Appt.

Last day of writing retreat.  All poetry.  I mean, after this entry of course.  Next month, I’ll use five days of PTO, for week before finals.  That’ll allow melodious close to term.  Hoping to get down to Redwood Café, at some point today.  And if not there, then somewhere serving beer, wine.  Want to flip my Hemingway switch, today, imagine I’m on some Rue.

Little Kerouac, asleep, finally.  He may have another cold, or is teething, we’re not sure.

Was just reading over old posts on bottledaux.  One year ago, today, harvest was just ending, and I was writing, shooting lots of video, well as stills.  Now, I’m primarily written.  Preferred.  The first chapbook, edited.  Now, just have to print.  Remember: only 10 copies.  To start, that is.

 

Today’s poems, capsuled, for 2nd book: First half, poems.. second, stories.  Yes, stories.  Short fiction, and short short fiction.

Feeling anxious, impatient.  Trying to counterpoise it, but it’s hard, just sitting here, typing, in condo.  Think I need some more coffee.  Where I write, offsite, today: NO.  BLOODY.  LAPTOP.

You’re a Hemingway, today.  A Poe.  A

Plath.

Back to work tomorrow.  And how does the writer feel?  Indifferent.  Numb.  Emotional mummy, wrapped in duty.  Bringing 3 items to grade.  Just three.  All 1A papers.  And the Poe book.  newJournal, additionally.  Going to open next session with final thoughts on ‘MS./Bottle’ and “Ligeia.” Both are rough reads, but hold so many gems, not only on Poe as a writer, but on a certain Creative mode, writing style, Life estimation.

 

9:39pm.  New writing spot: Monti’s, in Montgomery Village.  Went there for writing, a ‘House of Usher’ reading, succeeding notes.  And, observations.  Moved one seat to left, as a girls asked me to, while in oration with my Russian River Pliny.  I conceded, being the amicable writer I be, she telling me she’d be meeting a chap there, before too long.  The dim lighting, at times troubling, as was the noise, but then other times adding to atmosphere’s ingredient set, recipe.  Was in love.  Didn’t want to leave, but wanted to see little Kerouac before he fell to sleep.  Sick again, my little artist.  He did rather well today, at the photo shoot.  Was surprised, with all his sniffles, sharply harsh coughings.  Took them forever to finalize the photo edits.  Still don’t understand, what’s so hard with that button-based medium.. especially in a studio, where everything’s contained, there for manipulation, confined.  Alice became frustrated, as did I, telling them we had to go, would retrieve our CD, or DVD, or whatever later in week.

Now, on couch, sipping ’10 Cab.  In tasting Room tomorrow.  The writing retreat over.  But I can have one more glass, can’t I?  Poe, in my notes, reminds me that you never know when peril’s around the corner, ever.  Penned my journal entry like my English 5 student, the Artist– she always sectionalized her thoughts, embroidering them with decoratively lit surroundings, margins.

Poured my final glass, thinking of how I want to approach the other 2 piece from Poe.. don’t OVERthink, Mike.  Just walk into Usher.

The vignette I wrote at Monti’s, must be blended into 2nd chap.  What will I title the first book?  How about “Laps”?  Always going in circles, racing toward something.  But what, exactly…

(11/2/13)