Two verses later, time for work prep. Will tonight write. No wine, again. Running in morrow, NO FAIL this time. Yesterday’s 7 miles, barely speaking to me, which conveys my solid condition. 7 mile jaunt in 3 days. Yesterday’s trail sprints did spook me a bit, but I’l stay light on feet, as Carmen suggested, watch foot placement. -10:16am
7:48pm. 3PAGES in newJournal. Feel exhausted from classes, all entailed prep, but ready for morrow, for evening run. No, I won’t even attempt morning. I’ll do my Summerfield/Montgomery/up Yulupa sprint. It’s about 5 miles, I think. Had a strobing suffocation of inspiration today, after visiting Stanford’s website, reading about this new professor that was brought on.. a novelist, Mr. Richard Powers. Have heard of him, but regretfully have never read his pages. Motivated to now, obviously. Love the interview he gave Paris Review, when told by interviewer “You should have stayed with it [computer programming]. You might have been a billionaire by now.” He responds, “I had a book to write.” The Art of Fiction.. novels.. books… What I want to do with Life. Thinking more seriously, more fundamentally. NOW. At 34.
Today’s 3PAGES, the start of.. I don’t know, give me a minute. Or a couple more beers. That’s right, no wine. Sick of wine. It’s industry. All it invites, entails. The know-it-all-ness, especially from winemakers. If we, consumers, don’t buy your bottles, your impressive knowledge base is dematerialized, trivial, just result of study. And even if we buy your bottles, they’re consumed. If not immediately, then eventually. Then, it’s gone. We, writers, remain on shelves. Even if we’re burned by dictators, or pulpits, our content’s discussed, studied, catalyst for reflection.
May “revisit” old entries tonight, on this blog, then mikeslognoblog. Huh, feels odd even writing that, my old blog’s name.
9:14pm. Why in heaven’s well am I sipping again Zinfandel? No idea. Think maybe to celebrate the day’s 3PAGES, handwritten. No wordcount obsession. Just the session. 3 canvases, ink-laden. Should probably type them, though, when done with this entry, my glass. Decaf? Yes, soon. Can’t be sluggish in morrow. This newest book idea–yes, a result of the Stanford visit–tugging at me. See how long the project pester lasts. This semester, my biggest bay of bullion material. The students, their reactions to texts–currently Faulkner, Capote, reverse order in day from 5 to 1A–directing and re-directing this writer. One student, asking if Faulkner has different places in his stories for certain imagery. I asked her, “What do you think?” She said, “I’m not sure.” My return, “Good, see if you can see.” Hope I didn’t confuse her. Always telling students not to overthink things.. paper topics, the readings, authors, anything. But then I go ahead and do just that.
9:51pm. My relaxed slide, solidified. Imagining mySelf in a hotel Room, in Morocco, looking out at ocean, touched by confused moon. I’ll just write, enjoy this Bordeaux… But I’m here, with nightcap, Racer 5 beer. Quite secure in not running tomorrow morning. I’ll do 5 miles tomorrow, when home from work, maybe a fingertip’s more. This Sunday’s run will challenge me, as the trails offer some pinching challenges, with the random rocks, unexpected terrain dips, imbalances. Have to be on fight lightly, as Carmen offered. So nice to relax with this beer, this music, the page, muted TV. Something about it being on, but with no sound, relaxes the writer. Interesting…
Think I’ll add to the 3PAGES a bit more. Want to bring Kelly into them. But will only elaborate in newJournal.. not here, on this “blog.” Bringing Faulkner with me to work, tomorrow. May have a vineyard tour, at some point. But whenever I can, I’ll read. the best way to be a professor at Stanford, get there quicker, is to FULLY “immerse” mySelf in the student’s role.
What I hear, in my imagined Parisian café, even-tempo’d beats, reverb on guitar, other electro chords. I stare at the lights, just behind main bar, the people talking.. a couple, off to right, like they want no one to hear their exchange.. one with a vodka-something, lady.. man with a beer. Didn’t see what was poured from shiny tap, but I imagine it a hefeweizen. He doesn’t look like the IPA type.
Kelly, in her studio, just looking at the canvas, sipping Syrah. She won’t let herSelf paint. Not tonight. She enjoys her reality. Free, completely. She remembers having to wake early for the restaurant. But no more. Now, below blanket. Moment encloses. She only loves this.
I’ll wake early tomorrow, 5:15am, for her, so I can be in her position.. creating, in studio.. Autonomy, completely. Hope she’s thinking of me.
9/6/13– What a Literary day for the writer. 7 pages of notes in little pages. All for book. Some book. Fictionalizing everything. Everything.. that’s my new approach. That’s to what I tonight sip this remaining ’10 Zin. Typed nearly 3PAGES of notes from yesterday, what I put in new journal. Don’t want 2B too specific, as I want it saved for book. When should it be done? By term’s end, at the bloodiest of lates.
Ran 5 miles tonight, in just under 40min. Avg pace/mile: 7:59. Think I might be ready for the 7 mile race through Annadel’s woods, Sunday.
Hear cats scuffling outside, quite intently. Like the ideas in vision, for this book, the next, the next, next next next. Tempted to do a two mile sprint tomorrow morning, then stop. Just as I did tonight. No, though, need to use morning for writing, transferring these notes, from today. And one point to this current book idea: using the past entries, FINALLY. Begin my attack on the box. Let thoughts and the truly Literary trample of superficiality, obsession with “luxury.” Some “white glove approach.”
Tonight’s run, reminding me again of Sunriver, with no direct sun yet noticeably heat, humidly ambient sprints. When on the Road, which I will be after this book, I’ll carry a notebook with me, everywhere.. especially when running. Though about that when running with Carmen, on 9/4, through Annadel. Doing a sprintNscribble, rather than my old sipNscribble. Run for 30 mins, write for 15, run30, write15, and so it patterns. Makes sense, especially with this new book shape I’m entertaining. Think I need another glass.. Zin, almost done. Night’s cap.. the last Racer. Already thinking of morning coffee. The tradition with my little Artist. Kerouac, nearly 19 months. How did that happen? Time, just now, seconds ago, with that realization, landing another weighted victory. Devil clock. What’ll give it true trouble.. my running, this writing obsession. I’m younger by the day, and it only exists as some devote dogma to its grips. What if I convince Self it doesn’t exist?
Listening to beats I see Self hearing in lounges, in Europe, or Australia, or New York (whatever burrow). Just need my Road, all Roads I can rope. What I’ll see, a traveling writer.. patience. Writing my way there. Have to visit these older entries. The interview with Heidi Barrett, my friend Arianna, the missions with Danica.. the old material definitely shows more amicable nature with wine’s industry. Now, I just love wine. I don’t need the industry. At all. And one day, I’ll begin my full deconstruction.. my postmodern elemental sectionalization, paginated, with no reservation. But reader will have to wait for such. In
the
book.
More Zin, be right back… Decided on Racer. Probably won’t finish, as I’m a bit tired from day, 5mile run. These tracks, definitely putting me on Road.. visions of me in some bar, no socializing, only writing everything I see.. group of 4, booth, talking over various mixed drinks [each with something different, different color, different straw length, width, color]; couple at main bar, each with glass of wine, something white, I guess Chardonnay, they look like a Chardonnay couple, probably from some upper-placed part of New York (as I’m in NYC, downtown, island); the bartenders, probably not even realizing how fast their pace seems to me. Interesting. I should have started a bartender, rather than tasting Room roamer/English Instructor. Soon, time for rest.. do writers rest? Are we allowed.. no. We shouldn’t be. We shouldn’t allow ourSelves. If I’m breathing, I should be writing. Kelly knows what I’m talking about, if she could write here, alongside her Author, she’d tell you.