Not as electric as I usually am in A.M. Not sure if I feel sick, or if I’m just tired. Listening to Thievery with Jack. He seems to really enjoy the station, Pandora, for my favorite group. Sipping a Diet Coke, for the carbonation. Know it’s a bit odd this early, but it’s where compulsion took me. -8:43am
Definitely not well enough for class tonight. Already called dept, emailed assignments for her to post [Loretta, that is]. Just an idea for deconstruction, for next “lecture,” that came to me just now, while playing with little Kerouac: sick vs. healthy, or well, how you perspective changes. Want to start outside Literature, in Life, then redirect inwards.
Hate feeling like this. Weak, pained joints, cramping stomach. I did have my mocha earlier, 4 shots as I didn’t sleep well from the rain, but it didn’t help. Took an hour nap when Alice left for her errands, down here on couch, with those awful uncomfortable pillows that have the artificial feather tip poking out of fabric, needling face, ear, forehead. -2:54pm.
Missing tonight’ s income. Need writing to sell.. sick of this dependency. I’m stressing over this missed pay, as I should, but.. I don’t know. Would rather have to worry about selling what I create rather than welled hours on some devilish clock.
4:16pm. Alice off for walk with one of her “mommy friends.” From the “Mommy Mafia,” as I call it. Need sleep, so I’m going upstairs, taking a nap. I need it. Can’t afford to miss days at winery. If I do feel some of the residual notes from this bug, I’m ignoring it. Drinking tons of water, and just focusing on tasks, the wine. Speaking of, none for me tonight. Maybe I should try again to start dry streak, see how it changes the writer’s character, how I view wine, its world, the tempered and over-consumer.
Stop typing, go to sleep, I’m saying to Self. Yelling, internally. But should I when on such a role? You should see me, reader.. I type as if I had ANOTER 4-shotter. But I need to rest. This bug will be removed by morning. Bon nuit…
4/5/13. 920pm: And yes, it is gone, finally. Woke this morning with a bit of exhaustion, some aches, slight tightness in stomach. But today, talking with those French Canadians, Montreal, and how I tried to engage them in their language, them being so supportive, supplemented my mend, my slowness, remedial state aside. And here, in house, I sit frustrated with certain layers. I’ll save it for book, or journal. Thought a lot about class, today. Feel incredibly guilty about missing last night. But I didn’t have any sort of choice. Whatever that was, more than determined to keep me pinned in this house.
Notes I did take today, on little pages, definitely more appropriate for book. Wrote a little verse while behind bar, but not much. Shooting for a poem each day this month, being Poetry Month. Missed 4/1 & 4/2, but I’ll land on remaining days with some verse, rhyme. Having a little wine tonight, but not much. The Zin I opened the other night. And on Zin’s wind, sipping the bottle I opened the other night. Still has stance.. losing a bit of its fruit, grip, but still tastefully interactive, engaging.
Not in the best of moods right now, for some reason. Think I just need to write through it. But about what? I don’t want to write just to write. Or maybe that’s just what I should do, to further detail my page addiction. I could be out doing so much else, so many destructive, counterproductive activities to temp a Human, as so many humans do… But I’m here. At a table. Writing. Dying to finish my book.
Tasting Room re-entry in a matter of days. And I have to say, I’m rather eager. Saw the new counters, cabinets, shelves today. Looks quite nice. Would love a bar like that in my “dream house.” Hate that phrase, but I think it’s reasonably appropriate in this context. And I’ll get to that house, that idealized structure, from my writings, nothing else, if this WRITER has a say.
My office, calling. But it’s in distance, we’re separated by maze. I see over the entangled channels, but once inside, I’m lost. Why can’t I just fly over? My frustration builds. Not even attempting written address of my character. Wouldn’t be Literary. And she deserves better. She’s probably on a plane, to some conference, scribble in a sketchbook. Or she just landed, or checking into a hotel. I see her in Southern California, for some reason, at a hotel bar, sipping a Chardonnay, randomly. OF some kind. Makes me think of a scene, a film; her there, at the bar, dark, legs crossed, she reads a magazine, the only one she can find.. pretends to read, so she won’t seem odd being alone, in a bar. NO– Kelly’s more made for stage; no editing, no convenient angles, makeup.. she’s that scenic. She only needs her nowness; And ME, the writer, only needs her intrinsic glimpses.
My recovery, complete, with these new ideas. Of her. In that bar. But other characters would I let by mine? One Artistic, one independent, one unchained. I’d have to have her in Paris, or Madrid, or Venice. Or New York. OR, San Francisco, my first city-love. It’s so funny, this snap of her at a bar. I literally can see her, right there, just enjoying quiet, not speaking to anyone. But, for a scene to forward move, there’d have to be dialogue. But with whom?
Last glass of night. So pleased with my health’s return. What was that, yesterday? Had to have been that pizza, night before. But it was a veggie. Not giving any thoughts more. I’m in a new scene. Need to break this normality, finally one day only have a “blog” to promote my books. Wait, couldn’t I do that now? Uh, yes, Mikey… Therapeutic merits of page, love you. And maybe that’s why I write.. not just for the eventual self-sustaining possibility, but to cure Self, or expel something. Yes, to latter. Expel anchors all. This, a certain dawn. Need my final glass. It’s in the kitchen, as always, making the pour last longer. No more rain in forecast. Enjoyed the descent recent, but now to deal with Spring’s landing. Rebirth. So here’s where it happens.