  Strictly fiction, exposing style/philosophy on the Craft.  Well, of both fiction and short stories/flash pieces as well.  Actually, thinking I might just jump in shower, head to Petaluma, get head start on day ahead of me.  The majority of material, from this point in my Life, forward, will be in/on teaching, what I do with/for students, and what I write with that in mind–  OH how this 4shot mocha works for its writer.

Cold outside, a bit, these first Fall days.

Should I bring laptop?  Why not.  Just do it.  Listening to chilled beats, help calm the writer.  But my resolution of leaving early for campus, I’m much more composed, relaxed.  Yes, I’ll be on Road soon.  Stanford, awaiting.  I have to do something totally different, maybe a bit drastic with classes today, to supply more material, construct more engaging lessons for students.

Exploration of Art.. the concept.. memoir, already being Art in Life.

Life is Art.

Expression–

This A.M., start of something.  Want to go to Stanford’s site, but can’t let Self.

This, what’s snapping synaptically, this morning.. nearly too much for writer.  But I’m calm.  Characters in students.. one always participating, one never speaking nor responding to blog prompts, one always challenging, complaining; one always wanting to joke, one seldom speaking but when he does it’s insightful, useful; and, he’s a great writer, very vocal, provocative, precisely humorous.

Study these students more.. take notes.. fictionalize names.

Should get in shower, get ready.  Still feel yesterday’s run.  Glad I didn’t go out this morning.

11:02am.  So quiet, this reading room on Petaluma’s Campus.  Thought I forgot the inclass papers I have to grade for English 5, but no such luck.  I shouldn’t say that.. and I shouldn’t procrastinate.  Getting right to it, with laptop ready for capturing any captivating lines.  Why do I not enjoy grading as much as other aspects of this job?  Easy, it puts me in the position of assigning worth, putting a number (points), or “grade,” to one’s work, as if writing can be so simply reduced to such.

“But must an author write with a point, a direction in mind?” one student wrote, about Capote’s ‘Muses Are Heard’.  “Instead, Capote writes to observe generally,” she continues.  “The fact that Mr. Capote is on this journey…shows his avarice for knowledge.”

Another student wrote, “Mr. Capote detailed throughout his account the entrapping immaculate power art holds over people…”

What is the right way to Stanford, for me?  Certainly not doing last-minute grading like this.  I know precisely what to do.  Write more on board.. plan menu for day [this idea coming to me just after getting in car, heading to get gas for Passat [which I grow ever SICK of driving].

Closing device, headed into naturalistic slips…

8:18pm.  Holding off on aviation piece a bit longer.  Instead, will inject 500-510 word piece into book.  Not sure what about, but I will finish it tonight, print it tomorrow before work.. use someone in tasting Room as sample reader.  My sample audience.  As I’ve said so many bloody times: “Want to print more, get further away from this devil blog.” Opening something tonight, not sure what.  Maybe the ’11 Century Vine Zin.  Ugh, but Zin…?  Not sure what else I have down here.

Can hear outside’s winds.  Surprised how forceful they’ve grown, since earlier.  Looking at my latest issue of WineMaker magazine.  Where do I want to go with this?  I’m not sure.  I do want to make more wine, just not sure of approach, and how much coin with which I’m willing to part.  The publishing, printing of my pieces MUST come first.  Weighing all–

This semester, keeping me writing.  Tonight’s discussion with the 1A section, on Walls’ ‘Glass Castle’, reminding me that memoir can provoke just as much emotion, discussion, reaction[!!!] as fiction.  Not sure why I always downplay or involuntarily degrade nonfiction.

9:55pm.  To bed soon.  Sipping night’s capping.  Posted to teaching blog twice.  Should bring some grading to work tomorrow.  Yes, 5 pieces.  OR 6.  3 from 1A, 3 from 5.  Now I’m blanking.  I am stretched quite thin, a writer, this semester.  But I have to push.  Bringing little pages with me to work tomorrow, as I always do.  But I want a piece of standalone fiction, tasting Room fiction.. one different.  All dialogue, no narration, exposition.  Like a play, but more Literary.  Can already see the people, from state to which we can’t sip, asking idiotic questions.

Much I criticize people coming into the tasting Room, I’m quite anaclitic.  For sakes of this fiction.  Love what they say, how they approach wine.

No regrets in cutting out run this morning, but I’m already itching for next sprint set.  Won’t be able to run tomorrow night, so I’ll do pushups, or jumping jacks, or something here in home.  Thursday morning, surely fitting in a couple miles.  Planning a 55 minute step set.  25 out, then back.  Hopefully I make it into Howarth, see some trees.

Not editing this night’s words tonight.  Too tired, believe it or not.  Will edit in morning, to the new Verona coffee I bought tonight, on a spurred grocery run for dinner.

Character:  Isela, making coffees at home for fellow employees at private upscale grocery store in Calistoga; her aim, to own her own café; saving all her tips in envelope, in safety deposit box; she loves seeing how they react; new recipes, each day, even writing her own menu.. and its all free for her friends; but they don’t let her work for free, be too sweet; they force their money onto her; she only accepts as to not be rude, that’s how lovely she is.  (9/24/13)

9/25/13–  Finished another standalone.  Closer to book’s finish.  Won’t be done by Sept’s close, which is fail.  But I don’t care.  There’s a new focus about me, concerning these standalone pieces, which is precisely what’ll take me to the Road.  This teaching blog, turning out to be a gold mine.  The truest of true bullion pots.

Sipping night’s cap, in this Racer 5.  Time, 10:35pm…  Running 10 miles tomorrow morning.  Will write between 5 and 1A.  Thought much today about the reactions to my recital at the bowling alley, just a couple nights ago.  Having people come hear you speak your ideas, visions, dreams.. what’s more rewarding?  No wine production could rival that, EVER.  And I’m sure some talking winemaker would offer how it could.  But you and I both know that NO bottle of wine could rival manuscript’s sonorous potential.

But they’re not worth my address, the “winemakers,” most of whom simply ride nature’s coattails to systematic scores.  What I want to address: this new story, possible novel I see shaping, in this semester, with my students.. their dedication, ownership of topic selection.  Wish I could have a cup of that Verona Roast [DARK] I bought last night, as I’d love to be up all hours writing about them, their interests in my assigned readings.  Need to finish this first chapbook, so I can maybe start this book.  My character, ME, finding new love of teaching, finding ways to engage students through course material, challenge of proscribed course outline, “curriculum.”

Hoping I wake early tomorrow, as I did the other morning, at 3-something.  I remember thinking of typing something, like one line, to tilts of “I’m awake, and I’m writing, what a shock…” Something like that.  Giving Self a deadline.  10 minutes from now, 11pm.  Need to embrace more this notion of “dead”lines.  Why does ‘dead’ have to be there, in that conception?  Isn’t that where the piece, the STANDALONE, comes alive, when the writer finishes it?  Just thinking aloud, reader.  Please pardon.

My first Road trip, know precisely how it’ll follow:  I’ll write.  The whole time.  I’ll be so enamored, so trapped, I won’t appreciate what’s happening.  And that’s one of the falls of writers like I: we feel the we always have to be writing.  I always say I hope people notice the obsessive habits.  By me hoping, I’m insulting the readers.  It’s quite obvious, Mike.

Oh coffee…  Why do you haunt me?  Would love a cup right now.  But I don’t want to wake the little Artist.  I remember a guest at AV Winery last year, at a release party, warning me about the trials of being a parent, that you won’t get to do much what you wish.  I remember saying, “I’ll write my way through it,” or something like that.  He laughed, almost condescendingly, as if to suggest ‘you don’t know what you’re in for’.  And here I am, writing more than I EVER have.  IF anything, that little perpetually-positive pulse has spurred my scribbles, irreversibly.

AV winery.. wow.  Seems so long ago.  My 128 sessions, on that little side lot.. dirt, birds, trees, cyclists.  Time, another victory, in my noticing passes.

Setting alarm, 5AM.  To write.  Not run.  Will do latter after Kerouac is dropped off.

9/26/13–  Can’t believe what I brought Self to do..  Finished 3PAGES today, amounting to a 1,566 word short story.  In my adjunct office, currently.  Printed it.  Stapled.  Will read tonight, to a beer, or sparkling water.  I’ve proven again that I CAN make Self focus, finish a piece.  So now, I reward Self with freewrite…

What else do I have to do before class?  [...]  Plan session.. oh, I wanted to start that Jack Kerouac piece [500 words] at some point.  Maybe a bit too wired to so do, now, with this 2shot mocha reviving a caffeine quake swarm in my unstable circuitry.  3:19pm.  Should go to bookstore, or library.  Should really dart down to Barnes & Noble, get a book of Kerouac’s poems, writings.  Never did finish ‘On the Road’, did I.  Took some notes in my lecture Comp Book about his writing style, earlier today while in Petaluma Library.

Going to class tonight with only text and Comp Book.  That’s it.  Utterly minimalist.  Not taking attendance, as I know who’s there, who’s not.  How students don’t come to class, expecting to somehow pass, keep up with material, will always be a logic puzzle, unsolvable, to me.

Listening to music, but feel boxed, trapped.. this bloody office.  Can’t see anything, just what they want.  Haven’t eaten the blueberry scone I bought.

There, took a couple bites.

But uninspired.  Have to change what’s in eyes, ears.  Deafened, lessened…

10:02pm.  Home.  Night’s capping…  Tomorrow, back at winery.  Visiting my wines tomorrow, no matter what.  Hoping no damage.  Quite proud of the short story, today.  And, that 10minute rushed write in lectures Comp Book, which I shouldn’t have done.

Tired.  No more in me.

Leafless tree.  Winds carrying questions

only.  Careful reaction, attacked

attraction, looking into

messages, letter I wrote myself,

over a decade ago;

re-interpreted–

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System Operating

5.5 mile run, 45min, 6sec (8:12/mi pace).  Barely tired.  Tomorrow, planning another run in morning, after Kerouac drop-off.  Tonight’s run, complicated slightly by the SB glass I had after work.  I remember thinking, “I’m not in the mood, I’ll just start tomorrow,” coupled with coworker enabling.  But when I came home, saw little Kerouac with his early evening energy bursting from his vocals, little movements, sprints around condo’s lower level, I knew I had to get out, hit Summerfield, Yulupa.

Tomorrow, need to finish grading, plan lectures, engage students with what I’ve found in ways of poetry, nonfiction.. AND fiction.  Speaking of latter, wrote a short story, or plan for, today at work, about flying, aviation.. about a young man wanting to fly, his first lesson, with his uncle who’s a commercial airline pilot (captain).  Will type what I can tonight.  And this eve.. NO WINE.  Will have to spill rest of Pinot I opened the other night, either tonight or tomorrow’s evening.

Didn’t go near my wines today.  And I need to, soon.  Don’t want them dying.  May text Blair for some assistance, tomorrow.  And I’ll top them when I arrive to work, Wednesday.

 

Just opened sparkling water #2.  Will cap night with the last decaf k-cup I have, drawer by toaster.  On run, thought about Kelly, my character.  What do I want my readers to know about her?  What do I[!!!] know about her?

I’m at loss.

Total loss.

Thought drought.

Absence.

 

9:05pm.  Won’t be touching the short story outline I wrote, tonight.  Quite tired, and just want to take more notes, finish with this entry.  Grading.. my eternal enemy, before.  Now, I embrace it.  It’s a significant slice of the position.  Limiting Self to short run tomorrow morning.  Thought about doing an hour run.  But that’s not the most effective way to budget time.  Let me think.. get home by 9, leave by 9:15 for run, return before 10– running 3 miles.  Would love to get in 5, again, like tonight.  Why don’t I just shoot for that.. 45 minutes/5 miles.  Done.

Decaf, on-deck.  Had a friend at work today ask me, “Are you writing?” He then asked me ABOUT my writing, what my habits are, after my recital at bowling alley last night, of some spoken word.  Sorry, but I love being acknowledged a writer.  IT does more than simply “do something for me.” It’s the echo, the needed affirmation mirror.  I saw it today; felt it, heard it, was it.

The Road, closer.

 

Almost done with decaf, and this entry.  Can’t remember if there was anything else I wanted to note.  Yes: stay in Literary mode, with these classes; when in front of students and not.  [Thinking: Stanford, Stanford]  Just thought: what if I didn’t run tomorrow morning?  No.. can’t do that.  Have to run a little, at least.  Then, come home, get ready.  Leave for Petaluma.  If I can be on road by 10:15, putting me in cafeteria before 11a, that’d give me 90 minutes to get through grading.  And if I drive straight to mainland, I could finish grading for 1A, then write for a good 90 minutes.  But then there’s lectures to prepare, write.

I’m OVERthinking.  Precisely what I beg my students NOT 2do.  So I’m closing this sitting.  Just know, somehow, I’m getting everything done.

45 minute run,

English 5 grading, lecture writing

English 1A.. same.

Writing in between, somehow.

Easy.

Done it before.

 

(9/23/13)

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Burry Tone

Sick.  Not comfortable.  Mood, sharp like warrior daggers.  This snuck up on me.  And now I’m not a writer.

I’m an angry pen pupil.

These moment types have2STOP.

This isn’t Art.  Going to study,

get my mind off this honking

nonsense–

So sick of being stuck,

trapped,

but maybe that’s a matter of

opinion,

or perspective.

 

Full sentences–

sorry, no

energy..

a poem

for writers, so no one’ll

read.  Or respect.  But

if this were some nice neat paragraph, there’d

be no laughs.

Impairment putting hurdles where I could fast dash.

Minced prose,

in close.

My fin shows, as tides low.

Remembering past conversation with rock’s moss..

Bridge lost.  Crumbled, into worry funnel.

9/15/13

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Metric

10:15pm.  A 10.55 miles run.  Deep into Howarth Park, back.  On sprint back, I increased speed, as the writer’s mind sculpted plot’s lines for his own murder.  Jogging, or running, no one around, and with me exhausted, I’m the perfect writable target.  Sipping the ’11 Estate Cab, which at first I dismissed.  But now, much more charisma about its sensory storm.  Posted to both blogs.. my students, carrying my momentum.  Surprised how energetic I am, sitting here on this couch, after such a run, sipping Cabernet.. Making Self to bed go around 11:30.  Which gives me a good time block.  Or more like a mini-plot.

My student responses to these blog posts.. motivating me in ways I never estimated.  Almost unsure of how to react.  Have contain composure, sustain it.

And pour the writer more wine.

This last glass, night’s cap.  This Cab’s changed.  More grip, gravity, grace about it’s speech.  Not letting Self touch book tonight.  Why?  Want to write freely, here on these feeble “blogs.” My character, Kelly, experiencing a certain ‘rebirth’, much I hate that term.  So what else can I say?  [...]  Her literary voraciousness has been re-emphasized.  By me, of course.  I’m her biggest abetter.

Short of night’s goal, with words.  Why do I always focus on that, so much.  Who taught me this?  This encompasses my pen strides.  Her story.  She walks, narrating to herSelf.  She’s not maniacal like me, feeling the need to write EVERYTHING down.  She carries the impact with her, delivers to canvas at her willing.  Not sure what to say about her.. other than she’s out there, and here.  On page.  For me, the readers, for herSelf.  Right now, 10:33pm.. I’m assured she’s sipping.  To quiet.  TV off, unlike her author.  Staring at her blank sheet.  She engages one motion at a time.  Never back-to-back colors.  Each stroke, rivaling shades.  She loves the concept of contrast, exposing beauty in difference.

Taking another sip of the obnoxious glass I poured Self, I’m re-reading what one of my stronger students just posted.  Feel like it’s something Kelly would say.  I’m consumed in her, my character.

 

Won’t disguise my struggle in this sitting.  My mental, combatting both my 10.5 mile dash, well as the ’11 Cab which is proving to be more poised than I originally mapped.  I’m easily distracted by the muted Weather Channel, by thoughts of the coming study of Poe for my 1A students.  A new chapter, one directional, beginning next week, with the submission of this 1st paper [both sections].  Am I excited or terrified?

Wrote that after minutes of mind wandering.  Curse my run, this bloody wine.  This is precisely why I’ve detracted on oenological connection.  And why I’ve become so vocal on this “industry.”

And back again from distraction.  Checking email.  At least I return, am still writing.  Can’t wait for coffee in A.M.  This morning, thought about coming back home, writing, taking a nap.  But I surpassed.  AND, I didn’t even get a lunch today, after VIP tour, then ResRoom.  But I triumphed.  And I

always

will.

 

New stories written.  Now.

Fiction.

But not.

(9/13/13)

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