5:59AM. Been up since only a couple minutes after five. Not in any type of amiable shape, stride, or chord. Need coffee. If I go back to sleep, for what.. an hour, a bit less, what will that do? Tomorrow, out to Solano for the first time in years. Getting everything in order, ready for semester. Hopefully I’ll get to write in Solano, Fairfield more specifically, but I have a feeling I won’t let mySelf. I mean, there’s nowhere, really, there to write, that I’ve seen. Maybe somewhere new, in Napa.. Rutherford Grill, maybe? Just need my dose of Newness. Doses.
Difficult to write with this moody little monster about the bottom floor of this condo. And me, as tired as I am, chasing him alone. Last night, after returning from that flat gathering at the Flamingo, I managed to log a little over 600 words.. 500 to blog, then 100-something to narrative.
Now, Jack looks at this two paintings, looks at me and offers something. Maybe a thought, reflection, something he would have done different with his brush–or hand–strokes.
6:38AM. Alice and I switched, she’s downstairs with Kerouac, and I’m upstairs to sleep. But I’m not. I’d rather write. Hoping today’s slow, not anyway mimicking yesterday’s end-of-day craze. Just thought, it only makes sense for me to drive out to SCC from Lisa’s house. Backtracking all the way to Bennett Valley to get ready or whatever just doesn’t make sense. Turn in paperwork [red folder, on home desk], order books, walk around, re-orient Self to everything, print roster (if it’s available), and whatever else I need to do. Only going out Monday, to simulate an actual day next term [as I only teach the English 2, for SCC, on Monday evenings, but at the Vacaville campus].
Can hear Jackie crying downstairs. He must be tired, waking as early as he did. Wish I could just ask him what he wants, what I could do to make him more pleased with his morning. But that’s my exhaustion talking, with the wishful thinking gaze.
Not taking a lunch today. I’m writing. I’ll survive off cheese, crackers, from the Reserve Room. And maybe some main bar breadsticks. Want to compose another letter. To someone. OH, I could start on the closing letter for my classes. Can’t believe the semester’s already over. Week17, next week… Distracted by Jackie’s cries. Can barely stand it. We put him down too late, last night. I blame that bloody holiday party. See? I didn’t want to go. And why would I, after working all day in that wine-hungry tourist herd?
See the sun trying to rise, combat the winter sky’s seductive chilling dim. Retrieved the laundry about an hour ago (left there, from yesterday, which I hate), and the temperature screamed seasonal shift.
My new character.. get more into her head, what antagonizes her; what calms her, claims her, aggravates her; What wine type does she like? This, what will galvanize my character, ME, through this not-so-pseudo, but entirely pseudo, Friday.
He still moans, complains, then sings. Moody little monkey.
I need coffee. I’ll keep the cups coming.
Start to my day’s
Home from interesting day. Whole shift, TR. Nothing noteworthy, other than the early trip to mountain’s top with Len, to set up. Intensely cold, windchill, but the sun reflected off the bay with a precision I’ve never before seen. Beers after work with Sam, Len, Jordan. Len leaving early.. Sam, Jordan, myself, talking about brewing, the estate, and whatever else.
Think I’ll open the ’11 blend I was sent home with, last night. Could use a fierce red tonight. Tomorrow, out to Solano, for the first sprint in years. Need to make the visit quick, though.. not get nostalgic. Decided I am going to come back here, get ready, then head to bookstore to get the version of Hemingway’s MS that I ordered for SRJC (same one India has).
Getting hungry, and a bit moody [again].
Mike woke from his nap only thinking of coffee. He didn’t know what time it was, and wouldn’t let himself look at a clock, nor his watch, or phone. Not yet. He wanted to follow the not-knowing, see where it’d lead. Once in the lobby, there were clocks everywhere it seemed. He tried his evilest, long as he could, not to let his eyes contact one of those arm pairs. But one landed: 3:49PM. He had the wine dinner just over two hours, in one of the banquet rooms. “Do I have to go,” he thought. Yes. He knew his presence wasn’t optional. And what was he speaking on? Where he was from. Sonoma Valley. Why it was amazing, why people should visit there vs Napa.. bla bla. Nothing about Literature, his lecturing on Poe, Plath, Hemingway. Wine. How deep was wine, how complicated? And would they ask him about what he was writing now, or his last novel? Teaching? Probably not. He was, or would be, among them– the wine people.
“Hi, what can I get you?” the lady behind the counter asked.
Mike thought of getting a beer, or maybe some bubbles–they had quite the formidable lineup of champagnes, sparklings– “I’ll get a triple nonfat mocha, small, with whip, please.”
The lady smiled, turned to fix his potion. While she worked her noisy magic, Mike looked around, took in whatever he could: people checking in, six people sitting on a couple couches, talking like they haven’t seen each other in over a decade, or something.. others just walking around, probably fresh off a plane ride.
A girl he saw, probably mid-20s, reading over something in a leather binder. Mike thought of what he wanted it to be.. a briefing– No, sounded too formal. Some notes, for a presentation.. there, that’s better. What was she presenting on? On Literature. Jane Austen. This girl, Leila, just earned her doctorate, started teaching at Colombia, was attending a conference on Austen and other feminist authors, or woman writers with empowering consistencies. She looked over her notes, pleased. Ready. Confident. As she should be.