Mes Pages

Just injected 219 words into book.  Been up with Kerouac since 6:15a.  Haven’t had coffee, yet.  But I’m surely writing like I have.  Still no rain.  How do these weather people keep their jobs when they’re wrong nearly 100% of the time on TV.  I want the rain here, with me, and not just for the pages.. but for the vines.  I need that Merlot block to be what it was in ’12, if not better.  Feel like I’m starting to think like a real vintner now.

Again, found mySelf 2nd-guessing, thinking of how people would respond or do respond to these entries, these writer ramblings.  And, as I’ve so many more times told: I.  Don’t.  Care.

At.  All.

I write for me, then release, humbly offering it to populace.  I’m not trying to be “marketable.” It’s like how my brother Kaz makes his wine, with all that neutral oak, and no added sulfites.. uniquely high acid interpretations of varietals.  I think it’s brilliant, and delicious, when others find it “odd.” OR, to be politically correct, “different.” Why would you, anyone, want the same as a consumer?

No return to sleep.  A barrage of coffee brewed impawning on Self more work.  I want 3,000 words from this Easter.  On anything.  Most, to book.  Budget: 1000 to blog, 2k to Book.  Easy.  Lost internet connection, while checking bank account balance.  Again, a tech rant.  But no.  Won’t give the digitized my venom.  Rather direct at Them, the box.  Need my first cup, I feel.  But it’s funny, I feel like I’ve already downed a couple cups.  Jack’s incredibly vocal this morning, making whatever new sound he can.. teaching me, or urging me at least, to try new things with this book, my writing.  Don’t sing the same song, a winemaker once told me with vintage variation.

And it lands, the drop collections.  The coffee, making me more alive.  Already see self noting poetic bursts all day.  Break, collecting Self, for Book’s sake…  Redivivus, each of my portraits.

11:19am.  Hoping for 1,000 by noon.  Should have enough time.  Rain, nothing what they foresaw.  Ridiculous.  Resorted to getting a mocha, small pastry [low-fat cinnamon-swirl cake].  “It’s Easter,” I said to mySelf.  Need to get some cash.  Didn’t have any yesterday for those fish tacos, oysters.  Luckily, the TR manager insisted on floating me, and I did a little social media plug for them, so I was rolled a couple free BBQ’d oysters.  So delicious, with all that garlic, hot sauce.

Tonight, opening something near-stellar.  But what?  Going to look through upstairs stash.  Well, I should really research, more, Merlot.  I’ll open the one Alice’s friend brought over, the other day.

Collecting old entries, poems, songs, writings for this book, my character.  What does he want from his own efforts?  I think simply freedom, like me– to see the Road, experience everything out there.. return to his city.  He wants Life, and nothing lives in what is stationary; that’s just existence; Life involves movement, exploration, discovery, risk.  Letting my mind wonder, what this book, the ones following, will do for me, Alice, little Kerouac.  Only positive.  I’m a writer obsessed with simplicity, so I don’t want a lot.  I don’t need “a lot.” House, couple cars [literally only 2], maybe a vacation/getaway/writing home.  That’s all.

Jack, upstairs, sleeping soundly.  I think.  I don’t hear him.  Was tempted to nap, but the pot I started early, I now have back in cup, reheated.  When I cam home from retrieving coffees–well, hot chocolate for Alice, I poured it back into pot, so it wouldn’t waste.  Now, it’s back to work, for me.  Probably need to reheat it again.

Was looking at pictures of Picasso’s studios, the other day.  Surrounded by Art.. consumed by it.. envelope.  Consummate Creator.  That’s what my office will be like, just wait.  This first book, all 206 pages, bringing in downpayment.  Would love to OWN my studio, not just rent it.  In fact, I want to see those stills again.  Je reviens tout de suite…

Page 498.  Stopping at 500.  Only to begin another document on this devil device.  What happened to more pen2paper writing?  Ugh, get so frustrated with mySelf.  I’ll hit the 3,000 today.  THEN, write in newJournal.  Not in a Comp Book mood, really.  Want to smell that leather, see those unlined pages.  More artful.  Lines are too accommodating.  I don’t need accommodation.  I’m an Artist.  I’ll figure it out.

Think I see sun, battling through clouds.  Would love a run at some point today.  Alice did mention a family walk, later.  I can do intervals, running away or past her and the little Artist, then sprinting back.  So on, forth.

Picasso, such a fascinating man.  Everything about him.  His practice, his habits, his surroundings, his work of course.. truly intriguing.  Studying him, addictive, madly.  In my indulgence with Art, I don’t think PhD pursuit’s practical, nor necessary.  IF anything, reliance on some institution, some acronym it awards you, after you submarine into debt, is ANTI-Art.  So, no thank you.

Haven’t risen from couch to sip coffee.  That must mean something, maybe.  11:43am.  Not much time to reach goal.  Need subject.. feel like one of my students.  OR any student, really.  I remember that first semester in grad school, staying home from work to pound out like three papers.  Think I took a picture of the table, the one grandma gave me, littered with drafts.  That photograph has to be upstairs somewhere, in closet, probably above the old writings container.  Fatigué, but I’m keeping these fingers motioned.  Need to “backup” these writings.  Hate seeing mySelf type that.. hate even thinking it.  That is not Art, living in fear of tech’s potential failure.  Never mind that.. the day, this day, this page–  Hungry, suddenly.  What’s for lunch?  That leftover pizza, I’d say.  Need to budget, as well, which isn’t Art but needs to be done.  Also need to see what I have to grade on Tuesday, and how I want to reproach Gatsby with the 100 students.  Last two sessions, for both classes, brought a poem.  I’ll continue that gifting till term’s close.  Next poem, needs to be a little less ambiguous, evasive [had them read Dylan Thomas’ “Fern Hill”].  Some of them “got it,” but overall it was a struggle.

Also, I may offer a Literary Theory.  A new one, since our class, both 302 and 100, are dominated by Reader-Response Theory.  Just a note to Self, 11:52am.  Past pre-noon 1,000, just enjoying cruise-control composition.  Simplifying my Life down to Literary blocks.. reading, response, research, questions, fiction, poetry, WINE [yes, wine..], diary, journalism, new journalism.  Whatever I want, really.  All to be fueled by curiosity.  This may be one of the most Self-fulfilling sessions I’ve had in a while, this Easter A.M.  This, what writing can do.  Or a passion for anything, quite frankly.  What if I didn’t hand back anything on Tues, and just used my prep time to write?  For like 3 hours.  Imagine what I could produce…  I am.  Right now.  And I salivate.

The quiet in here, narcotic.  Think Alice may have fallen asleep, upstairs.  Would love some music.  Waiting till I can clock out, like at the winery.. once clocked out, you enjoy a glass of wine, from whatever we opened that day.  Yes, a perk of industry.  Fatigué, encore une fois, but I’m still moving.  The Literary Lunches, when at the box, on mind again.  Been thinking about that place a lot, lately.  And not just with rancor.  More so, analysis.  All the details, how he, Carl, would always jiggle his keys before unlocking his always-locked office door, as if any of us wanted in.  That predictable shake, that metallic jingle, I always felt was a subliminal–to me, not so subliminal, but clownishly obvious–message and reminder to us of how important he was, thought he was.  What a ratsbane.