Eye Pilot

Just finished a string of writings over the past few days.  Entries, over 2,000 words total.  Too much for blog, so I’ll put it into one of the chaps.  This rain, positively shaping my mood.  Love the sounds, whether inside or out.  Not a drop of wine tonight.  Hoping to run in morning, even if it’s raining.  That’d be just the right dose of newness to start day.  Wouldn’t take my little tracking device with me.. so, no music.  Would want to be alert to everything.  Paris on mind, thinking of all the input, all the material out there.. everything, anything that could help build a book.

Ready for spoken word, verse, poem, rime.. the anti-formalist flights I form late.. or whenever, lately.  A bit stuck, on this couch, with the muted TV, my writing movie playing on this laptop monster.  What’s the most eventful next step?  It’s my choice, I hear Grandma saying.  Yesterday, the reminder that she’s gone.  But I don’t know if she’s “gone” at all.  I feel like she’s still here, especially with those last advisory words in her hospital room.  ‘My Life, my choice,’ in a nutshell.  So, if I had to plan it all out tonight, my Life’s entire remainder, having whatever I want, how would I list?

One issue, the manuscript size.  I know I shouldn’t obsess over this, but I do.  First, what can I afford?  That only demands I do chapbooks.  But what if I don’t want something that small?  What does that matter?  Huh.. I really AM obsessing.  How about, JUST WRITING.  Put it out there bit by bit.  However that looks.  Need a couple minutes to think–

Need music.  This movie, seen too many times.  Don’t blame the film, at all.  Target Self with criticisms.  Getting distracted by too much, now.  Not going to overthink how I should have things in this Room arranged.  Just going to keep writing.

Fall’s lectures, the winery, my wines, 2013’s vintage.. too much in moment’s barrel.  Tired.  The rain’s telling me to call the day.. to just stop with the types, rest.  But I don’t agree.  I’ll apologize to the drops, but not dwell on our scuffle.  Moving on.

Think it’s the prose.. this formalistic voice, shape my thoughts are taking.  Should jump to Comp Book–  So if readers walk away with anything, from this particular sitting, entry, or “post,” it’d be to know when to change shape, mode.. know when the stream’s asking you to leave.  Yes…  Poetry, much more appropriate, for this Now…  [6/24/13]


6/25/13:  Up with Jack, mocha done, well as one home cup.  A lady the other day, telling me that she wants to follow my career, asking for my email, name and blog address.  Still raining…  Have to write fast, noteform– Jack on move in unusually fast manners.

Wrote 1 poem this morning.  Some rimed line.  When little Kerouac’s asleep, will rack standalones into chap.  Following newest idea.  Oh well.  Kerouac listens to the Thievery playing through phone.  Where’s Comp Book?  In bag I think.  This rain, can hardly understand it.  But it had pertinence I’m sure.. Book gravity.  Hoping to run later.  Getting sloppy with routine.  Worries me.

May need another cup to nurse.. keep this stream streaming.  So much material in this Comp Book, the one due 11/24/13.  More than enough for a couple collections.  Thinking of it as a running well.  Almost full.  Or bound vault.  Everything in there.  Keeping simple.  MY whole life racked into book.

Lecture Idea:  First Day– What you understand about reading, writing, thinking, and Critical Thinking– definitions of your own are fine, but I’m interested in a non-academic, Human description of each.

This Fall, unlike any term I’ve taught.  Now, Jack completely silent, while he reads a book about a mama Panda with her cub.  He switches to another book.  He likes these chill café beats.  Think I do need another cup.  Love moments like this, have to record them.  I know time itches to take them away.  Not my little Artist stares out the window at the drops.  Can’t believe this, rain in late June, after Summer’s start.

From this blog, to book…  Don’t other authors do that?  Sure they have.  Doesn’t matter, that’s what I’m doing.  May have some wine tonight, but not sure what.  That new Pinot, St. Francis…?

Thought last night:  How Alice dedicated herSelf to fitness, losing weight, changing pretty much all her habits.. I need to mimic such, exactly, exceedingly.  She wanted something, in herSelf, and just took it.  Can’t I do the same with these pages, getting to the Road, my Office?

Looking through old wine stills.  How has time escaped me?  Surprised with how much I’ve seen tasted, how many different characters I’ve captured.

This current beat, putting me back in Paris’ streets.  Haven’t forgotten about my town– recently reminded of, with a girl at work, recently returning from Europe trip.  Her high school grad trip, sharing with me her advanced affinity for Paris.  She spoke how her friends and she often hunted down historic sights while the boys capitalized on being able to drink at their age with local laws.  Interesting.

Me, 34, feeling like I’m just starting to understand my character, what I [!!!] want.  Simple: the best for Kerouac, little Jack.  My career needs to be strong, safe, in haltless ascent.  To secure such, I need to be FULLY independent– never dependent on checks, allowances, reimbursements, supervisory statutes, available shifts, courses.. nothing.  Only surviving on what/how much I can write, SELF-publish.

Switches spots.  Leaning against Jack’s toy chest, watching him play by sliding glass door.. drops falling, he moving what he can, having discussions with himSelf, me, whatever object’s in transit.  This music, setting moods for us, both.  Think the rain stopped.  But my typing hasn’t.  These old pictures, just swirling state.  Not even sure what to think.  And that footage I have upstairs, of the Paris trip, done months before the first blog’s birth.. what do I do with all I’ve captured, gathered?  Is there a “right” way to use it?  Shouldn’t think like that.  Just put it out there.  And if it flops, there’ll be a project right behind it.  That’s one of the benefits to the small project, like chapbooks.