5/1/13. Birthday in 28 days. Time 6:53am. Been with little Kerouac’s antics since 5:45. Last night, no wine. Feel an energized stride to my ide that I have never appreciated. The book’s length, diminished, not sure by how much. Wrote over 50 lines of verse yesterday, between time in office and sitting here at home. Love sitting to write, finishing, then moving onto the next project. That’s my scribbling tier, I guess. Read that it’s supposed to be in the 90s today. Should be great for the vines, I just hope they run sprinklers and drip at some point. Want my Merlot to be bolder than last year’s.
Coffee, almost done. Almost frightened to see how fueled I’ll be after cup1. Stash, still in work bag. Really should get it out of there, deposit it into house fund, right? Or do I use it for publishing? Latter.. okay. Just don’t want to misspend it. “Then don’t, Mikey,” she’d say.
Looking outside, sun just touching the tree by the complex for 1st time, today. Everything just starting. On schemes grand, well as lesser. And I feel I’m JUST getting started as a writer. In Fall, both classes, completely written from start to finish. Want all lectures to comprise their own manuscript.. know I said that with Fall ’12, but this time it will happen. I tell my students that their journal is the book they write over a term, which brings a starting date, and theoretical deadline. I’m set for same, in Fall. And, I’ll be typing everything initially, so at term’s close, the piece’ll be brought to fruition, partially without me knowing (as I’ll more than likely lose track of time, as I do every class set I’m “awarded”).
Jackie sits down to read through ANOTHER book. Love that this tendency has itself rooted, routed, so early. I, his ever-scattered father, need to return to Paris Wife, and everything else I wanted to read. Wait.. maybe I should start with some poems, since I don’t have time to devote 2 a novel, just like with my writing now being more a connectedness of standalones rather than some fluidly exhaustive work.
Running after work, so no wine on palate. Not even spitting. Wine will NOT touch this writer’s palate. Last night a student, Norma, told me about a run on 4July, in Kenwood. A 10k, which I just to train Self a little bit more for. Was surprised how well I did on Friday’s run. Wasn’t that sore after, at all. And the writing thoughts whilst dashing, incredible. Most I didn’t jot, which is fine.. I[!!!] know I was in writing mode.. thinking of rhymes, characters [her, obviously], dialogue, paragraphs, whatever’d be. I’ll be ready, for month 7’s sprint.
First couple sips, away Mikey goes. Sun, more ascended, telling everyone to start, chase dreams, not to EVER settle in any regard. What is it about this morning, me not going back to sleep for 45 mins or an hour, but rather staying awake to type with little Kerouac roaming this condo’s bottom floor, getting into whatever he can? Must be something on tap for the penman. But what? No expectations. And nothing’s transmuting, diluting, or even mildly impinging this manuscript’d momentum.
I’m commanding this day. And all
that follow. Deciding history,
presently. They’re just characters,
material. If I conclude their adequacy.