1st Letter: “A New Book. Of Me.”

11/10/13–  6:31am.  Went to bed last night well before 9p.  The stomach ache or whatever it was pestering the writer all day, making my mountain shift seem without tunnel’s ending light.  First tour, 20ppl, with Alex, which was actually surprisingly manageable.  Tour 2, 13 people, which we just as congenial.  And the last tour, a group of 2 and separate group of 10, never showed (thankfully).

Downstairs with little Kerouac, waiting for coffee machine to be at ready.  Mom recommended Pepto Bismol, which I loathe taking, but I signed her suggestion into action, taking a shot of the ‘Extra Strength’ last night, and just now.  Still a bit aggravated, my core, but leagues more mellow than yesterday.

And I didn’t have a single chance to write yesterday after the morning’s 300 or so words.  So, sadly, no poem.  But that’ll today change, Sunday’s traditionally slow, a bit boring, sometimes, more melodic in progression, general rhythm.

Time for a cup.  Looking very much forward to Tuesday, when I get so much done, putting Self in closing position for semester, getting grades in summary position.

Hard to type with the little Artist here with me.  He, much better after doctor visit yesterday.  Ear infection, one ear, and bronchitis, slight.  I know.. none of this entertaining, or forcefully Literary.  But what will be, is how I close this term, enter the next one, with my 3 classes.

Jack, moving faster than I am this morning, which is funny as I calculate that I pocketed nearly as much rest as he did.  Today: all poem, poems.  When home from Mom and Dad’s this evening, submit 3 new poems to new lit mag.  That has to be my practice, the submissions.  I can still publish them by Self, have them formatted to page as I like.  But I also want to ‘play this game’ with much of what I write.  The poems especially.

And flash fiction.

Could have had this morning be a Barleycorn session, but I went back into recovery sleep, to rest from the day previous.


11/11/13–  This morning woke with fire in mind.  Fire for my Equilibrium.  Solving this equation.. getting to where I want to be, truly.  Mom gave me an early Christmas gift last night: a monstrous collection of Hemingway’s letters, divided into 2book.  Which is interesting, as I told Mom last night in midst of profuse thanking, that I was just watching a documentary piece on Mr. Hemingway the other night.  Not only that, just yesterday I was talking to these two guests from Portland, Or., just before their mountain tour, about letter writing, how some say email ‘brought back the Art of writing a letter.’ And how I believe it single-handedly MURDERED any Art in epistolary composition.  The wife was an HR “expert,” or something, often looking at people’s business writings, communication, or memos, leading seminars from time2time.  So we related on some form of instruction level.

Unfortunately, from my horrid obligation today, I can’t dive into the book as I want, but just looking through the first introductory pages set, I see notes on H’s habits, the punctuation (how to read it, as it may be error’d, as with the spelling).. so much to this collection.  I need to begin letter writing.  Write one every day, maybe, like Carolyn See suggested in her book.  Doesn’t have to be long.. could just be a note.  As so many text, I write.  Actual letters.  OR…  actual notes.

8:31am.  Want this morning’s session and yesterday’s to blog before I get in car, fetch Self an angry scorpion of a mocha, then to winery.  On mountain today, this Veteran’s Day.  Sometimes I feel’s though I’m a Veteran: of pattern, of expectation, of responsibility, of struggle, blandness; war with the bloody clock.

But what if it stopped?

Taking the first book with me, along with newJournal.  Where is it?  OH, whew…  Still in car.  Left it last night.  Not worried.  I’ll bring work bag, so I won’t forget items smaller.  Not the first time that’s happened.  Leaving keys.. off to day.. pen, kept in motion.  Almost done with yesterday’s poem.. think only 7 more lines (shooting for 20).  Wishing you well, reader.

Consider this my first wave, of a decades-long letter invasion