Prison de Poésie

Survived Reserve Room today.  Not that there was much to ‘survive’.  Another calm Thursday.  Tonight, fit in 5 miles, over 40 minutes [almost exactly].  Another strong sprint, thankfully.  On run, thought of ideas for standalone short stories– which, by way, didn’t get a chance to edit yesterday’s finished piece.  No matter, will do tomorrow.  Didn’t get lunch today, so I wasn’t able to touch Comp Book, even once.  Made a couple notes for this semester’s lectures.  12 days till day1.  project R continuing, forever.

Sipping a glass of the blend I last night popped.  Was going to open the Central Oregon beer from Mom, finally taking it home tonight, right after work.  But, saving for tomorrow.. Friday, my TUESDAY.  Been thinking about boats, traveling on one.  Nothing too extreme, just getting away.  Or maybe I DO want to do something extreme, like sail around the world.  But wouldn’t that be dangerous?  How about sail up and down the west coast?  Up alongside Canada, land in Alaska where I could do some writing, staring at colossal ice chunks falling into frigid Pacific.  Would want to take Jack, Alice, on such a mission.  Don’t want to experience every adventure pushing pages onward alone.  That I know.  Some Road ventures, yes, I need to be the solitary scribe.  But not all.  Especially with my Literary Shape.  It requires characters, and who more motivating than little Kerouac?

On run, heard this one instrumental, managed to recite2Self a little on-spot verse-ing.  Can’t remember rhyme content, any of my words [most of which took place between Yulupa & Tacheva and Yulupa & Bethards, which is a couple blocks of inner poem..].  After this entry, to yellow sheets.  Goal: 1 verse.  No more.  How long will this eve’s verse be?  Depends on when I want to stop, I guess.  Has to be over 16 lines, though.  Setting realistic aim for night.

DECREED:  POETRY PRISON.  NEXT SEVEN DAYS.

See what I produce.  How many standalone pieces/tracks.  I sign-in after this entry.  This’ll be good for me, I know.  Poetry always finds me, no matter where I am.  Short story ideas, journal urges, don’t stop me the way rhymes do, the pull to poem.  In these 7 days, I want a book of poems DONE.  My time “budget.”

Tonight, free, a free night to contribute to the project, get a head start on this dash.  What if I write something that’ll change me, my Life, put me INSTANTLY on the Road?  So, only think in poem.  Doesn’t always have 2B rhymed, but don’t dismiss words that for such a marriage.  Want Jack to see me as a successful writer, one with unique practice and gift.

AMENDMENT:  I’ll only write prose for blog, at day’s end, to report what I’ve done, what I’ve written; how many tracks I’ve finished for day.  Can just see Self, reciting to crowds in places I never thought I’d visit.

ALSO:  Everything handwritten.  Pen2Paper.  IF the focus is Poetry, you must live and practice the poet’s Life, minimizing if not abolishing technology.

28 lines, written.  Filling full legal pad page.  Bonne nuit!

(8/8/13)

 

8/9/13 — Day1, poetry prison.  Scattered rhyming today.  Busy at winery.  Finally opened the Central Oregon beer.  Quite the creeping presence, I must say.  Tired of the news I’m watching.  Think it’s time for night’s cap, then sleep.  Early up in morrow, to write, for my caffeinated verse compositions.  Haven’t done an inventory yet, for this ‘3[+]4 project’.  But I think I have somewhere between 2&4 standalones.  Before work tomorrow: 1 new track.  And with my rimed speeches, before this new semester begins, bolder in my statements, target addresses.  Just opened black&white Comp[book].. forgot I scribbled a couple lines before clocking.  This night’s cap [Little Sumpin’], only slowing me.  Need caffeine.  Can’t wait for morrow.

Topping my wines.. tomorrow, somehow.  After I scribe those incessant letters.

NEW PRISON LAW:  blog entries, no longer than 300 words.

Tired.  A writer just wanting to relax.  Lay on other timezones‘ beaches.  Not write, not think.  Just horizontal.  Sip coldest of ice-waters.  No alcohol.  Want to remember, be able to summon all this whenever I select.

Off device.  Returning tomorrow, to legal sheets, as I did this morning with blackest of beautiful coffees.

 

8/10/13 — Day2, poetry’d incarceration.  More scattered rhymes at work, but some I really like, actually.  Ran 4 miles after work, averaging just under 8min/mi.  Think I had 7:58/mi.. again, I think.  Before bed tonight, inventory of pieces so far finished in prison.  Had a former student, from this past semester [100 section], visit winery today, part of larger group.  One person in this 11-person crowd, the cellar master from AV Winery.  Made my day, honestly.  The former students girlfriend complemented me, saying what a profound influence, difference I had on this young man (Mr. W).  I didn’t know what to say, honestly.  Only knew what to say to Self, really, internally:  “This is what you were meant to do.. this matters.”

Five of these small square cookies, decaf cup at right.  Wasn’t in mood for wine, beer.  Need to be focused, finish projects, change what is.  Tomorrow morning: run w/Carmen.  Howarth Park, 6:30.. target, 5mi.  And I HAVE to top my wines tomorrow.  No fail, seriously.  Don’t know why I didn’t do it today, at lunch.  Not sure if it was laziness, or I forgot.  Or I was hungry.  The latter, I’m sure.  Tomorrow, singing differently.

Finding these evening sessions harder to get through.  Limited stimuli.  Why I need the Road, horribly.  On run, lowering sun, and while jogging down Woodview, saw the suns florescent magenta shape boasting as it lowered.  Was tempted to surrender mid-run, just watch it fall.  But no.  Stayed with mission.  Want to see lowering suns in other countries, in other world corners.  Tired of wishing, though.  Need to leave, force that change.  How?  Just going to keep writing till it happens.  Documenting everything on this log.

Think I might have around 4-5 standalone tracks since putting Self in this versed composition cell.  Have to transfer what I wrote today in the little pages, to the legal pad.  Those yellow pages are the launching station to this laptop.  Want to see everything written, first.  2LIVE as a POET.

That question, always thrown at me, “What do you write?” My new response to the idiotic probe: “LIFE.” Where are my little pages?  Ugh, here I go once more…  In bag, of course.  Thought of course theme for English 5, “Authorial Acquaintance.” Objective: to really know the Author we’re reading, meeting, engaging.

Tomorrow, my Thursday.  Lots 2do, with letters I have to write, topping wines, other tasks.. never enough time.  Think I want another cup.  Why not?  It’s Saturday night.  Wait, is it…  Yes.  Hate the days mismatch.  Run tomorrow.. what am I running for? Ideas, always.  This change in my character, never saw coming.  That is, what a devoted/obsessive runner I’ve become.  Should find another race, a 10k, to do by month’s end.  Only 6.2 miles.. could do that sleeping.  No, but I COULD do it unprepared, as I’m always in “training” mode, now, with these consistent dashes.

Making 2nd cup.  Need it.  Staying up as long as I can, to write.. fit in another track for this ‘3[+]4’ project.

 

8/11/13 — Day3.  As my own warden, I’m allowing mySelf a couple minutes of journal time this morning.  Time.. 6:47a.  No Lawndale, as piece didn’t align as I them needed this morrow.  No morrow, doing the long run after work.  Hoping for a short standalone before leaving home today.  Already sipping coffee.  Need to.  Kerouac was up just a couple ticks after 6.  Last night’s run, so short, don’t anymore feel it, like I did the 10miler I the other day feat’d.

Today:  Letters, barrels, 3 poems.  All while at Estate.  Have to draw from what’s there, the nearly 2,000 acres of material for this writer.  Last night’s inventory, after the 20-liner I rushed before 11pm: 5 standalones completed in this metered penitentiary.  Want 24-26 total.  This isn’t going to be a huge release, and it’s not supposed to be.  Want to deliver precisely how I think.. and I so do in bursts, moment-based reactionism.

8:37am.  The obsessiveness really bubbles this morning.  Quite tempted to leave early today.  And I still may.  Bringing legal sheets in case.  Already have some lines, rimes on page this A.M.  A little perturbed about not going this morning for the Howarth/Spring Lake sprint, but I have to let it go.  A whole day’s ahead of the writer.  A whole day of incessant questions on wine, what they’re “supposed to be tasting.” Getting a bit tired of it.  And the instance yesterday with Mr. W., still quite prevalent in head.  Know what I’m supposed to do.  Class starting in 9 days.  More than ready.  Almost unhealthily eager.  Patience, Mike, PATIENCE.

Off to estate.  Tired.  Need mocha.  4shots, probably, even after two cups brewed here in base.  Too much in sight.  Need to relax, embrace this angst, or stress [if that’s what you’d call it]– no, eagerness– rather than fight it.  OR struggle with it.  Writing in what little free time I have IS my “genre.”

 

9:20pm.  7.52mi on Lawndale run, in 58:15 [7:45/mi rate].  More than satisfied.  Last guests this day: 2 younger female characters from the city.  One, “A,” more than comely, quite encouraging as we shared ideas on ambition, entrepreneurship.  We both agreed that merely “going for it,” much I cringe with that verbage, is best for the Artist, characters set on having their own lucrative corner.  Knowing I’m still very much in poetry prison, I’ll be “posting” every poetic thought, rime, verse, line, metered arrangement to these screens.  One I thought of, before that infamous hill where I was last time–when I challenge Lawndale alone, only 2B–accosted by pesky bees:  ‘Cowardly Lawndale bees, if only they could read these seeds, pummeled by cacophonous breeze..’

Home, sipping an ’09 single-vineyard Cab.  Surprised by its grip, frankly.  Probably won’t be the writer’s only glass.  So relaxed, surveying Self with much higher pleasure.. not overthinking anything.  In fact, no thinking at all.  Just writing, as I told “A,” just after 5pm.  She confided a fear of writing, I told her to just write.  What I didn’t tell my ineffable new ambitious ally: the writer doesn’t always put into motion what he promotes.  But, if you’re reading, that changes this night.  With this writer’s ’09 glass.  Actually, it’s getting a bit low, in honesty.  Refilling soon.

Thinking of class, 9 days.  Almost completely at ready.  Would put Self around 80% “prepared” [hate that word, too].  This devil laptop, moving again slow.  Should be writing on legal sheets.  But I need this read, what I’m thinking.  Want you to see my pace.  I’m not thinking.  I’m writing.

‘Cause.  Writers.  WRITE.

Impasse, no.  Not now.  Not tonight.  And no, I didn’t top my barrels.  Maybe tomorrow morning.  But I did write 4 letters, however.  Hate writing those bloody things.  Moving a pen for anything other than MY pages SICKENZ me.

Today’s tips, to 2nd envelope.  Have near $1,000 in ‘startup’ tenders.  Holding onto them, though.  Actually, pretending they don’t exist.  I try, quite painfully, intently, to pretend they don’t exist.  Want to start my career as a “professional”– no, SELF-sufficient– writer with either $0 or coins from the German mug’s coins, upstairs in office.

Trying to sedate Self through sentence, but TV’s still on.  These shapes, death.  Even more so than overthinking, the inaction it begets.  In moments, 1 last Cab glass.  Poetry prison, even with prose.  Tired writer.  Lawndale’s ripples, being felt.  Should touch my syllabi, really quick.. hold on–  Editing 2B done.  Ugh.. with my thought stream, editing not needed, not in next “post.” Hate that word more than I want to confess.  How about, simply, ‘entry’?

10:18pm.  The writer, depleting.  Need that final ’09 pour.  And to turn this devilish chatterbox [ugh] off.  Final pour, finally poured.  Can’t get the new character’s positivism, fervor, endorsement from head.  Listening to Thievery, seeing office on Sonoma’s Square, or Napa’s downtown, so those devils would have to face the writer.  In definite poem mode.  Want readers, other writers, to know what I’m thinking, what words with which I toy, right up until I’m in departure.  So am I wasting time writing this prose, these long sentences, succeeding paragraphs?  No.  Just gambling.

Over 2,000 words to edit.  How did I let this happen?  Especially when I’m supposed to be in PoetryPRISON?  As always, 2morrow’s coffees already call me.  This wine, not liking my attention diverted.  Do I run tomorrow?

Kelly.. what happened to us?  I used to write you all days.  My fault.  Don’t see Self suited4Fiction.  You’re proof.  What are you doing?  Are you still painting in your studio, sketching in your hotel Rooms when touring, away on business trips?  Where was you last visit?  What songs are you listening to while you paint?  What wines have you opened lately?  Write when you can..

Why does Fiction have to be so hard for this verse-ist?  I’m overthinking.  Just fictionalize present, if you want done a novel, or short as you the other day did.  Almost forgot about that piece, curse me…