6am. Up like my friend brewing his beer, bottling it actually. The “brewing” has long been completed. Trying to hit these keys lightly. First thing when at the winery: check MB & ME barrels. And after that, just write as many uniquely arranged lines as you can. For sakes of the poems. These writings, calling to space– see there may be one. Now I have to watch what I say here– no, no I don’t. Speak freely, Mike.
Some lines I wrote the other night, but never used them, posted them, nor dated them, and I’m curious why…
one last word,
if its so inferred, blurred,
so absurd– ingredients, my
Maybe I wrote them late, was tired, during one of my recent Cabernet battles. OR, I forgot about it. Still have… [checking] 2,065 words from last couple days to edit, post to blog. Well, that right there. Over 2k, and you’re just going to throw it away on some bloody blog? Why not give it real Literary LIFE, with page? I mean, would Ms. Plath or Mr. Poe even be having this debate with themselves? Why do I feel so guilty, I guess you could say, about putting these words in a book, and not instantly to blog, enjoying the instantness? Why do I have such devoutness to that website? Yes, it displays my writing, and YES, it’s quick, but I think that’s much of the problem. My Literary Life has to entail PAGES, not ‘posts’. More incubation, less immediacy.
Looking outside, what I can see through the blinds. And? Total dark. Don’t want to wake my little Artist just yet, so I’m cautiously hitting these keys. Only noise right now, the low chant from fridge. And then as soon as it becomes a character on the blog, it quiets. Maybe I should take that as a definite sign. Even that kitchen machine urges me away from the blog, to publish pages.
Still amused by what one of the readers said the other day, comparing being my own publishing to enacting the same autonomy with my coffee. Agreed. But I already shifted $25 from most recent checks to the cell phone deathtrap coffee ‘app’. This’ll be my last such action. The coffee, sounding a sing, a new song in my head. But I can’t act. I need keep under little Madigan’s radar. And enjoy this dark. My quiet.
Wonder if my friend’s beers, how they taste, will reflect that early bottling. Tempted to go back to sleep, have a “power nap,” but I know as soon as I’m flat on that couch, I’ll be summoned. Reminding me of “Morning Song,” by Ms. Plath.
When am I going to run? It’s been way too long. At least I’m up writing, have that going for me I guess. Want to find some modern, lesser-known poets to use in the Plath lectures. Won’t do that with Poe, as I want him isolated, compositionally quarantined, if you would. And just as quick as a thought ferments, it fizzles. Hate when that happens like I can’t explain here. Because I truly can’t. No words for it, sorry…
Oh yes! Now I remember! Research more Naturalism, then Deconstruction, then Postmodernism.. then maybe Feminism’s Lit Theory, for sakes of Plath section.
Do ‘I’ see her as a postmodern author? Not necessarily, but she CAN be seen so, depending on the reader. Now, can you do a Deconstructive read of her work? Without doubt. In fact, I’m quite sure that would show a reader more about who she REALLY was; And, how we as modern readers should appreciate her.
There. Early thoughts bottled.