Cold, -er

[1 year, 29 days]  Didn’t touch app today.  Far too tired.  But I did manage to get down to the café.  Hand-wrote nearly three FULL pages.  Towards what?  I guess the narrative novel idea…  I guess.  No wine tonight.  Only sparkling water, if I have any left.  Can believe I made it through the day.  Yes, the quick nap helped, but not for that long.  In that adjunct office/cell, the exhaustion wrapped itself around me, unknowingly, like a sly constrictor, perfectly hidden in the jungle’s collective tint.

Too tired to eat.  Or am I?  Could I get a burrito really quick?  Should I?  Not good to go into sleep slightly starved.  To exhausted to think straight.  The café, on mind again.  Maybe I should write the whole book there.. have my novel centered in that coffee-crowded center.  Cold lemon water, sparkling, telling me to make a decision already, stop whining.  Okay, okay, I deflect.  I’m going…

Or not.  It’s too late to have what I was set to retrieve [burrito, from down the street].  And writing slightly starved, and as drained as I am currently, may produce some lightening material.  Decaf tonight, right before retirement.  Only three sessions left in semester, one of which is nothing more than a glorified office hour.

Hoping to wake earlier than early tomorrow, as tonight I’ll be putting mySelf down unusually early.  Where will I write?  Narrative novel, not for blog.  And about?  I don’t know.. I write the moment, what I’m thinking in it.. so I’ll see.  More than likely about the PhD visions, becoming what I’ve always wanted to be: a university professor.  Of Literature.  And the whole ‘publish or perish’ reality people talk about.. couldn’t think of a more candied set of days to comprise my Life.

And the hunger scrapes against the inside of my armor, again.  What do I do?  So cold outside, tonight.  Was all day, couldn’t believe it.

Now the writer’s mood falls, with this hunger, heavy shell. Have to stay with it.  Write through it.  What if I were just off a plane, landing in Paris where it’s fully day.  What would I do, go to bed?  Sleep in that hotel room?  Oh, no!  I’d walk around, find espresso, continue.  Write where I could.  Paris…  Want to put mySelf there, in my city.  Stuff mySelf with that movable feast.

My story, my narrative: detailing of days.. the adjunct, writer, Self-publisher, dreamer, poet, dreaming poet, poetic dreamer.  Did I get it all?  What am I?  Which am I?  All?  My mood is such right now, I hate what I’m writing.  So why don’t I stop?  Good question.  I’m annoyed with my word choice, sentence shape, imagery void.  ‘Cause I’m in front of this obnoxious dwarf of a xmas tree.


9:13pm.  After a nice carne asada/grilled mushroom quesadilla from the lovely little eatery, just two blocks down from this very living room, I’m ready for sleep.  Not going to set alarm.  Leaving all to the writing apparitions around me.  Need to start reading movable feast, see how EH captured his scenes in his/my city.

Just learned one of my former students, from years ago, is traveling around the world.  Currently, she’s in Thailand.  Tonight she posted a picture of herself at the Loy Kathrong festival.  She’s lighting a light attached to a balloon.  Never heard of the festival, don’t know what it’s for.  But it looks stunning.  And she, my former student, Allison K, looks like she’s having the time of her life.  I wrote her, briefly, with only a couple lines, one reading, “Hope you’re keeping a journal of all this, old friend!”

She responded, “Journal full!”

I do want to travel, but I’d hate to be away from my little boy.  I’ll deal with it when I get there, to the Road.  Guess the way I’ll have it in perspective is that it’ll all be for him; I’m on the Road to provide him with the best Life possible.  That’s what my Dad did, as a pilot.  Mom as well, with her 25+ years as a flight attendant.


A portrait of the café, my new writing stage.  Warm, wooden, rich in aromas flying everywhere (you can’t escape them, even if you decide to leave).  So many talking, conversations, days planned, or escaped (one lady there, meeting her friend.. overheard her say she’s playing hooky for the day, that she needed a break…  Who can’t relate to that?).  Menus atop glass display counter, register always going, wine bottles lined in front of piano, paintings on wall (none of which are impressive standalones, but they do contribute purposefully to the floor’s character; views of Old Redwood Highway, cars parked in front (included mine, today), newspaper stands, crosswalk, Cotati’s heart.


Time for rest.  So pleased with wine’s absence.  Last night’s Cab, in waiting on counter.  It’ll have to wait, till tomorrow night, after little Kerouac’s down.  Only saw my little character for a pinch of minutes this evening, when home from class.  Makes me sad thinking about it.  As soon as I hear him in morrow, I’ll fly into his Room like a lion hearing the cub in distress.

No decaf.  No energy to make it.  Rather, I’ll lay down, think of Paris, what insight awaits me in Mr. Hemingway’s piece.  When I was there, I couldn’t believe how vast the Louvre was.  It was almost too much, really.  All those artifacts, paintings, people looking.  And that one man, there with his sketchpad, drawing one of the large statues.


note: character outside the closed starbucks tonight, all bundled, typing on laptop.  Interesting.  I should try that.


The heater comes on, growling like some jurassic resident.  I rub my right eye, like my son does when tired.  Sleep, sounding ever more sacchariferous.  Lights off in kitchen, this Room.  Finally, retirement.  The rough chapter, added.  Next, hardy contribution to Ms. Plath’s world, my essay– or article.  Whatever program into which I’m accepted, they’ll never have seen a candidate like me.  Note that…  (12/3/13)