Another installation to this mixtape, after a little break. Earlier, wrote to sounds of starting cars, parking lot chat. Now, Thievery Corporation, other Wine Bar arrangements. Nearing 1,000 words. Want to re-read my friend’s sharp interview. His novel, again, as well. Where did I put it? … And of course, in the side shelf of this desk. Shows you what my organization system entails. Nothing. Think that’s a consequence of my writing voice, form.
Speaking of form, going to play with it more in my sittings. Whether verse of paragraph, essay. Sometimes I may indent, others no. And why are so many touchy when it comes to paragraph length? One thing I don’t miss about teaching–I had a hard time instilling 5-to-7 sentence paragraph scripture to my students. All that rule goop. I preached, occasionally, ideas to which I didn’t at all subscribe. Did it ‘cause the whole semester I was preparing them for some clownish departmental exam.
Topic next. This music, all music, dancing in my pores, encouraging Creativity, Freedom, TRAVEL. This 2nd coffee cup: 1/3 the earlier mix of dark roast and mocha mix; the rest, a recent pour of the scolding black. Immeasurably pleasurable. Perfect for the sitting. So glad I came across that interview yesterday at my desk. Now, at this desk, I relax, write, enjoy my morning of button pushes, verse, caffeine, ME. This moment, universally artisanal. No?
Think I may be writing a prose poem, and not prior notice.
No wine today, or tonight. Want clear vision for the other standalone’s I pen. They
need destination. This song,
taking me away to Rome, a café on a
small but frenzied
street. Just me,
notebook. I hear voiced, but can’t appreciate my
puzzle. So, a writer, I assign
10:19am. One of my favorite Thievery tracks, now in ears. “The Time We Lost Our Way.” Feel like I’m on a plane, headed somewhere, staring down at clouds. Speaking of flight, I want to watch that footage of the Paris trip, ’09. All blocks, characters, something I again need. Want to have another session like I did that one night I woke and couldn’t, for anything, return to sleep. Staring down at a slightly-lit stage, recessed. Paris, I miss you, sickeningly…
Now that I’m officially a Self-published Artist, I can make that part of my tour’s circuit, with one of my releases, when I really get going. I’ll have to. What I see happening: staying there for 10-15 days, writing a short novel, or memoir. Or both, blended, sipping some Bordeaux I’d never otherwise taste. Or Rhône. Eating one of those devilishly enrapturing baguettes from a station. Okay… Where’s that camera… I want to go back now. If a picture’s worth 1000 words, then collected video footage must promise half a diarist’s project. Taking off, runway clear. I may never return. Why would I? I’d be in Paris. My city. My writing’s dramatically panoramic incubator.
Already over 1k. Clock: 10:46 AM. Why does my laptop put a space between the time & the “AM?” Only I would notice that, the geeky writer.
10:05pm. Talked mySelf out of talking myself out of 3 efforts, today. 1) I mandated no beer or wine tonight. Said, “You know what, you should have one of those Racers, especially ‘cause it’s so hot out. It’ll taste amazing.” Stayed with program, for the writing, for tomorrow morning’s early rise, for writing, work in AV after. 2) Read through my chap, all 52 pages, quickly. Felt disgusted. Almost changed my mind entirely about it, surrendered. Didn’t let mySelf. I walked away, took a break from its sight, content. I can’t afford to quit another project, not at my age, with all I have staked. And, 3) Made Self go for a run, or walk-jog. Almost talked mySelf out of this, with frightening ease. But no, went for a short, slightly speeded saunter on Bethards & Summerfield. Oh, and a 4th: no mocha, the whole day. Almost bought one after my haircut, but realized that would interfere with my goal of returning to running routines. So, the bean peddlers didn’t get a dime from this reborn author. What else can I make my Self do? Setting alarm for 6:20am, the same time I’d wake for my Napa commute.
And, another. 5) Refrained from my nightcap, which I set to be a Snickers bar in the fridge. Had a sweet tooth, saw the attractive treat, walked the other way. Clocking out, while ahead of impulse. Want to write more in this log, but making Self stop, pepper some poem while it’s still this day. Before morrow. When the alarm sounds, only verse, poetry. No prose. I want the frenzied tangential in my Comp Book’s sheets. Coffee, here from house, certainly.