7:26am. Wanted a thousand words before 8, but I’ll take anything. First element, observation needing response: this morning cold. Not sure what it reminds me of, or if need remind me of anything to be validated. But it surely makes this coffee taste better, just having re-entered the condo. Taking grading items to work. Maybe even laptop. NO! Why would I say that? New journal, must be that leather-bound log.
Quiet, supreme serenity in this condo, now. Thinking of the rabbit-hole nature to this log, as one new reader put it. I have to thrive in what I do, what people say I best do. Not sure where I’m going with that, but Kerouac would agree. And not my son, I mean the real Jack Kerouac.
Tasting Room, beginning to annoy me. Not the job.. the people entering, with their drunken attitudes [lady from yesterday, with two men equally obnoxious, and, I think, her granddaughter– I told her we have a bolder white in the oaked SB, after she asked about our ‘bolder whites’, but it sold out a couple days ago, this menopausal dragon retorted, “Well that doesn’t do me any good,” asking my name five or six times that I can remember counting]; their infernal questions– Just starting to take a toll on me, meaning it’s difficult to see it as material, anymore. Which worries me.
Already through cup1. Outside, just up, the sun. What if I took today off, just called in, told them I wasn’t feeling good, as a co-worker did yesterday, the day before. Actually, he went home, both days, yesterday coming in with bloated mope about his walk, face, posture, everything, obviously wanting people to notice. Was he truly sick, hungover, who knows. But it’s been a pattern with this character, who I see as charmingly valuable AS a character, for short fiction– vignettes, short stories.. my next collection.
Can’t take Self away from this keyboard, even to get another cup. Sure I can, I’ll do it quick.. how quick? I’ll see. Time Self. Feel like everything has to
be
timed.
Shame.
Taking away from
moment.
7:44am. How did that happen? Bloody time. With second cup, I erupt. Drat.. should have saved that for spoken word. I can re-use it, right? It’s my line, my writing. Need to upload to teaching blog today, surely making that a priority. Want to stay in professor mode.. each day taking a step, whether monstrous or minute, toward my writing career coupled by lectures. What do I want from such a career? The interactions with others; other places, faces, lives, stories, struggles– everything other, everything new.
This coffee, love.. never does wine do this to me. But, I will say, wine and I experience a bit of rekindle. Love such, especially with last night’s remaining ’09 Cabernet. Will try and hunt down one of the winemakers to taste my wine, at some point today, maybe on lunch. Just want to make sure they’re okay.
Little Kerouac, my son, out for his morning stroll with Alice. Should have joined them, if not for 20, 25, 30 [a stretch, yes] minutes. But I was here with you, reader.. where I needed be. Starting day the way I always should, 500+ words. Soon, very soon, I’ll be in office, writing ALL DAY if I wish. The Equilibrium, so near I can see myself unlocking my office door, getting on a plane to somewhere– where do I want to fantasize? New York. Then Florida, for some reason. THEN… I don’t know, Chicago. Nearly all the people from Chicago that come to the tasting Room land with adorable, sincere eagerness, never annoying the writer. Wonder if any of them will visit today. Hopefully, ‘cause if I have another guest like that woman yesterday I’m going to watch my sanity fly out the door, and into the cave for C02 suicide.
This quiet.. what I need. A gather of Self, yes? Was thinking, should I adhere to this ‘1 year or more time on blog before book’ statute? What am I talking about, of course. Have to have some discipline as a writer. So never mind. Just was reading some of my words, from only two months ago, thinking it might suit well in the next book, my fiction collection– short fict’ collec’. The short story, completely how I think. Vignette, even more (flash fiction).
7:59am. Guess I should edit. Did Kerouac, with that continuous paper feed into his typewriter? Probably, at some point. Not sure right after he rushed nearly 800 words, though.
(10/6/13)