Posts Tagged With: wine

Trucking

10:38AM, Jackie still sniffling.  Please and content with my decision to stay home.  Found a couple more targets for my articles, and I’m aiming high: SF Chron, New York Times, Washington Post– I’m thinking like a serious journalist, mimicking one, looking for stories and specifics.  Looking on P&W for flash fic mags now, as Jackie tries to overrun my attention, focus.. he jumps and sings and sniffles–

In Howarth Park.  Drove to Annadel, up Hoen, but was told by the lady at the booth that it costs $7 to park there.  I told her I was just hoping to park and write, do a little work.  “Sorry, yeah, it’s always seven dollars,” she said.  Fine, I thought.  Wrote a 1,000+ word piece this morning, a narrative essay on adjunct life (I swear this is the last one!), just edited it, and plan to send it to New Yorker, McSweeny’s, and maybe one other mag.  Want to write a short piece for the Chronicle, either on wine or running in the park here..  I’m thinking differently as a writer, and I think this return to Hemingway’s memoir is the wheel that rolled me into a more productive character.  And the more standalones I complete the more material I have for the next whoso issue.

Wine I’m opening tonight.  Don’t know.  Don’t want to plan.  Look upstairs?  OR, I could stop by Safeway or Whole Foods– definitely Whole Foods– and get a bottle.  Giants tonight could win everything, for the third time in my lifetime.  That’s all I want.  An even three.  So what would pair with this type of game, with this much riding, and with the reality that I’m playing hooky right now, Mom watching the little Artist– or actually standing guard as he naps.  I needed this day, time with Kerouac, this session in my car in the park, and the jazz, and this 3-shot mocha.  The weather, nothing to cite or critique.  It feels like a Sunday, or how they used to feel to me when I had them off.  Can’t remember when that was.  All around me people walking, mothers with their strollers, older couples strolling, and kids playing; wonder if they’re playing hooky too, or are from out of town, or there’s some in-service day at their school that left them with this freedom in the week’s median.

Jackie still asleep according to Mom.  I inhale the air let in from the lowered windows and realize the change about me as a writer and Human.  Stories, I need stories, and there’s one here somewhere in this park, from where I’m parked.  What can I see?  Not much now.  Where’d everyone go?  A lady far to the left, getting in her SUV after a run or walk.. she looks like a runner.  Tonight’s run needs to be monumental for me.  My story, training for a marathon, but there’s only so much running I can muster from my time at the moment given my schedule, and that commute to Ukiah.  I’ll “steal time”, if that’s possible.  Tonight’s run: 7 miles, and quick.  Thursday, another 7.  Saturday– oh I can’t.  Dinner with Blair, whom I’m sure will give me plenty of winemaking and harvest stories, which I need.

And why was I in such a rush to produce a standalone this morning?  Who cares, I did.  Yes, true, but I shouldn’t produce too many.  Stay connected to this journal and cook here; build here; log observations and captures here– lady walking in lot, on phone, pink shirt hold her hooded sweatshirt.  It’s warm but not too much.  Should I get out and walk around?  Need a restroom.  Forgot I had a cup at home before this outing.. coffee relentless antagonizing functioning.  Have to write through it.

I feel a piece coming tonight, from the wine I drink.  750 words or less, for a magazine I found.  And so what if I write for a mag, or have their guidelines guide me down a more pleasing and profitable line?  And again, why I’m only seeing this now, at 35, is past my comprehension’s net.  So…..

14% on laptop and I can only think of a bathroom break.  but the jazz tells me I have to finish the song.  I will I promise– but oh!  When will I get that bottle of wine?  Maybe I should leave now, go to Whole Foods and look around.  Yes.  Shop.  I feel a story, putting myself in the place of the consumer who has no industry ties, is just a consumer– that sounds more interesting and more like a story that an audience sizable would read.  But I have to target something.. so what…  Cab?  yes.  But with Pizza?  No.  How about a Pinot?  Already started writing my piece and I haven’t even left Howarth’s lot.

Should go.  Grandmother putting her grands in the Toyota sudan’s back seats.  She’s leaving.  I should too, honestly this time.

Home.  Got my wine from Whole Foods.  a ’12 Shug Carneros Pinot.  Normally I go for RR Pinots but I couldn’t find one.  And I’ve enjoyed Shug’s wines before so why not again, and paired with the SFG’s.  Strategy, if there is one:  My followed team and my followed varietal.  OH I know.. genius.

Lunch.  Just a snack.  Jackie seems to be feeling much better and quite rested from his 2-hour calm and still.  The microwave beeps, lets me know it’s ready and that I should eat and take a break from the typing and journaling and obsession over story and getting the story–

Later in day, don’t even want to specify time or relay what happened to the Giants.  Watching a movie, one Alice and I like, watched recently for the first time, sipping my night’s cap, this ’12 Shug Pinot, and I’m thinking about the Road and freedom, not being in that hallway downstairs, grading at the last minute.  Tomorrow morning, coffee, lots of coffee, and when home, whether the Giants win or lose, write about the wine I tonight sipped, the Pinot with a virile epistle to every note it billows.  This wine corners me pleasurably, deepens my waving quasar of curiosity.  Now I need another sip, imagine myself back to Burgundy with my family, in the basement of Louis Jadot, tasting from those barrels and spitting on the floor– well the others were I wasn’t.

So the dinner with Blair this weekend, needs to be material.  Yes he’s my friend, but it need hastily hasten prose, paragraphs, elliptically, with burning echo.  Wine, so many questions why I react the way I do to it, back and forth, love and hate and then a mirroring confusion that I can never centrifuge or de-amalgamate.  Have to be in bed soon.  This is the life of an BEAT adjunct.  And there’s so many of us.  And onto…..

Sleep.  But another sip of Shug’s Pinot first–

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And wine, more

in the mind and on my cognitive conveyor than ever.  Not since I started blogging in 2009.  FIVE years ago.  And my approach to wine is still very much Literary but it’s about wine, journalism in wine and the novels and stories and short stories–vignettes and poems–in WINE.

10/27, Mendo office.  8:54AM.  And I’m noticing myself getting a little disorganized.  whoso will help with this.. oh!  I have to print the draft!  Here I go!

I did it!  I did it!  I printed a draft!  The magazine’s on its way and nothing will stop me or my fellow writers from being read!  I love the cover; simple, worded, no visual.  Not yet.  Just did a quick read through.. nice.  Finally I print!  And I used Mendo’s money to do so.  My revenge for the review, or just one facet of it.. this morning’s lecture, Hemingway, the first. We’ll start with some writing and–  I can’t concentrate!  All I want to do is write.  Thinking the next issue of whoso will be all prose, no poems.  Want some short stories, some essays, that Palooza piece, wine material.. this Saturday night will help.  I’ll only allow myself one beer and one glass of whatever wine’s opened at Blair’s house.  Need to get home and work, writing, editing, PRINTING!  And I will write a short piece while here, after class, print it for the colleagues at SRJC, just as a letter or communication but in fiction form.  Happening, all happening for me this morning.

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6:23am and in

a fanged mood already.  You know why, you know and you know me and you know it would fracture my mood, either slightly or significantly, that review.  Mendo.  I’ll specify, why not, what do I have to lose at this point.  Downstairs in dark, mouth dry from the Zin last night and ales that encircled.  A problem with my writing that can’t be overlooked, lashings from a full-timer, a teacher, how much a writer be he I wonder.  If any point to be remembered or relished in this transaction it’s this: the writing has to happen NOW.  No more of this delay and play with certain methods and recipes or tricks– it has to be this.  And, as my wife said quite starkly last night after Mom and Dad left, “so who cares?” She’s right.  I’m not teaching there next semester or ever a-bloody-gain and it’s Mendocino…  Mendocino College.  In Ukiah.  Ukiah.  Where’s that?  I’m a writer, my own Beat has been carved at this old age 35 and I’m not budging or compromising.  My teaching’s fine, okay, but my writing cited?  I can only laugh, in the dark here with this Sahara tongue.  Water, that Perrier that Alice bought, wonderful– I’m sharpened and I have to be and with thicker skin like Kerouac with people reviewing his words his books and sharings.  I guess why I’m bothered is ‘cause I’m tired at this age; tired of being reviewed and approved and applying and the back-and-forth and the commuting and the trying.  “So stop it, stop it all,” a voice says, probably one of my characters from the novel, either Glenn or Dav, or Crystal the winemaker.  And like my sister once told me, “if you second-guess yourself you’ll never make wine.” Or never write which is what I was drawn, my character, Mike Madigan, to do.  Would I want to be him, I ask myself, the full-timer that gave the review, be a full-time English teacher at a removed and obscure college that’s known for…?  No.  Now, if this review came from SSU, or SRJC, or even Napa when I taught there, I’d have reason to be even more hungover than I am, but this is silly–  I would deplore that role and reality, a teacher there.  “That’s where I teach,” I can’t hear myself say.  “I write, I self-published a novel and am selling it.. I wrote it how I write not how I think it’d sell, or it should be written.” There I am, me… And then further into this dream I add, “And I lead a fiction seminar at Stanford.” Ha ha, I reel to myself.  I know what I want and this, that school, isn’t part of it.  So he can sip his self-indulgent defamation and entitled mumbles up there in the mountains, on that campus that barely outsizes this condo complex.

Tried going back to sleep but couldn’t.  Yesterday, more than crazy at winery.  More of that crazy you’d expect from a rainy day where the only alternative’s to taste inside.  Wrote down one line, from a guest, not sure where he was from and I overheard him say this to Gary who was pouring right next to me at day’s end, for a little over and hour and a half: “Old vine Zins always taste too incense-y to me.” Funny thing, I somewhat agree with him and understand his idea, so what did I write it down?  I’ve never heard it put that way with those words before– well that and I didn’t write anything the whole shift into my little pages so I thought I should scribble something.  I poured my people the ’11 Cab and turned around, brandished the little pages and used the back bar for support.

Wonder what Mr. Dav is doing.  Still haven’t sent him that letter.  I’ll print it tomorrow at Mendo and send it from SRJC’s base.  Keep typing, I tell myself down here, keep typing.  6:45, and I hear Jackie upstairs, coughing a little and saying something to Alice who’s probably only wanting to sleep, poor thing.  Going up to rescue her and him and further distract myself this morning.  That review of my teaching or writing, now far past my care, gone into some sewer of dismissed ideas where it certainly belongs.  And when we meeting, this reviewer and I, I’ll be silent, no comments, I won’t waste my words or respiration or time.  I’ll just nod and tune out and leave.  And, frankly, I have to get to SRJC so he only has so much time anyway.  As much as I permit and budget.

Jack and I now, on the couch, Alice sleeping upstairs.  I’ll make sure she rests till 8.  She told me that he was kicking and nudging her all night, my poor wife.  I’m sipping the only k-cup I had left.  Well, I have those decaf doses but those are worthless at this hour, or any hour other than those close to bed.  This coffee bouncing in my rhythms, just what I needed.

I just looked at the evaluation again and it’s just plainly droll, dull, and just what I wanted now that I see my students highly approve of my performance, in fact he himself even noted that my student evals are “exceptional”, and that most obviously means more to a writer like me than what some full-timer documents from having to.  My students’ approval has value.  His thoughts are just part of a machine, a track, an intoxicant that he’ll probably read to himself and show off to the other FT-er hogs.  “Look what I did…” Pig.

Miss the rain.  Want it to come back and I want my little boy’s cold or sniffle set or whatever afflicts him to just bloody fly away.  Now he plays on the ground with a small colony of coins he took from me; everything, pennies nickels dimes even quarters.  He won’t give them back, “My money!” he reminds me.  This is what matters, him, my little Artists, and my students; that they’re pleased with my lessons and the ideas that I offer.

I need more coffee and more time to write, prep for tomorrow.  I know how tomorrow will be approached, just how, Mendo will be conducted slightly differently, meaning I will have my students there enjoy their session with even thicker pleasure entanglements both in idea and expression and the reading– and with Hemingway on the platter now.. we have only the fruitful ahead of us.  I’ll wake tomorrow morning, I’m hoping, when my mother-in-law does, before 5.  I’ve always admired that about her.  I’ll try to run tonight, just five miles, which means NO tasting today.  Nothing.  I’ll let the guests tell me how it tastes and what characters and notes they encounter in the wine.

Jackie continues to throw two footballs at me, one small, which he calls the baby, and the other which is ‘dada’.  He laughs and stresses about nothing, bothered by nothing, just enjoys his morning around me while I type and record whatever I can to make myself feel like a writer.  When Alice wakes I’ll go get us coffees and then come back to shower.  I’m realizing that the music in my life is everywhere and that’s where the truth and gems are.  Not in the routine and the documented and the official.

IDEA: write a short piece, three pages, and distribute to SRJC colleagues.. no selling, just promo, sharing, for Art’s love, Life– and I know what to do, what to write, about what.. that eval from that gudgeon full-timer only convinced me that I’m a writer, one who will by the pen his way, and won’t be in the adjunct role or anything stricture-bound or pinned by any document.  I’m on and in my own Beat.  No more being beaten.

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First Time Now Again

Walking the vineyard in A.M. Fall engrossing all steps. Color palate adjusted purposefully, for me, I have myself believing. I feel like a traveler from Iowa or North Dakota or Canada visiting ‘wine country’, my first time. This weather is a postcard. I’m walking in a postcard. I don’t want anybody to buy it, pull it from the spinning rack, shake me from my cooled post-harvest hosting.

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10/23/14

Writing like a journalist today, inspired from the Hemingway research I did for class, and a documentary I found– that’s what I chase, the who what where why.. and all other “facts”.  Then I’ll fictionalize.  I can write for papers, I’m seeing, now at 35– why am I developing and settling finally comfortably and confidently into my writer skin now at THIRTY-FUCKING-FIVE?

Already wrote a 500-word piece, sent to the whoso issue, which is nearly done.  And that’s another thing, as a “serious” journalist/writer I need to be known as one practicing the deadline!  9:09.  Will write here in the Kenwood lot till 9:20.  Which is now 10 minutes away.  hoping the day treats me well in terms of story.  I’ll post to blog covertly from phone, deliver little vignettes and see what the reaction is, and I’ll compile formally, or more formally, later, but not too formally.  Whew…  Thought I forgot my green journalist notebook, or little scribbling sheets but I didn’t.  It was in the bag, my teaching bag, thank the Craft.  Wore a jacket this morning so I wouldn’t be so cold as I was the other morning.

Need coffee though, all reporters or journalists and us crazy Beat writers drink coffee– dinosauric amounts of coffee.  That’s what keeps us in scribble.  Short pieces sent somewhere.. who do I want to write for?  Well, me, but.. let’s see…..  The New Yorker.  The New York Times.  SF Chron.. anywhere with a height to it, you know what I mean?

9:14.  All I can do is count the minutes down.  And I’m relieved; no breakfast burrito at the market this morning, has a asiago bagel with cream cheese– I know, a lot of cheese.  But it hit, it sufficed, it leveled the writer who had low estimations of the day’s beginnings.

Knocking on 1,000’s door.  But I don’t know if I want to get there so early this morning.  Want to do more thinking and analyzing and observing than immediate writing.  And that’s what I’ll be doing.  End of harvest, wine and fermentation in the air.. looks like this year has a quantity that trumps ’12 and ’13, in some areas, and quality that rivals as well.  Interesting.  So what can the consumer expect?  Another pronounced character collectively as far as can be gathered.

9:23PM.  Home and I don’t want to concentrate on much just the pages in front of me and the next novel but how can I do that when I haven’t edited the first, ‘Quarry Swing’?  It just sits there, or here on and in this laptop like a fish on grill, charred and marred.  And the magazine, think it may have been a bad idea maybe I should ask Amber, one of the contributing writers, the featured writer actually in its launching issue– I can’t surrender, won’t let Self, what was I thinking just then I deserve another sip of this Syrah, the ’11 that I opened on Tuesday night.  Planning on waking tomorrow morning, when EH would, 5AM.  The winery today, definitely reflecting the season, at least in the main area, the TR itself, but where I was on that patio altogether lively– tips, laughs, new characters, and me sipping the Chardonnays.  ME.. sipping Chardonnay.  Odd day means odd new practices.  And I wrote in my journalistic little pages– who what where why…  Now, 9:26, kitchen nook, crowded table with dead flowers in vase from our anniversary, oranges in a bowl (the ones Jackie loves to eat), Alice’s lunch bag, and my glass of Syrah next to laptop.  Hungry for assignments and Newness.  And Hemingway shows me keys– Wolff, I have to say, didn’t grip me as I thought he would.  So this will be the only semester I teach or discuss his work with students.  Next term: Poe, Plath, Hemingway and Faulkner for 1B– I guess, but no idea for the 7AM 1A section.  No idea at all.  But no Mendo, that’s for sure.  Which means I’ll have much of the day to me, Tuesdays & Thursdays, right after the 1B at PC [Petaluma Campus], return finally to the Redwood Café to write and sketch what me surrounds, find stories just as a journalist would and what have.  Alice just went upstairs and I should follow her soon.  Must fall early to rise early, yes?  So many stories I’m noticing in the winddown from harvest this year.  Wish I could have gone out as I did in ’12 to see them actually picking, all the lights in the rows and the tractors slowly clunking by the cordons.  But those lights and the surrounding dark, only for people like me, with a pen, looking for stories.

Taking a break but only for a minute looking forward to sleep and what the morning will feel like– what I’ll do: pretend I’m a journalist covering harvest tomorrow morning.  Have to be at launching site at 5AM.  Not a second later.  Which means I should wake before 5, right?  Yes, I’ll be with this laptop on my lap as it is now on the couch with the humming refrigerator and start my story.  College student working harvest for first time, doing both picking and lab and cellar, a rare opening and he could only take it.  He thinks it’s going to kill him, how hard he’s working, but he knows it keeps him alive, this new passion, that set of CF skins he pressed to make his own juice, his own project.  Earliest he’s been out so far this season, 2:50AM.  And that day he worked till 5:30PM.  Again, craziness that rewards.  That’s what he keeps telling himself.

I know I have my comments about the wine industry and winemakers, but they do follow through, especially the winemakers and vineyard garrisons.  When they schedule a pick, they pick.  When bottling’s on the calendar, it’s done.  And that’s how the journalistic writer need be.  Found my Beat, so I leap.

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novel excerpt (no edits…)

“No, I’m good with these,” the first option, “thanks.” I went to the first isle open, the only one open actually, and I was behind a women with probably fifty items, most food, cheap sweet and rich, high in everything bad and unhealthy for a Human, with her kids, much of it for them, “poison” I thought.  Another employee, older lady, probably early 50s, saw me behind the woman with an inventory of her own, decided to open register 1.  I flew, checked out, total $1.09, left, walking with clothespins in their original plastic wrapping, no company bag, to Los Tres.  I walked in, placed order with the man, ordered beer, then a younger girl came to ring it in, completely confused, asking me to repeat, asking me if I ordered the combo, and if I was sure I ordered carne asada for both Alice’s tacos and my burrito.  Once that was settled, I enjoyed my beer, 24oz, Lagunitas IPA as they were out of Racer 5, for the first time.  I watched the three men at the bar watch the football game.. Tampa at ATL.  Can’t remember who won or who was winning but one of the men had a Raider’s jersey on.  I sipped, took my notes, watched people come in, ask to be seated, arrive late looking for their party, the employees scramble, orders taken, calls, the ‘ready bell’ ringing at that high counter marking the border of kitchen and floor.  Interesting place, Los Tres, and it makes me want to travel to Mexico, any part, like Dean and Sal.

Today there was a loud man in the TR from New Orleans, with his wife and son and daughter-in-law.  He was loud, cocky and eager to let everyone know he was there and what he thought of the wine he was sipping and that he had some expensive shirt on.  I laughed.  He saw.  Said, “Hey there, Bob, why don’t you come join the party?” Bob? I though.  What?  How did he think I had that name, Bob?  “Well I can’t see what your name tag says but I see it’s a short name…” he said.  I was still confused.  Bob?  Do I look like a Bob, I thought.  I just watched him, a show, a loud flabby display of contaminated circulation and filter void.  I still laughed and was still amused.

Then there was another guy with his girlfriend, from some part of NY, that just had to have the remainder of the tab, and even $100, put on some AMEX giftcard.  IT wouldn;t go through, for some reason.  He called, we tried again, nothing.  He insisted.  He waited.  Again and again, and repeat the whole…  Finally connection, coherence, agreement, he smiles, and leaves.  Then we smile.  That’s what we needed.  Him gone!  And I was more than relieved.  It was coming to a place where I couldn’t even look at him.  Why the giftcard?  Just use your bloody credit card, a real credit card, one that won’t struggle with low limits and drive us crazy.. just leave!

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excerpt from this morning…

That will be an experience, one writeable. The estate last night, so dark and threatening and everywhere, appearing larger than it is or maybe just how grandiose and expansive it is just magnifired by not being able to visually assess it. It was like a pool, or river I was in but could breath, but no sight– that added to the story of it all thought, I have to admit. I wanted to walk around, hike with only flashlight, and see where I landed. And he’s down here with me, playing with the ruin, the toy pile and luxuriates in his known province. Saved my grades while he re-stacked each character in his toy cannon. And now, I’m totally committed to Fall, clear head and clear vision. Make sure that everything about the reads this coming semester are maddened– need coffee, more of it, keep the story cartwheeling into its own depth. Rereading Crystal’s story and there’s something about it I want to fiddle with on my own, something subtextual but I can’t pin it. Why do I want to? Go with initial impulse, sensation or tickling– well, it’s exhaustion with what she does and that she does it for someone else. She wants her own winery, or label– small, distanced from anything corporate and she also wants to be known as a writer, one of small pieces. She hasn’t the faintest compulsion for novel. Her masterpieces are her bottles– the Chards Cabs and Zins she’d produce. That’s her latest menu vision. She wants a small counter for her Room

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7/31/14–

Tomorrow, Santa Barbara.  And I may have an opportunity at Sonoma State.  Not sure yet.  Will send my materials by way of email, tomorrow, before I leave, while Alice is on her run.  My first Kerouac book came in the mail today, a collection of his letters.  Didn’t know I bought a used book, once in a library, somewhere, can’t remember where.  I will write the whole time in SB, if not tangibly then mentally.  Bringing my Lagunitas Ale into living room with me; not breaking law of no drinking, anything, on the new couch.  Promised Ms. Alice and I will obey…  The ocean, the sand, that view from our Room down there, just waiting for me.  What can I do but be patient.  I hate that.  HATE it.  The power went out on campus today, interrupting a poetry writing activity, right after we began.  I urged the students to write through it, and they did, after two, both vets, walked around the building, outside, to make sure all was okay– their impulse, prompted by a rumble, heard by everyone in class.  But we wrote on, past it.  It was interesting.

I try to relax, but I stress thinking about the fact I only have, basically– no, less than– 48 hours in SB.  I shouldn’t do that.  Why am  I doing that?  Just enjoy.  Have a run, get one page into the book, and enjoy.  And just because you’re not physically writing doesn’t mean you’re NOT writing.  You are.  Living IS writing, I tell myself.  And my writer friends would agree.  Should sent one of them a note tonight.  I will.  But I doubt she’ll return.  She’s free, flying, a flight attendant, attending flights and her flights attend to her, her pages, her vignettes as she recently told me she’s scribbling.

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Sipping Pinot, the one my friend Ed gave me a couple years ago, or maybe early ’13.  Not sure.  It’s a Pinot; earthy, light fruit, a tad vegetal.  But with a refinement I haven’t encountered before.  9:33p, and little Kerouac very much in his little dreams.  Takeout from up the street, Legends, and I elected my usual, the mushroom/swiss burger with fries.  Not the best pairing with the burger, but that wasn’t my aim, anyway.  And now, I’m truly tired, ready for bed, but I want to research the authors I’ll be using for Fall.. no time.  Can only think, and as I research Kerouac, watch that Big Sur movie, over and over, I understand that the best act I can tell is inaction, just taking it all into character.  So I will, without over-thought.

Tomorrow, I hope something interesting happens, anything, some story, some development.  I don’t know.. I just want something, for the story, so I can be with them.. Scott, Glenn, Bob, Crystal, Dav…  But I can only hope, write, write while I hope and hope while writing.. somewhat deconstructive and destructive.  But that’s Art, strange, and liquified, the more Pinot I sip.  Ed, once a clock-puncher now a wine-wielder.  How?  And why can’t I transcend and time-bend?  I’m not with talent like he.. and he has strategy.  I’m just a fucking writer…

Alice’s shows violate my auditory, like bees, or something that stings, sneaking through screens.  I’m hurt, disrupted, I hate the TV, and anything on it, except for Nat Geo docs.  I can’t wait for my marathon, Santa Cruz, May 2015.

And the Pinot’s gone, thank the good of ness.  What if I could sneak in 3 miles tomorrow morning, or even 2?  I’ll see, and then have more coffee.  And if those devils are reading this, they’re probably laughing, or scratching their heads, ‘cause Literature, true Writing, hurts, as it makes them think, and thinking isn’t for everyone, especially Them.

(7/30/14

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29

And to Mendocino I went today.  Wrote about the heat in my new notebook, the one I took from the SRJC Eng Dept copy room.  It was so intense I was nearly convinced, thoroughly, that I was going to get sick on the ride home.  But on notes more uplifting, I only have official transcripts to send them, then I actually exist, or am “a real person” as the HR lady, Nicole, put it.  I did place a tentative book order, though, and did settle on the books just disclosed in a recent entry: Feast, Road, Wolff’s stories, and Me Talk Pretty by Sedaris…  Being on the Road today, as I was when commuting to Solano in Fall ’10 brought back not just memories but values, a world view I haven’t had since before Jack came into my play.  And all in a positive way.  The drive north, to Ukiah, taking a little over an hour at my slow speed, giving me mountains, a little river peek, vineyards, clouds, intense green then the barren…  It’s the Road, or as much as I can experience now.  But I’m doing it again!  I am!  A freeway flyer.  And I used to have the pessimist’s stump in my mental, since I let the wrong people infect me.  But not this time.  I’m in a true 35 Lark, honoring so many of my Laws, my new notes…  And I couldn’t be happier.  Yes, I know it’ll make for days long, so long, torturously.  But I’m set to be more regimented than I’ve ever been.  The days of wine’s world and industry in this writer’s wheeling ward are nearly executed.  Today’s drive made me feel independent…  FREE!  Just what JK would want for me.

Tonight’s session with the ‘100’ section went well, more than “well”.. it was energized, and I know they have to take control of this final assignment in a way they never have with the others, or with anything else they’ve done with other classes.  And that makes me.. I don’t know if “proud” is the word I’d zoom, but something like it, I guess.  Or how about ‘subtly supercilious’?  It made me feel good.  Healthy.  Alive.  And again, after my drives, even more FREE.  Little Kerouac, fell asleep with unusual diplomacy tonight.  Which is wonderful, I want to run tomorrow morning after Ms. Alice.  She registered me for the ‘Healdsburg Half’.  So now there’s no turning back.  Have to get on a training program.   And I love that feeling, the commitment on MY bloody terms.  The sounds this house makes always distract me, and I don’t know why.  I don’t believe in the supernatural anything, but I just get spooked when it’s too quiet.  But then so oddly and contradictorily I only long for quiet, like a couple Saturday nights ago when I was charging at the Reserve Cab, in the kitchen nook–  And I hope I’m awake tomorrow before Alice leaves, when it IS quiet, so I can add to the 40 pages, for the first of the series.. don’t want to call it a ‘penny dreadful’, but something like that, just more substance, more Literary, more hope and Humanness I guess.  And the coffee, that’ll always be in this writer’s morning recipe.

(7/28/14)

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