In office. Ditched rest of 2nd mocha, as the jitters set in. Wasn’t much left. Having a hard time determining which writings should go to book, and which should stay solely for blog stream. Well, easy fix, or what I think of: ALL is for book, following books. Again, this blog is nothing more than a Literary barrel, from which readers sample, taste future projects.
Prepared as I’ll be for classes. Can’t wait to taste MKCS sample Katie dropped off at Mom & Dad’s. Also looking forward to having a glass of the Cabernet my friend me gifted at yesterday’s end. Tomorrow, topping barrels with MORE Merlot. And I’m fine with that. I CAP “Merlot” in the above line as I LOVE the varietal. I don’t care what ANYONE says. Too quiet in this office, this adjunct cell. Music–
Spoken word to tempos set. Makes me want to immediately detach from these formalist paragraph blocks.
Eyes heavy. At the bay’s edge, dubbing this spot My Levy.
Keep scribbling, keeping Self at high ready.
The other verse spinners, only hurt, thinner, not
able to keep up, shred your page with only 3 cuts.
Competitive, in me no sedative.. dismiss loud slugs,
decide to let it live. I stretch then give fibrillation to
project visitation. Recite till I don’t see– work exceedingly.
Big Brother’s lenses, ubiquitous. But I’m lewd, stick to my
scripts. Immovable, stationed. My Defiance, brazen. More
Merlot. Away the poet goes. More polemic throws.
Deliberate for fate’s sake. I’m in my song, stuck, 2
impatient to wait. Stray before I stiffen like clay.
My mind, not computerized, or pre-prescribed. Emersonian,
reach for sky. Nothing impedes my fly.
5:02pm. Class, closer. Still quaking. Curse that mocha, my addiction. Frustrated. Have to channel it. Embrace it. Well over 1,000 words for day. And I’m going to keep going, revisiting older pages for book, with a Cab glass, FULL, at left. Ready for the rest of my glass to be filled. Only 20% to go. And if I intensify my contributions, energies, efforts, I’ll get there even sooner.
9:48pm. Cab glass, lovingly FULL. Tasted MKCS. Love the profile, but the texture, “mouthfeel,” seems a bit thin. I’ll message my sister tomorrow, see what she recommends. Saved a little to pour for my winemaker friends at winery, see what they think. Sipping my buddy’s wife’s wine, the Cab from last night in lab. Thinking of class, how my 100 section’s taking in ‘Gatsby’. They’re so energetic, ready to share their opinions, perspectives, positions. Tomorrow, I’m writing the whole day. No media. Only words. And minimal “tagging.” Hate that reality to blogging. IF you want it to be read, you have to tag it correctly, taking focus and emphasis away from prose and poetry, relying more on procedure, technicality. Makes the writer sick. My lines deserve more..
Reading the spoken word I feverishly typed in my “office.” Need more in my life, of this random rhyme. Kelly wants me to be free in what I paginate, she told me. She wants me to not worry. She told me that, too. She says I should just write, edit minimally, and just put it out there. “Who cares what they think,” she said. Not sure who “they” are. IF “they” are the publishers, I agree. If “they” are readers, then I might have to disagree. She paints, so people merely ingest visually, most not at all critically.. they’ll purchase based on sightliness, where they could hang it in their home. With writing, people invest, sit, spend time, read, connect in levels varied and many. It’s harder for us.
Heavy eyes. I did wake early with little Kerouac. He’s so funny in the morning, how he screams “Da’ Da’!!!” Always a positive beginning. Need more of the red. Missed wine, even after one night without. Wine is part of who I am. As writer, Human. Need more poem, song. That’s what wine pairs most strollingly with.
Pleased in swings, convicted.
Sipping for hours to slow.
Exiting, pulpit behind.
River forks filling wagons
with orders, tally two.
Me, you. Skirmish,
Had a vision of reading that short poem in Berkeley, as I did in graduate school. Or in the city [SF}, or in Menlo Park, at Kepler’s. OR New York, Paris.. anywhere. On the road with collected writings. A novel isn’t me. It’ll be a collection, what I release. And in that amalgamation, a story. MY story.
Kepler’s Laws, not applying to writing. And certainly not poetry. The streets, here in Paris, telling me to ditch devices. They don’t belong here, especially this intersection, so small, historic. Need another glass. I want to see what else this Cabernet has to say, the more oxygen it entertains. “Have more wine,” my city orders.
I think it’s telling me to talk in more poetically evasive edges. Cubist composition.. imitate Pablo, it’s okay, Kelly’d say.
believing little about
my sales pitch to self
the pages have to take over
they rise from floor, forming a
monster, ordering artist to
10:14pm. Enjoying quiet. Going to bring glass from kitchen to my station, needing it closer. Thinking of Fitzgerald’s book, my students’ reactions. I want to re-read the opening chapters [1-4]. I want to search for more of that social compactness, between social classes. It’s interesting what money does to people, how it curves, convolutes their judgement.
News on, but I’m not interested in watching. All this international bickering, police shootings, pollution cases across globe.. makes me a never-ending nihilist. But this book, oscillating me in optimism. Extending my deadline. One month. Actually a bit more. May 1st. NO, too long. April 15th. 14th, Mom’s birthday. Due date, done.
Sipped the last of glass. Could use 1 more. Used to consider mySelf a calm Cabernet. There has to be an end to this blogging. Just books.. BOOKS. But what I do like about the blog, the immediate relay, communication with readers. No mathematician, I just Create, catapult. This scribble, a surrealist sentiment swirl. My leveling spectrum, the following of immature curiosity. But curiosity’s not immature, nor irresponsible. IT’s HUMAN.