11/7/13– Classes went well. Finished the grading I needed to, for 1A. No wine tonight.. and this, right now, here in nook, is the first opportunity I’ve had to write. ALL DAY. So I want Self clear-headed, aimed at fruition. More than likely, I’ll be journal- jumping, as I want to finish at least 1 poem this evening. Pleased that I submitted that 3poem cluster to that Lit Mag. Even if I hear nothing, it’s a victory. A new practice.
Tomorrow.. if only I could wake at 5. Or earlier. Want to finish the short story I began the other day, contributed to in my Safeway parking lot session. It’s especially relevant, as the narrator of the story’s still lying down, early, in a dark room, thinking about the day before him. I’m shooting for 999 words. Exactly. And all narration. The only other dialogue you’ll be reading is recollections of things his boss, Roger, has said to him. And the story begins on a Monday, of all days. And tomorrow is what.. Friday. Which is my Tuesday, kind of.
Officially accepted a 3rd class for Spring. Only 1 night a week, at Solano. Haven’t taught there since Fall 2010. Can’t believe that. Time, with another victory.
9:05pm. Decaf falling into cup, as I type. 2 little sweets, paired with. Hoping to be in bed early, 10p, precisely. And I want one poem done before seeing those sheets. Want so badly to return to my running. But how, with days so short, such intense cold in mornings. I’ll have to run on Tuesdays, Thursdays, before class. Only logical plan, at this point. Can’t run after work, as I most often pick up little Kerouac from Lisa’s. I’ll start with the two days, go from there. Getting coffee…
Back, after snacking away the tiny Butterfinger bite, then the mini-mini Twix. And, typed 13 lines before rising to get cup. Now that I’m all caught up on grading, for the most part, I’ll be able to write on Tuesday. Not in morning, but between English 5 and 1A, at mainland, or “mothership.”
Highlight from day: 1A student, sharing photo she took on a walk the other day, of two dead butterflies, floating in a pond. Both of them are white, and the water’s so still that it reflected the trees standing over it without even the most insignificant of flaws– making the butterflies fly again, or at least appear to. In this photo, they’re part of the collective Art, of wherever this is. Never seen a scene like this, to be honest. I still catch mySelf taking a look, each time having a new interpretation, or understanding, or appreciation of what my student captured. She thought it was especially relevant with out Poe discussions, and how I so strongly suggested we search for the beauty in his works. Yes, these two flying beings, or beings that once flew, have more acknowledgement in this posthumous capture than they probably ever did in their respective trails, flights. Sad, maybe. But I read encouragement in this photo.
9:29pm. Love my no-wine nights. More composure, more restraint, more a writer. Back in tasting Room tomorrow. By day’s end.. another poem.
Now, I’m on the couch. Blocked. By my own thinking, knowing I’m pouring tomorrow. Thoughts with stingers. Doesn’t feel right. Mr. Poe, what would you do? Maybe he’s the wrong author to ask… Oh, yes, Mr. Hemingway! What do I do? I’m quite sure he’d order me to fight. Even if it’s against mySelf. And don’t those make some of the best battles? Some of the most reverberant writing?
Still need to send the chapbook to print. Hoping for Tuesday, again, but knowing me who knows. Just have to keep writing. In strict standalone formation. Think the day has finally caught me, which is shameful as this is my only writing effort today. I have to wake early tomorrow. 5am. But, I feel’s though I’ve already tossed a hellish hex upon the ambition by writing it. Been the case in past. So.. stricken from record.
But I can’t take it back, I feel. Well, very well. I own it. I conspire to wake early, only to write. What, what? Whatever comes to the writer’s mind. Maybe I’ll finish that short, maybe I’ll free write. Maybe it’ll be poem. 3 poems before starting day, before my son stirs upstairs, like Plath did. 3POEMS, rather than 3PAGES. Tough choice– So don’t make one. Don’t OVERthink. Precisely what you’re doing, writer.
Sleep, sounding ambrosial right now. So glad I’m not making wine this year.. more available to focus–NO, completely able to intensely focus–on my writing, teaching, self-publishing. Need to print off some of my lectures, lessons. Just had an idea, on Literary interpretation, or analysis, how it benefits the student in more ways that just academic context, or the English major’s endeavors… And I lose it, because I’m getting more tired as the typing persists. So, I’m retiring. For the next 7 or so hours.
6am. Up since 5, yes. But for the little Artist. Not my Self, nor the writing. Alice and I suspected it was hunger, as he didn’t eat much for dinner last night, supposedly. I only know as that’s what Alice told me (I of course was in the 1A class). My mind now, swampy. Tired. But coffee’s been summoned. Hope today flies by, as Alice and I have a dinner engagement tonight, at a new spot downtown. Well, new for me. She went there once with her mom-friends.
Only time for notes.
Kerouac on an intent tear.
Tuesday, between 5 and 1A, going to do a little for next semester’s classes. Settle on book candidates, begin lecture planning (not writing, not yet). Also, want to start gathering my notes from this best term ever.. for some manuscript shape, as I initially set to do.
11/8/13, 8:34am. Parking. Lot. Yes, Safeway. 4shot mocha, right. Needed from this morning’s intense rise with my little Artist. Time 8:36.. I’ll give Self 30 minutes on these keys. Then to “work.” Have to post to teaching blog, at some point today, or tonight after dinner. And with 3 official classes next term, two of them being Crit Thinking/Lit-focused, I’ll sprint to have that my best ever term. Going to do away with the inclass essay, though. If I do any inclass essays, or freewrites, whatever they are, I’ll have them put toward A&A [Attendance & Activity].
Also have to start my final grades spreadsheet. That’ll be a project for Tuesday. Beautiful morning this A.M. Has me thinking that everyday can be beautiful. Each can possess “Beauty,” like all Poe’s works. Should really post something now for 1A students– But I deserve this time, here in this filthy lot, to Self. Pushing my being further into the moment, I fantasize about the University again, Stanford.. what my lectures will sing, the shape they’ll take.
To Paris again, with my imagination. Writing where I feel like walking. Only making notes, not allowing the complete sentence–ANY formality–near me. Not now. I’ll do the same today at lunch. Or try. No, I will. I’ll bring my sandwich to the vineyard with me. Waiting for when I can walk, longer than 30 minutes. Breath more. Live more. WRITE.. much, much more. Whenever I want.
He listened to the lady sing. Purple-black lights, over her, her microphone. He didn’t understand her. He didn’t need to. Only listening. Soft syllable, mostly chocolate melody; sweet, ceremonial. For him. Chardonnay, none. Empty. He didn’t want to walk over to the bar, get another. That’d break this. No. Delay. He’d stay.
Once the song finished, the circumstance further sweetened, with their lenses sequencing. Locked. Cascading over destiny’s wheel.