Refilled Work

8/22/13– Ran ten miles, immediately after dropping off little Kerouac at Lisa’s. Excellent 2nd session, both for 5 and 1A. But back to my run.. smelled French Toast, flying through one of the neighbor’s open windows. Almost made me stop, decide to walk to coffee shop for croissant and mocha, stay home to write. But I pressed on, doing usual run around usual blocks. Set clock for 1hr, but pushed self past 1:20, so I could fit 10 miles. Which I did. Not waking for 5am run. What am I talking about, haven’t done so yet anyway. What I meant to say was that I’m not even going to attempt. Sipping a ’10 Red.. from somewhere in Sonoma.

Need to stay atop the semester’s tasks: lectures, pedagogy blog [where tonight I saw the first posted response from an Eng 5 student]. And stay organized. Planning on taking some grading tomorrow, to do over lunch, but I may not GET a lunch, as I’m hosting a blending seminar, my 2nd, then hosting another group immediately after. Tomorrow, the writer’s in wine mode. But I’ll be thinking about my classes, students, what I can cook for them come Tuesday.

9:05pm. Huh, thought it was later. Was thinking about wine, as symbol, Literature device. All the character notes in a blend like this, I find not only delicious but thoughtfully provocative. Will pour mySelf a 2nd class– I mean GLASS, in a minute. Need 2switch2poetryMODE. Tired of prose retelling. Need to detach, forget about all obligation, write truly free, which can only be done through poetry. Instrumentals to be activated when I pour my next glass. Love red with writing. Waiting…

synecdoche, so let it be, deliver indebtedly–

pleasurably magistrate my maze;

the meritage evaporates my days, don’t want 2B

released from rhyme jail, for then I’m stale– perpetuate

prime tales.. hope it leads to line sales, haul more rhyme bales,

meditate, let it bake.. red wine, now my thread climbs–

read Faulkner at the alter, run ten miles prior to wire’s

faltered; coincidence.. know her name, but do I call her?

Stall slur, inferred, blurred.. composition curved since

adolescence.. don’t blame the writer, he had no

lessons. Four shot mocha before all sessions.

I’m hardly pleasant, just vocalizing my rising, other so-

proclaimed poets, just self de-sizing–

I’m mad again, never in hiding.. ghost bleeding on a rock..

I toast, feeding, gone2talk to delegates.. I can

tell it’s his, the proctor’s; lost fodder, with botched water..

Whenever I’m driving, I’m always playing with words, meter, word matches. But as soon as I park, right in front of the tasting Room, I forget most. Put what I can in the little pages, but when it gets busy, it’s hard, I won’t lie. It’s painful, losing rhymes. When I run, too. BUT, it relieves me knowing I’m always thinking like a POET. Not a writer, a PO-ET. That’s where I started, that’s where I end. These journal entries, these pretty formalist acceptable paragraphs.. just for usage. They’re my expressive sewer. My real Art, in verse.

8/23/13– 6 miles today. Doing Lawndale tomorrow. Or so I plan. Waking early tomorrow. Not to run, but write. Build this material for the semester. Tonight, on run, in park, loved the dark, the quiet, solitude. There were a couple people passing, but what I’m referencing.. completely Literary. Time for night’s cap, I think. Just wrote a little spoken word, in newJournal. But it doesn’t feel right. At least right now. And I have to stop journal jumping. But I do need to start engaging in more pen2paper sessions, as Mr. Capote said he did in his Paris Review interview. So what do I do, especially since I’ve vowed to put more material to this blog, MAKE it work for me. Not sure what 2do. I’m a mess. And THIS Pandora station, not helping.

There, Thievery. Poured rest of Meritage from last night. Can’t wait to have a cup, tomorrow, of the French Roast Alice bought for the writer today. How is it already 10:47p? I need to relax, this writer.. these obsessive habits. OR maybe I shouldn’t. Of course I shouldn’t. That’s who he is, was.. Mike… Me.

Another response to pedagogy blog, from student. Need be consistent with that project. Have strong feelings it’s what’ll take the writer to Road. Off to post something, stay in ever close virtual proximity to my colleagues…

8/24– Giving Self 10 minutes to compose. Just initiated countdown on phone, actually. Posted to pedagogy blog for students, emphasizing importance of pen2paper, what it does.. liberating us from these devil devices. Just brewed cup2. Outside, putting one wine bottle, several plastic water bottles in black containers, for recycling.. reminding me of those chilled mornings at Auntie Linda and Uncle Stevie’s house, with the sun just barely showing itself, highlighting the Three Sisters Mountains. Have to get to Road– be patient, Michael– Did I just call mySelf ‘Michael’? Must be perturbed with Self. OR, just my impatience again. Going to bring running “gear” with me to work, but not sure I’ll be running, with cramp in lower left back, random knee pains. Going to move slow today, drink LOADS of water. Want to climb those hills, see those vineyards. And the wind that always wraps around the writer when I reach the first climb’s apex. Have to do it.

Only 4:18 left in count. How did it go so quickly? Not fair. But time never is to writers. So no illumination there. The Road, the Road… All I can think. When will I see it? Making this bloody blog, which ever frustrates me.. taking me away from ink, distracting me in everything I do, thinking I have to “blog” it… work4ME.

Shave, shower, still left on morrow’s lineup. But all I want to do is WRITE. That’s my path, my “career,” much I deplore the word. Sounds so official, profession, sterile, expected, mature.. responsible. Disgusted. Artists just create, live from those creations, just as the spider lives in the web it made itSelf. But I can only envision, tell Self fruition’s right around that corner. Or that one. That one?

This coffee, taking me back to my city. Paris, we’re meant 2B 2gether.

When? Again,

I only imagine. Like

image anesthesia.

Time up. 7:59am. Ten more minutes? Why not. I deserve time to mySelf, said the writer. Thinking more about genre, he was. Not something to be on a cozy, easily visible shelf at Barnes & Noble, but just a world to create. Fictionalize, he thought, everything. If his coffee cup was red, with little white squiggles along sides, he’d make it a hardened, almost granite-like black. His desk, cluttered, now clear. He kept writing, but still felt troubled. What could Mike do, but just write to write. He listed things, anything.. “wine.. house.. Annadel Park.. Maui…” Locations, he thought. What did real estate agents always say, “location, location, location?” So it’d be with him. He’d take where ever he was, expose its innards.

Starting with the tasting Room.

8:04am. Really should get in the shower. Am I being irresponsible right now? Maybe a little. But it feels amazing. Excited to drive the new car to work, down 12.

And then I burn out. Don’t know what happened. I’m still drinking coffee… I’ll be back tonight, to write. Should probably start grade book/spreadsheet for semester. And grading. Want to be ahead of them. Each week, each session.

7:54pm. Back home. No run. Pains still quite visible. Taking Lawndale tomorrow, no matter how badly I’m pained. I’ll run through all aches. My mood, quite sour though, from not running. Tired of these “funks” in which I often find Self. Too old for them. Too old to compromise, settle for anything. Negotiating time has ended, violently.

Behind bar tomorrow, no tours scheduled. Have to write as I did today, in little pages, fictionalizing everything. We don’t pour Pinot, as we don’t grow it on Estate.. but in my book we do. All in opposite. Interesting, to tell as many lies as I can. Can only think about the Road.. freedom. Release from enclosure. Stare at the screen with out seeing it. Funny feeling. Opening that Syrah tonight, for her, my character. Getting sick of this blog. I mean, I’ll post this vent, and then I’ll post something the next day, having all it forgotten. What purpose does that serve? What if I closed this laptop forever? Made it a graveyard, started pen2paper practice, bought a typewriter, one of the old ones I wanted? Like the one on my business card…

10:24pm. TV off. And I’m in quiet. Finally. Opened the Syrah she gave me the other day. Only had taste right after open. Nice nose, texture, palate presence, flavor character. Just thinking in this quiet. Don’t want music. Want to pretend I’m an author, 19th century. No media, electricity, immediacy. Just the moment. And what I have.. this wine, me, time. Pour another glass, certainly. Actually, it’d be my first, as the first bottle tilt was merely for orientation. Looking at this picture of a Paris street, I understand even more stoically that I need be on Road. What is the stationary, the responsible, doing for the writer? Letting the Syrah give me orders.

It tells me to take a minute. To mySelf. Not to write. To think, enjoy thought without pressure, or felt pressure, of having2write. Another glass poured. Want to watch something involving writing.. like a documentary, or.. I don’t know. Just don’t want that bloody TV back on. Again they threaten thunderstorms. Don’t get it. IF they happen, it won’t be significant, so why report it?

So interesting how all these pop culture, moronically empty videos on YouTube have so many views.. yet this A&E Poe documentary has only 12,641. What a statement about where we are, who we are. I’m not of the ‘we’. Only using this device to post to blogs. And those entries, or posts, will be handwritten first. Tired of this.. these THINGS, this dependency.. social media, collection. Even the camera on this laptop.. is someone/thing watching the writer? Poe never has to worry about this. Shutting this thing down after these lines. Have to. ‘Cause I’m getting sick.

Falling to where

I’d like.

To night.

OR day.

Whatever suits newly fruited roots.

She gifted this red

to revolve me in


Hope it works,

don’t want her in ill sight

of me, pages mine.