Thursday. Not sure I can get the day’s thousand in 50 minutes. And I’m not even sure it’s important that I do. Is that Literary, writing to write, to touch a word count? No. But if I want it to be, maybe. Started writing a Kelly short this morning, before carriaging through devoted downpour to AV. Only typed 50-60 words, but still, note that I was Creative before the expansive 8 of NO creativity. Didn’t even have ample time to scribble in the Comp Book. Not even the hurried verse sliver, rime.
Time, 11:14pm. Have my nightcap to right, one of the sparkling orange waters. Really haven’t been hankered for wine, lately. Sipped a little ’10 SB before coming home, the long way through Alexander Valley’s aorta because of a downed power line on Chalk Hill Road South. But that’s it. Didn’t open that ’09 Merlot like I saw mySelf doing. Could be the day’s exhaustion, and the interactions with little Kerouac I’d rather be having than lifting a glass, sipping something that would impede this very wind-down. Looking over at my desk, still ruin. How is that? Just reorganized/rebuilt it surface, tried. How is it that time continues to shovel clutter atop my stage atop all else it robs me of. Just have to keep telling Self, “These short pieces, the surging heedfulness on paper, the verse, the spoken word–all the weaponry you need against the clock’s greed.
Just re-situated my pillows, put one on my pretzeled legs. I’m set on 1k for this evening session. Treating it like one of those Lit Lunches in downtown Napa. Tomorrow, going in early, so I can depart at a time convenient for me in arriving timely for the radio appearance. Not going to here address what I’ll recite, say about “the industry,” here. Saving all venom for the mic… Still a ways till word goal. Not thinking about it. While I had a free second, I did a little online “research,” if you could call it that, on the Victorian authors, some of which I studied in grad school. Returned me to those class sessions, the studies. All the papers I wrote last-minute, some of which were of the strongest standalone pieces I’ve ever written. Read a little Martin Eden before hitting this keyboard, noticing some Victorian-like elements in his developments and character progressions; especially with his struggles as an artist, observer. I then, at my office computer, went to Stanford’s site; then fantasized AGAIN about the Ph.D. Brought back to present, real reality. Idea —
11:35pm. Back from Jack-centered intermission. Well, not much of intermission. But that’s what I’m getting at; I don’t have armadas of time surplus like I used to. I don’t remember where the last sentence in the above paragraph was going, and I don’t have the time to expend on punishing mySelf with recollection attempts. [Now I feel like some red, a jurassically barbaric blend.] Nor do I have time to chase down a doctorate, spend 3 years writing a novel. Going to again center Self on this reflective Niagara, paginate its river, falls. Make that another writing destination. Have only seen footage on Discover, or the History Channel, and pictures just near everywhere. Feel clownish listing all these globe quarters I want to visit [mostly for writing]. But that’s all I can do, at this point. The clock, just shelling me with its sequencing minutes. But I’m writing faster than it unloads. The battle between the clock and I, quite risible. In this simulated, or mock Lit Lunch, I aim solely to aim. For what? Autonomy. Again. Maybe the wine I make this vintage will earn me some notice, or at least provide writing material to front me money for those plane tickets. But I wouldn’t want to leave Mr. Little Kerouac… Haven’t solved that equation yet. Yes, it’d be for work, the writing “adventures,” as I’ve them tagged prior in this log, but I can’t envision being away from my tiny character for time extended. So, that’ll take some planning, another battle plan against clock ticks.
Alarm, 6:20a. “Box time,” I call it. But, AV is not There. There is no Them in AV. No expansion, now, on that. I’d be writing well past 12a. Wait for the radio. Was hoping to scribble some verse tonight, but looks like I’ll have to forfeit. Does that mean time wins? Not taking the chance. Going to clock out early. No surrender. I don’t need a thousand words. What would they do, anyway? What does push me, or could, to 1k, would be the rain itself. Where is it? The weather idiots on channel X said there would be more tonight. All I can hear are frogs, some passing cars. The still. Only tires me. But, the views of rain, those hovering mists in AV this morning, afternoon… Should’ve written something in that notebook. Anything. Even some notes for the Kelly piece I started before I left. Wait… You know, I think I may have… Yes, I did, I find after taking a peek into the pages marked by folded corners. But not enough. Should have “channeled”–no, HATE that word. Should have trajected those emboldening visual whispers–from the vineyards, hills, low gray ceiling–into that short fiction for my character, and not just another reflective set of syllabic blinks, collated spasms. Kelly would have just drawn something. Maybe the scene itself, maybe a picture of spilt wine, as she has many times.
Have to shut this effort, like the door of a car by a cheated lover. I’m not a lover, but I have cheated, on so many of my writing projects, with other writing ideas. [THAT’S WHERE I WAS GOING with the last sentence in that paragraph!] No more. Each sitting has to be its own work. If I later want to collect, fine. But I can’t afford delays. [Clock just shouted 12:00 AM.] Time’s after me, my cognitive collectivity. So, I’ll just write as fast as the ideas’ll let me. Think Emerson, or one of my Victorians, said something to that effect. No time to verify. And I don’t need to. I’m thinking it. Just wrote it. That sentence, its own standalone. Thankful for these logs. Just need more rain so they like impending buds can carry me to distance sips.