On campus. 5:14pm. Took an inventory of standalones in this first book, which is up in page count, as I added the new pieces from racking doc into original. 37 tracks, total. Not as many as I thought there’d be. This Saturday night, canceling all Gatsby potential. Keeping Self locked in. Typing. Reading. I don’t care if I sell a single bloody copy of this book.. I just want it finished. Well, wait… I do care, I’m just not going to preoccupy Self with that. I’m finishing this book.
I just need to edit.
Buying Self a nice dinner, Saturday, 4 days before 34. Then, upstairs to read, edit, print. Going to print 1 page at a time. Need to set a REAL due date, take it as seriously as the bottling dates at the winery, by my winemaking friends.
6:06pm. 302, done, logged, behind me. Finally. A couple students didn’t even show. I’ll never get that. 100, in 54 minutes. Spending time on this entry, then to some spoken word. My writing practice: to always be writing; begin the next book when you’re editing the preceding. So quiet in this building. And dark. Just went into the mail/copy room.. dark, completely. So I fled to my “office.” Don’t hear any lecturing, film clips, or opera, or speeches on this door’s other side. The sound, commotion lack, frightening me, especially when I think of how easily this could turn into a horror film. Some music?
Thievery Corporation Radio, Pandora. Always saving me. Wish I had a coffee, even after this morning’s caffeine overdose. Did a journal check, one final once-over, of the 302 students. Many of them, more consistent than me, with their pen2paper habits. And more written pages– FULL pages. So, I’m taking out my Comp Book, preparing for fundamentalist freewrite flight.
6:47pm. 23 spoken word lines, written, rushed.. intensely rhymed. Felt so incredible. This office, which I once disliked, now starting to see as my infrequent, convenient studio.
7:33pm. More awards being given, other side of this door. Citing GPA’s, scholarship winners, students having won certain awards in various fields. Anyway, 100’s closed. Bittersweet, as one student put it. Hoping to work with many of them in Engl 1A. We’ll see who enrolls. Want to return to spoken word. Can’t believe I scribbled as much as I did. In Fall, I’ll be better about writing out ALL lectures, by hand, filling a new Comp Book. Anyway, off to verse… Leaving in 22 minutes.
7:56pm. Here in studio, wrote 38 lines. Just finished a sonnet/verse.. 14 lines, obviously. Thinking I’ll take a scenic route home, through Fountaingrove. One of the 100 students, gifting me a bottle of J Sparkling. She shouldn’t have done that, but I accepted it, humbly. And she’s doing well in the class, anyway. So bribery wouldn’t help her, for evaluative purposes. Maybe I’ll open this Tuesday night, when I’m set to celebrate my birth’d day with family, at the Particular Palates’ casa.
Leaving. Revisiting the ’10 Cab I last night popped. Sipping slow, believe me.
10:12pm. And is the writer ever sipping slow. Feel quite ready for bed, actually. Too quiet in this room, with TV muted. Jackie, refusing to go to bed, turning his light on, off. Tomorrow, in tasting Room. As always, in mood, mode, to gather material. And tomorrow night, dinner with some friends of Alice, another couple with a baby, one younger than Mr. Kerouac. We’ll be going to Rosso’s, bringing a bottle of wine with. Alice has already selected one of the 3 2010 Sophia’s Cuvée allocation. I agree.. such a nice wine, with a texture and pervading palate presence that I can’t ever remember experiencing.
And, little Jack’s up again, crying. Wonder what’s the matter.. Hear Alice walking in. Know this may not be the most exciting read for you, reader. But, I’m speaking to other writing parents, possibly reading. How do you deal with a crying baby, one that just wakes up? I know, that’s part of being a parent, and “that’s a baby’s job, to cry.” But, that doesn’t help. My truth: a writing father, trying to figure out so much.
Saturday night: 1) run, 2) dinner, 3) write. Easy. In bed by 12am. Want to wake early, Sunday, about 5-something A.M., when I wake with little Kerouac. Get a thousand words, or some verse printed before shift. That’s another thing.. this weekend, my latest writing retreat: all about printed pages. I don’t care how raw, messy, sloppily unedited they are. I need them printed. I need something to bloody edit.
10:30. Needing break from keys. Back to the Comp Book pages. Still a bit surprised at Self for how much I scribbled in that adjunct enclosure. I felt an unusual manuscript moderation.. something alchemical, or ghostly.. supernatural rhythm to the writing. Don’t know how to explain or qualify it.. but it felt incredible.
5:59am. Up with Kerouac. Just went outside, to throw a couple bottles into recycling. Don’t worry, they weren’t all finished wine bottles– two Racer 5’s, then the 2010 Cab I sipped over the last 2 nights. Did think it was better last night. Anyway, the air right now: delicious. Reminding me of early morning walks Dad and I would have in Sunriver. He’d get the paper, maybe coffee if he weren’t brewing at home. I’d get one of those still unmatched pastries from that “convenience store.” Miss Sunriver. Miss mobility. All more reason to finish the book.
Jack again shoots for stairs. Can’t believe he’s at the age where he can climb them. Another victory for time. If only I could stay home today, finish the book. Patience.. peace, Mike, peace. Now Jack lectures me on topics unknown. Need his mother to translate. Nonstop dictation.. you should hear it.
Tonight’s dinner, wine paired with Pizza. Tomorrow night, not sure where I’m taking Self. Note2Self: DON’T MAKE PLANS! Taking tomorrow night seriously, as a Writer more so than aging human.
Surprised how awake I am. Didn’t have that much wine last night (less than a usually portioned glass), went to be early. Well, as early as I could, with Jack’s unexpected expressions of discomfort. Wonder what that was. Either way, he’s his usual Self this A.M. Outside, significantly lighter than when I took out bottles. Why is time how it is? Maybe it’s not being cruel, as I cite. It could simply be doing its job. I don’t know.
In any case, I don’t like it.
5 days to 34. What can I do, but stay on 33’s shore, watch the approaching tidal wave, meet it head-on. Already missing the 100 students. Hopefully some of them I WILL see in 1A. Like returning students, continuing work with those liking my teaching methods, approaches.
Journal jumping. Just paid visit to OFFblog doc. Much of that will go into next book project, I’m sure. Now, to chase Jack, again, into kitchen–
Now, over to Comp Book. A Literary mess today, ME. Why am I so energized? Don’t know, but coffee’s not sounding so good after yesterday’s quasi-overdose. Alice will be coming down soon, which means I get a little more sleep time. But should I take it, or stay up, scribble what I can in the Comp Book? And musically “rant,” as Kelly– I mean Crystal says.
10:41pm. Back from dinner with other couple. Had two espressos at supper’s summation, rather than port, or other wine. Then, when home, sparkling lime. Difference, as I said. That’s what the writer needs. Tomorrow night, beginning the writer’s retreat. Have to fit in a run, so good that I’m sipping bubbled water at present. No attention span, from this exhaustion. Hoping to wake Sunday at same time as when little Kerouac me wakes. 5-something, A.M. Cranky, suddenly.
In morning, wondering what’s on tap. Have to measure, evaluate all with what I envision as barometer. I decide what’s significant. I can be evaluated, if I acknowledge the “right” of one to evaluate me, my performance. Should go to bed, return to session in morrow’s morrow, marrow.