Not ready for formal writing, for submission, project. Not yet. Just want to enjoy the practice, the process. This Syrah, 2010. Not my favorite wine that I’ve recently pulled from collection, but certainly a sipping sword. Two mountaintop tours, both enjoyable. Then, with day’s end, tasting from tanks with Sam, Mindy. Also had chance to taste Sam’s wines, the Grenache, Carignane. Still far too early to tell what’ll happen in their respective stories, but the Grenache shows the most promise, easily. This Syrah, the more oxygen it sees, and more I swirl, the more life greets a writer’s palate. And on writing’s chord: tomorrow’s my retreat day– complete escape into writing, teaching, writing about and for teaching. Will have to write at café, for at least two hours. How about I plan like this, loosely, as I don’t want to overplan, certainly not OVERthink: 2 hours at PC, two at café, FOUR in Santa Rosa [either on mainland or nearby café, bar.. but you have to finish three standalones in the day’s plain].
Two more lines to write for the poem I started… either yesterday or a couple day’s ago. Can’t remember. Wrote a letter at lunch, in newJournal, to Kelly. I’ll rack it into second chapbook, when I edit it down. So many I want to write letters. Poe, Mom, Dad, cousins, Grandma, Bob Coleman, my Self, other professors. Again, I don’t care if it’s just a note, four to ten lines or whatever.. just have to discipline Self to write a letter a day. Yes, a letter a DAY. Purpose: not so much communication, more the act, the ART of epistolary delivery. Personalized, directed writing.
Looking at tip money from today, recent shifts. Putting all into SELF-publishing acct. $76. If I budget $5/chap, that’d bring me to 15 copies. And I only want my first run to be ten copies– well, 11, counting mine. So I could start my succession with this little stack. But, even more a boon, it’s to be blended into the already plentiful pile upstairs, in my Philosophy Encyclopedia.
A run tomorrow. It has to happen. But I can’t expect much from Self, as I haven’t been running as I used to. Just put in a solid hour. 30 out, 30 back. Don’t care about miles logged, or avg mile time. Just want to run. One. Solid.
Thinking I might reconnect with ‘Sun Also Rises’ next semester, with the English 100 section. Copy some of these letters, see if I can gently introduce students to Authorial consideration, intent. And OH… Just thought: what if I could wake early tomorrow, circa 5am. Fit in a thousand words before little Kerouac’s first stir. What if I write tomorrow, from 5a, off-and-through 7pm? What if I hit 5,000 words in one day? Never even come close to such, not that I know.
Note: older neighbor, I learned this evening from Alice, passed away. He’d gone to the hospital before, but came home soon after. Always saw his in house, sitting in chair, watching TV. Near window, a small table, two wine bottles atop. Didn’t see him walking outside much, in his final days, or backing out in that magenta van. He always said, “Morning,” to me, anyone who him passed. Fear I was to him sometimes rude, or curt. Time, another round won. Especially with my little regret, that I might have been a tad more neighborly. My glass, empty. Feel like having one, another, for him. And I never knew the gent’s name. Doesn’t matter. He’s gone. And he need be acknowledged, even by people not directly in his know. Perfect time for rain to come, with this news. But it won’t. It wants to taunt the writer. Devil. Looking at stills from today’s vineyard walk. There again. Imagined.
Poured Self another glass, this one quite full, of the Syrah. More perfume-y notes throwing themselves at senses. On palate: blackberry, dark cherry, cinnamon, lowered mint and/or eucalyptus. Next vintage, the one I’ll sell. So I have to save, AND most importantly: force this writing. Force its hand. Many times I feel this way, like I’m in constant combat with my own pages, past and present. Lately, more so past. They taunt me from that plastic tomb, all three actually, upstairs in closet. Many of the chapbooks to come have to be completely comprised of forgotten written fits [I like that].
How relaxed the writer is tonight. Awaiting my day of writing, morrow. What if I voided the run? Should I? Should I start my jaunt-before-work-on-Tuesdays/Thursdays, this Thursday? Imagine how much MORE writing I could catalogue… I’ll take it with scrutiny, measured thought, projection.
What do I want to produce in ’14, if druthers full found my figure? Well.. certainly a Merlot. And white… I guess Sauv Blanc. Blending different lots, from different AVAs in Sonoma County. Could work, right? For the SB, that approach.. not Merlot.
This Syrah, suddenly speaking to me with collected might, accumulated fury. Love it! How Literary, this glass! Just what I need before a most narrative day.
Doing a quick skim of pages preceding Hemingway’s letters. How he was studied, IS studied, followed, researched. A Writer. Just want I want be.
My letters, beginning today, will continue into my Life’s surplus. All my minutes should be spent in front of page. And I need toughen, to Mr. Hemingway’s stratum. And I need another glass of wine, as I know he would have at La Coupole… Oh, my city, and what yarn it strung, spun around my most admired Author.
Again acknowledging Veterans Day, looking at the photo of Mr. Hemingway in his uniform, book’s cover. What war must do to the man, the writer, or eventual writer. OR what about a journalist, surveying the happenings of war, firsthand? Could I do that? Probably not. Guess I’ll stick to research, if I want my imagistic inner-brush to circle in such sway.
Last glass, poured. 9:44pm. Ready for 5,000 words. How do I want that allocated? Yes, I’m OVERthinking. But I’m also exercising a certain playfulness that I don’t want to lose as I age. 1,000 for morning blog entry; 500 for flash fiction; 500 for flash fiction, again; 1,000 for another blog post; 1,000 for chapbook contribution [taking any form]; 500, flash fict’, piece intended for submission; 500 for blog, closing day. Huh.. let’s see if this wandering writer sticks to such restrictive regiment. Well it’s not THAT restrictive, is it? No. So what now.. music, or movie?
Mike closed his diary, for now. Just sat, sipped his Syrah with a certain serrated syncopation. His thoughts, like cognitive trampoline spins; up, down.. hardly mattering. His book was near fruition, near its bound/bottled form. Papers needed grading, but he had towers crucial to construct; ones that assured measure. (11/11/13)