Posts Tagged With: Spoken Word

Lounge Wish

Formaality– no time,
it’s fractured, my time,
so I write the fractured.
Job, when you have one, you wish for
beaches, or forest strolls, rocky
dialogue, that makes it interesting,
this is poison.
I hope you can read.

(7/12/14)

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note, 7/5/14

Coffee, now shower.  Thinking about that measly check from yesterday.  I’m going there today with a predator mood.  I want blood.  I need it.  I’m the orangutan.  They, my rue.  Making it known today, I’m moving on– mentally at first, then tangibly second.  What is that wage going to do for my family?  It’s not my Beat, that’s for sure.  So much time of my life, and for what?  My hangover, not tearing at me too tyrannically at the moment.  Glad I switched over to water last night before bed.  Mocha, now, just at right, reassuring me it’ll be a good day.  Hope it’s right.  Keep saying to myself, ‘my Beat, my Beat’…  And what it is.  Thought I figured it out at the end of Spring semester.  Think now– or realize now that I’m just starting to put pieces together.

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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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Axes Dialing

Infuse toxins into your rouse,
Nonpaid dues, devil you lose,
Statements made with ardor, escape
To Ann Arbor, stay away from the intoxicants, antithetical
Raymond Carver, forever poet martyr–
My blade and thought knot, sharper. Farther than and
Arctic point, count my counterfeit coin–
New solar system given, Picasso lotto…

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4/21–  Especially tired today.  Onto 3-shot mocha, had 4 this morning.  Quick meeting planned with ‘100’ students.  Sending them to library…  Need nap before Fountaingrove hills.  Presently in Adjunct cell.. sipping this espresso, but cautiously.  I’m starting to wake, and quicker than my mind can process, decode.

Still surprised I wrote 3,000 yesterday.  Days off yield the unexpected, often, even though I don’t have them that often.

12:35PM.  In library.  Students looking for topics, researching.  I’m on the fourth floor, trying to keep Self motivated, awake.. difficult to clearly think.  Week 15 we’re in, and I’m ready for break, a break, of any length.  What the author could really use: a nap.  All the students around me, motivated by deadlines, thinking of my deadlines.. don’t want to be dead before reaching.  And I remember what I looked for when I would research.. which was–  Too long ago, once in graduate school.  And here I am, exiled in the library.  Hungry, but ignoring those impulses.  Hear students laugh from one of the group study rooms to my left.  The novel, my novel… under some type of construction.  So tempted to rise from this chair, leave, go get something to eat, take my nap.  But what if I didn’t?  What if I actually practiced what I preach; “Stay in the chair,” I’ve always told them.  I mean how else will the novel finish?

Around me, quiet, concentration, panic with the semester closing.. all these students facing their last days in this semester’s story..  Asking reference desks where books are, ‘where can I find, where can I find…’  There’s Life in here, pursuit of what one wants from Life..  You can build your Self here, in a/this library, in any library.  But I’m here, wanting to be a student again, but I don’t want to spend all the time, money, in some institutionalized program, where I have a questionably competent professor.  Am I talking reinvention?  Maybe a little, but more of a simplification, separation.  A “new era” for me, indeed.  One of the page, constant typing, writing…

Those students in the study room, doing anything but study.  Just laughs. “We were just talking about how tan you are,” just heard one of the boys say to the returning girl, back from restroom visit.

Kerouac, the poet (not my son) in thoughts.. thinking he may be my new focus, maybe something to read with students in coming terms.. ‘On the Road’.  I so very much want to be on the road, just for a week at a time.  Here and there.  Travel, Life, seeing, observing, recording.  The stationary day sets will not be permitted in this “new era”.  My ‘new era’ embodies rebellion, defiance of convention…  POETRY…  BOOKS…  revolutionizing the Self-printing platform and plight.  Publishers, I’m knowing now more than I ever have, are wildly evil.  And they can be defeated by Us, small presses.  And my journals will be the starting salvo in this period of my Life.  What in here I look for.. affirmation, not from outside sources or articles, necessarily, but some kind of lens that assures me what I’m doing is needed.  8 days, one month, till 35.  THIRTY.  FIVE.  Time, easily my greatest enemy, but it too will suffer tremendous setbacks in this “new era”.  Hate that wording.. meant to be so profound, emphatic, when really it’s hyperbole– flabby and false.  Allow me to hold, “Illustrating and cementing chapter”.  And it’s been in motion for some time, as I’m tired of regularity, expectation set upon my character without my permission, or any sort of negotiation.  Who do you think you are, fool, devil?

1:13PM.  Wrote a poem, one easily destined for reading, recital.  Think I’ll submit it tonight just for laughs.  The poem is meant to capture me, in this library, my moments in this place that’s supposed to be quiet.  But now that I’ve finished my criticism, I’m glad, quite pleased actually, that it’s anything but quiet.  Talked mySelf out of the exhaustion I felt before ‘100’ and much of my presence here.  Ready for lunch, some sustenance.  And I think I’ll submit the poem right now, here from this fourth floor.  The volume has declined, and I’m in better mind, finally.

Not submitting from here.  Have to set up some account with an online submission manager and that could take a little time, so I should leave, go home, enjoy lunch and a nap.  Then, ready Self for run up hills.  Yesterday’s jog, or walk/jog, through Annadel/Spring Lake was so fruitful for my thinking.  Need to enjoy that same course more frequently.  And now, I make the leave.  Should count Self-publishing funds once home.  I know I’m over $300, which I said I wouldn’t do.  So I’m stopping, sealing the envelope, and not digging it up till I have my MS printed, ready to truly publish.  I’ve been in this circle for years, I was reminded last night reading entries from years ago.  But in these new chapters, it stops.  And I finally can begin.

8:14PM…  As tired as I was all day today, and after the broken nap I took once home, I can’t believe how well I did with that Fountaingrove run today.  No intervals this time, but a 2.25 out then back.  So 4.5 total miles.  I’m pleased, and that’s all that matters.  I still very much plan on sending off the poem I wrote today in the library, and I begin a new log of my submissions.  Sipping a Little Sumpin’, as I always am anymore when it comes to beer.  I’ll open one of my wines for dinner pairing, but I need to stay alert, sharp in this ‘new era’ of MINE– like the beat generation; rebelling, confronting conformity at it stands so bold, sure of itself, convinced it’s so witty and invincible.  And I start with this poetry collection.  One title I thought of, while running up one of the first hills, was ‘Oblong Ode’.  But anymore, I’m beginning to have an aversion to alliteration.  And how poetic is it, really, in its obvious commercialized slouch?

Sipping my Merlot, so very re-laced.  My story tonight, about the moment I’m in, as will be all my work in this new stupid era.  I’m in a new character’s suit, and it feels lovely.  That would be the reason this writer still sips.  I won’t be in my late fifties, or sixties, just celebrating the publishing of a book-length work, a novel.  Why, ask you.. as I publish my Self.  I only need approval from myself.  And I’m not like all other Self-printed penners..  I’m fanatical, extremist, militant.  Publishers kill writing, except when the publisher is a writer, and his only Artist is himSelf.

The re-inventive chapters begin.. tonight, and tomorrow.

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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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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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