1:48pm. Back from first walk/run in some time. Was beautiful. Overcast, a little rain, intermittently. The whole time I’m thinking, “What would it be like to run in Paris, Barcelona, Prague, Vienna.. come back to my hotel Room, scribble, then walk some more?” Need to separate from this laptop, but it’s hard. I type, and it’s there. All I have to do is edit, PRINT, then vend it.
Jack, still in his tireless tide. Me, quite wiped from that hike up Woodview, by the golf course. Need to keep this habitual. Looking into races…
3:53pm. This laptop, frustrating to the point of spilling this mocha on its precious pretty keyboard. No– I’d rather throw it in its face, at the screen. So many stalls, so many indecisive responses to my commands. But that’s my fault, for having any faith in these wired rodents. The café, all but empty, here on 12 & Mission. Have one of my bigger tables. Leaving at 4:45pm to head to campus. Obviously, no class tonight. But today, I’m seeing as simulated. Need to get remaining grading DONE.. and plan these new lectures.
And here goes this laptop again, with its antagonistic spurts. Should really be adding to book. Why am I uploading some old photo of barrel lines, while they’re being racked, from that putrid Dry Creek Winery? Bad usage of time, as a writer. So let readers learn: only write, if you want to write, especially for a project, book– distraction’s DEATH.
See a waitress, I think that’s what she does, ordering her coffee, before work. Or maybe she just punched out. Telling from her demeanor, her seemingly rushed strut, she’s on her way to clock. Makes me think how I do enjoy my “jobs.” Winery, classRoom. Could be in much worse positions, that’s certain.
Suddenly blocked. Would revert to my studies, but I’m even too tired for that. Have to get to Paris. Soon. Before I’m in a padded cell. Would love to walk around the Luxembourg Gardens with Alice, little Jack. Or by mySelf, on some writing trip. I remember walking around the gardens with Mom, Dad, Alice on our last day. Couldn’t believe the Romantic quality to everything I saw. Need to think a minute.. something’s hitting me.. not sure what.. Art, Orsay– Not sure what it was. I think just the memory of being there. But that’s just my point! I have to get back. These obsessive thoughts, recollections, reminiscings are completely disruptive. “When good Americans die, they go to Paris,” Mr. Wilde said. I’ve been nothing but good, diligent with my writings. Of course, I have no hope of leaving mortal terrain. But I DESERVE to be back on Montparnasse..
A coworker just walked in. We’ll sit and have a cup, some conversation. Writing interrupted. Oh well. Have to leave at 4:45pm. Told her I was researching Paris, going back later this year. That’s the truth, right?
7:20pm. Back in home. Went to campus, but merely drove by building. Saw only one other car by Emeritus Hall. Decided to come home, see more of little Jack. Sipping a Racer 5 currently, listening to falling rain. Only for short stay. But either way, it’s here. For me. My book, characters. And now I hear nothing. Think I’m set to open that new ’12 Rosé from the winery.
Can still feel today’s run. Would wake early for run in morrow, but I think rain’s supposed to continue.. see how I feel. Volume increasing, with drops. Imagine mySelf walking past Musee Marmottan, scribbling in a little notebook, maybe bumping into a fellow Parisian. “Excusez moi,” I’d say. My pages, only getting slightly damp, but I don’t care. I’m in Paris. And I’m a writer. So there.
9:25pm. Small glass, thinking about tomorrow, pouring outside, under that tent. Should provide strong material. It is change, newness. And that’s what I’m always saying I need. Fiction, my key, if I can’t escape anytime soon. My characters… Seeing the novel developing, my character in transit– reading, speaking, moving. What service provides the stationary? None. It’s moratorium. That’s what I combat through composition.
Taking a conversation I had with one recently, spinning into material. Some would say that’s unethical, or even immoral. Just wrong. But is it, if it’s what I NEED to do? I write fiction.. so this character’s story, and their subsequent character legitimize my reasoning, alongside the character’s existence.
If I could write a story about something different, something I’ve never experienced.. something in which I’d have to “immerse” Self, or research, that would keep the writing awake– What am I saying? No. That’s against.. everything I have set for Self. Never mind. I want to write ME. Pouring a little more to get into book mode–
What it did.
How could anyone take pride in a position like that? Being ever-stationed in a BOX? I’ll never get it? And one of the managers would always warn against “drinking your own kool-aid,” when that’s all they wanted us to do– drink theirs. Assignment to assignment, just moving down a moldy call-list. I’ll never forget the day I was let go, walking out to the parking lot, feeling free, like so much promise was ahead of me. I do miss the sessions downtown, writing on my lunch break at the Roasting Company, but I can have that here, in a different, more preferred shape.
This Rosé, putting me on the road, back in France. Makes me think of that brunch we had in Beaune. Omelette with Rosé, that was preceded by some hors d’oeuvre, closed with a discrete sweet set and espresso shot. My office, the Road, my BOOK.. all sitting on mind’s tray, listening to remaining rain. Night’s rest, to pen, paper. POETRY. These paragraphs, exhausting. Feel like I’ve drowned in my own consciousness stream. But not.
Luckily, I can swim.
Especially in ink.
9:48pm. Looking at the Rosé, and thinking about grape skins. What they do. Their role in winemaking. Because Rosés deduce harshly minimized contact with these lovely outer-layers, I wonder how seriously they can be taken, what kind of oenological prominence they can ever have. Or maybe that’s not fair. Okay, I’m drinking. Shutting up.