Useful writing day, certain. Working on book. 7 tracks, finished. That’s how I’m looking at this book– a Literary book-length album. Me, journalistically. Leaving in 33 minutes, for professor’s mode. Social media, not on writer’s radar, even slightly. “Well, you’re blogging,” you’d say. “No, I’m WRITING. I elect to place my pages on blog,” I ricochet. My notes, coming in even more colorfully for book’s aims. So glad I write as much and as OBSESSIVELY as I do. The road, closer. FREEDOM, down street. Where I’ll finally Equilibrium meet.
One poem done for day. Character, taunting me, wondering why I haven’t been speaking to her as much lately. She understands, I hope. No more coffee for me. Can’t keep up with Self, this new speed. Maybe I should have some wine tonight to slow Self, relax a bit, see how the character of that ’12 SB’s changing.
I see. Now. Writings telling me what to– These efforts, taking their own posture, directing me whimsically, with cosmological spontaneity. Eager to get outside, see how may walk’ll be different, what songs’ll come to Pandora stations, how I’ll react, if I’ll sing along or simply listen, relax. At 34’s door [27 days away], the most confident writer I’ve ever been. I won’t affirm I’m the best writer, or even one of the best.. but I AM a writer, and I’m “the best” in my genre, which is mySelf.
16% on laptop. Why am I so dependent on this thing? After the book, I’m investing in that typewriter that I cited months ago. Where do I find one? My friend Lacy, that used to work at the Starbucks down the block, said there’s an antique shop in Healdsburg that has quite a few. IT would feel more Literary, more Artful. At these keys, I feel like a blogger, not so much a writer. I know I’m writing, like I said.. but I feel less Literary than I would pounding on antique keys like Capote.
But I don’t know if I’d know how to operate one, at least methodically. One thing I love about this little monster: it’s easy. But I feel that’s made me lazy, and lead to the dependence, and resignation.
10:25pm. Back from class. After a couple pieces of quiche Alice made, I’m enjoying a nice COLD glass of Sauvignon Blanc, 2011. Back and forth with the 206-page issue. Much as I’d love to, I simply can’t. I haven’t the time, with this 5/23 deadline [last night of class for term]. For once, I’m treating a “deadline” rather animalistically. Next semester, again in glass, wondering how to approach. Was thinking of something like “Appreciate & Assessment of Author,” for everything I have them read, English 5 respectively. Going to keep Engl 1 at a introductory deconstructive level. The SauvB, showing with musical difference to how palate greeted a couple weeks ago. Could sip this all night, especially with temps as high as this, this late.
Didn’t bring a thing to school with me but the papers I had to hand back and a Comp Book, to campus. Wasn’t going to allow Self any time with this laptop, but I couldn’t refrain, for downstairs. Wanted to instantly deliver what today happened– or tonight, with students. The American Scholar, surely near to death. Who loves writing, anymore. TRUE, TRUTHFUL writing? I don’t know.. I just think certain tendencies have faded over years recent.
Want another glass of this SB, but I put it already away. And I’m glad I did. I don’t want to be any less ferocious in A.M. than I have been in last 2. Watching the news, again reminded how brief Life can be. That’s why I need be organized, methodically. Another run, tomorrow after work. Not as long, this time. Probably just 2 or 3 miles. Pretty short. Yesterday while running, thought of the documentary in ’09 I watched with Alice and parents, in Oregon, on Louisa May Alcott where it said she only allowed herSelf time to write and run. Striving to mimic habits exact.
Not going to taste my wines tomorrow, but I will travel into caves to smell, appreciate nose. No thieving. Before class tonight, spent about 15 minutes in that adjunct office cell writing spoken word, verse. Need to get serious about reading, anywhere I can. How else will I sell my pieces? Weather, again vicious in morrow. Possible rain on Sunday? How is that a caterpillar’s possibility?
More ideas for book. The poetry I’m pushed to write, a disease. Poetry IS a disease. And don’t pill me, please. Prose, exhaustive, mostly.
I wouldn’t be surprised or offended
if you’ve already stopped
reading. Receding, this
patience. Wasn’t meant 2be.
Night’s cap, not on lap, but at
side.. perfection, in night, merry-go-round..
Lost for Paris, in a
Book.. more than visitor, I tell
Me. Board, full of figurative forms. Cold.
Incandescence, roaming for dancing
Wish I could go for a walk, right now. Just smell the air here on Yulupa. Used to hate summer, the heat. Now, I love eves that follow smoldering spells. Nursing this beer, as I need to be as I was the last 2 mornings. My run tomorrow has to have a Literary sight. To think. Not write, at all. That’s it. That’s my banking. Draw what I’m drawn to.. but I can’t draw. I can only ramble in writing.
Tired. Can’t wait to sleep. Tomorrow morning, and all day tomorrow, want to embrace the mentality of a tourist.. I’ll pretend I’m back in France, if I can. I’ll try. So, morning mocha, paired with croissant. It’ll come from the writing budget. Not the stash, but the small bundle I have in wallet.
No void in my voice, I feel. Well, no.. there is! I need the road, travel.. the New. Miss my city. Oh Paris, what are you singing write now?
we’d walk by Seine,
looking at what crossed
she missed me
i know, snow and
inexplicable loving by
sky’s setup, plan scene