Feel discouraged at this table, the same I had yesterday, here at the Starbucks. Yesterday I put 1000+ words into the book, then scribbled a good amount of spoken word. Now, in this sitting, disliking everything I type, write. Need more of this coffee. And yes, I’m sipping straight coffee. Black like space depth, with exception of the couple drops of nonfat I injected. Thought of submitting some pieces to Lit mags, but not now. Can’t afford it. Don’t have time. Self publish? … Hurts me to say, but that’s reality. I’m ready and confident enough to mail my writing off to these editors, publications which probably won’t pay it the littlest of minds. Self-publish, can’t spring for that either. So, all to blog. Free reading for all, if anyone’s at all skimming my pages. Or “posts.” You there?
Went to a winery this morning, over in Glen Ellen, atop a hill. Just my visual palate, with the light rain, over-attached fog grips. Listening to Wined beats now, with a slight cosmic stir. Wine Bar/Shop? … Miss music, performing, as I’ve said. Need to find some reading, also as I’ve said. Let’s see if I can find one… Not immediately, and I don’t want to waste time traipsing around the internet. This is prime for my pages, this Literary Lunch-esque etch. Or “posts.” God I hate that word. Just ran into a former student of mine, Lacy. She was one my more favorite students in the 1A section I taught down at the Petaluma campus. She just told me she had recently been in a serious car accident, colliding head-on, braking both her legs, also doing something to her right forearm, for which she’s due in surgery, matter of days. She asked what I was up to, and I just told her I was doing a little writing. “Of course,” she said. Glad that one of my stronger, and delighted, students acknowledges me as a writer as much as an English Instructor. I’m even more joyous that she’s alright, that nothing worse to her occurred. Reminded me of life’s curtness, lack of predictability. She’s on her way to class, stopping for hot caffeine on the way. Didn’t want to keep her. She somewhat reminds me of my Kelly character. Not sure why, as she doesn’t paint, to my knowledge. But she does conjure Kelly’s presence, brush strokes. Sweetly strange.
Finally got around to reading my NYT I bought on Sunday. So much happening in the world. In so many regards, for so many reasons, in more than so many places. Need to travel, soon. Write everything I see, from the characters and what they’re wearing, to road signs, to how the streets greet an eye, to shops and restaurants, to weather. Need to save, but not now. Eventually. Paris, remember, is most definitely on the “DEADLINES!!!!!!!!” list, on this laptop’s desktop. Leaving at 1pm from this comfy coffee cave. Loving this new table for my Lit Lunches, even though this is not a lunch at all, and this table is significantly more accommodating in span, surface. The book, needing attention, but I can’t give it any now, I feel. Just not ready to contribute to a “novel.” More in a journaling mode, mood. All the writers in this paper, which I see as the best on any newsstand, where did they get their start? How did they cross over to full-time scribe?
Think I’m going to buy a new Comp Book. Need one, for the Spoken Word, and everything else too, I guess. Just like the look of them. This coffee, nowhere near as flavorous as my mochas. Mood, sinking. Discouraged again, just when I was just enough aloft. Need a writing session with not so much “stuff” around me. Have my bag, with all its baggaging contents, this newspaper to my right and up a couple inches, and the coffee cup, which doesn’t really count. Would love to just have a pen, paper, and coffee. And maybe music from the phone’s banks. Just wishing again, as I always do. How does Kelly session? What is her preferred arrangement in her studio? She, I’m thinking is a novel of novels, one intended for shelves, seller lists, all similar, relevant.
This coffee, disgusting me now. Fully. Yesterday, while out, about, stopped by Mayo Family Winery, tasted a couple Zins and a Petite Sirah that wrangled my focus and balance, and palate, completely. Have always loved their wines. For years, now. Not that I want to make any of those varietals, but the notes are what made me think about a lot, in multi-shaded respects. Love that darker, smokey, villainous quality to certain wines. It just stands out more. To me. Not so much tannin, just seductive mannerisms. As I continue in this sitting, I notice less people around me, except for one gentleman at my six, sitting at a table like this. Think he’s just reading a paper, but I can’t tell. He’s middle-aged, possibly–no, probably–bored. What if he’s trying to see what I’m writing? Again paranoid, just as I was at the Roasting Co. Scooting the screen and its board right, directly shielded by my sternum. Better. Compelled, only by habit, to sip the coffee again. But it’s foul. Too blunt, no swagger. After sip: yes, that is disgusting. But, I shouldn’t get mochas, with this invisible, vaporous budgetary chamber around me. Damn the box, I want to think. Shout, here in this coffee shop, standing with middle fingers extended like 2Pac. But no. I need extend thanks. I’m free. Finally. For prose, poetry. No head collar (headset), cage (cubicle), terminal indoctrination (company manual, policies, habits, practices, ideologies; hypocrisies). I damned the damnation. Again, I feel opportunity, optimism. Alive.
12:02p. 58 minutes. Acting as though this is a Lit Lunch of old. Going to leave this paper here, the NYT. Not going to read the rest. Really only bought it for the Arts section. And Travel. Not sure I look at the latter adequately. In a minute… Remembering something I heard an actor say in an interview, about his Craft and life, and other artists with their pursuits. He said something like, “We don’t have time to be delicate…” That’s why I’m just writing. Just writing. Yes, I should be linear with projects, my contributions to them. But first, more forwardly and fervently, I’m WRITNG.
Ugh. This coffee is gross. (12:07pm)