Journal MS 1

12/9/13.  5:41AM.  Up early with the Artist, but I’m not nearly as tired as I have been in recent occasions.  The coffee, already invading my wiring.  Lovely.. this little Artist has a match on his hands, this A.M., as I’m more than apt to match paces.  He moves his trucks around, as if to see which spot on this bottom floor best suits.  Now, he takes my keys, Alice’s as well, puts them in the dump truck’s bed.

His moods fluctuate like weather in the pacific’s middle.

Then he sings, whines.. his character’s changing.  Quite defiant, vocal…  Expressive!  And my challenge: patience.  He speaks to me now so matter-of-fact-ly, typing on Alice’s work computer, closing it, opening again, saying something to me again with raised face.  All after I say, “No, buddy, that’s mama’s…”

On my 2nd cup, by the way.  (6:17AM)

8:59am.  Been home for a bit, getting ready for drive out to SCC’s main campus, then up to Vacaville grounds.  Sipping the mocha, thinking of how I want the day to evolve.  There’s too much on this desk’s top, again.  What happened?  It was so clear, freed for a while.  I’ll be hopping in shower in just a bit.. but first I have to think.  Aside from SCC needs, what do I want done today?

I want pages printed.  That’s what I’ll sell.  Not screens from this blog.  Someone asked me yesterday if I’d email them some of my writing.  I politely declined, not telling them what I was writing at that moment would soon be viewable on blog.  This has to be exclusive, to some degree, right?  Remember, you’re in Hemingway’s day, ways.  No blog then, with him, then less with you, now.

Listening to songs that put me back in Paris, that motivate me to put my book out there.  So much writing.. it has to be out there.  All of it.  When I’m gone, I want all my pages published.  And those that aren’t, arranged neatly, nearly, in MSS, in line to be disseminated, distributed.  Or that would have been.

3:33pm. Interesting time, for an interesting day, most surely.  Went to Solano, only to find I can’t have the English 2 assignment, as it’s been more than 4 semesters since I’ve taught there, and am ineligible.  So I have to, or WOULD have to, interview again, after applying.  Which I will do, just was, still am, shocked, as I thought the assignment was mine, especially after last phone conversation with Michael W.  I went to their bookstore today, ordered books (as the young man saw me in the computer), for the Eng 2, section number right there verified.  I wanted to touch base with Michael W., the current department coordinator, and that’s when he told me, after I had a lovely interaction with the barbarically rude admin.  I drove back, starved, for some reason craving Chinese food.  So I had some from the place two blocks down from the house, the same one the gave me a colorful coat of food poisoning last year.  I thought about taking a nap, resisted.  Then, after thinking the entire afternoon (drive home, especially) about making my writing explode, just bloody shove it out there so I won’t have to hunt teaching assignments [one day soon], pour wine for goons anymore, I elected to put the 41pg project on a memory stick, take it to the printing place on 4th.  I did, but I felt uncomfortable with all the people around, AND.. my debit card wouldn’t work.  So I left.  I drove a couple, actually a few, blocks away, realizing I left the stick in the computer’s tower.  Crazed, I U-turned on 4th, probably illegally, can’t remember.  Parked in the Barnes & Noble lot, hopped across the street, back into the printing tavern.  And there it was.  Relieved, and exhausted, I walked here, to B&N, grabbed a coffee downstairs.  Now, I type upstairs, on the mezzanine.  In the corner, by the World War II section.  Can hear the loud male barista below the chair in front of me, by the railing.  Glad the day’s over, honestly.  And I’m glad I won’t have the Eng 2.  Why?  ‘Cause I’ll be able to write all day, Monday’s, now.  And more importantly, see my son Monday nights.

Relaxed, for the first time today.  Especially knowing ‘Ed Out’, the 41pg-er’s ready for release.  Then, after that, a 200-300 page book.  Fiction, non.  Truthful fiction.. how’s that?  Need to post to teaching blog tonight, see how the students are doing.  THAT, and I want to submit some poems, the 3, to magazines.

This mocha, gorgeous.  Heard back from Steve, my grad school professor, this morning.  India, my Hemingway book club partner, as well.  Without fail, I’ll leave from Lisa’s tomorrow.  No computer with me.  Not tomorrow.  Need to travel light, quick.  Grade the 1A section’s Poe Projects!  Don’t forget, please…

It’s shocking looking downstairs, at all those books, all those ideas.. all those brave enough to send them to print, have a publisher release it to the world.  Or, if they’re their own printer, making themselves pepper the masses with their pages.  Thinking my first hefty book should be 300 pages.  302.  That’s a better step into all the material I’ve been amassing over the years.

My knuckles, especially the left’s, so dry.  Cracked; bleeding.  Uncomfortable.  But that’s the season I’m in, with this unusual cold over the past few days.  Seasonal truth, but my truth-telling’s in no way simply seasonal.  Only a few people walking by me, back here.  Guess not too many interested in war.  That’s unfortunate.  So many dying for a cause, their cause, [or] their country.  I just think of what it did to Hemingway, how it made him who he was, is.

Want to just walk around, around these book rows.  See myself down in that Fiction isle.  Or Nonfiction.  Or Essays.  OR…  Poetry.

Wish I would have taken a nap.  Maybe I can, a quick one, when back home.  Oh, no, I can’t.  Have to pick up an ink cartridge, print ‘Ed’.  Then maybe a nap?  For like 30-45 minutes?  Almost forgot that I woke with little Jack at 5-something, again.  Maybe because I’m growing more tired, sitting in this cozy wooden chair, my back to the wall shelves [too lazy to turn, see what category, or “genre”], the male barista’s voice is annoying me.  Now, he complains about the cold outside, saying “If it’s gonna be this miserable, at least give me something likable,” referring to snow, how when it’s that cold, at least you have the snow to admire.  Then, he complains that it’s a Monday, how one of their coffees is too acidic.  And something else, but I stopped listening.

Changed the books title to “Ed[it] Out”.  Always had that hidden meaning, or intended implication, now simply visible.  That…  And it looks better.  More interesting, or something.

I’m happy.

The title, having the word “edit” in it, is edited.  I edited the concept of an edit, or editing.  Get it?


That’s okay.

Glad I didn’t have to drive to Vacaville today.

Going for a walk downstairs.  Want characters.

8:50PM.  Wasn’t there much longer.  Decided to retrieve Jack early from Ms. Lisa’s.  Not leaving from her house in morning, as I wanted.  Decided that I’ll get ink ammo at store down the block, print final master, then send to print.  Tomorrow’s sessions: both extended office hours, which’ll prove beneficial, to those choosing to show.

No wine tonight.  Only sparkling waters, and now decaf, with these cinnamon.. not sure if you’d call them bites, or mini-cakes, or what.  But they’re.  DELICIOUS.  On my 2nd one.

Not as tired as I was a few hours ago.  Not sure if I’m riding waves, or currents, of a second wind, but I’ll quite enjoy it, thank you.

Feeling quite the writer’s stride this evening– balanced, speedy, accurate.  No bloody wine to curve, blur, slur, infer anything.  Definitely getting into some Hemingway this evening, as India and I are set to read the next 4 chapters, or vignettes.

Re-reading the response from Professor Gutierrez.  Love his advice, encouragement.  Certainly motivates me to go back to school, and ‘write for my life’, as he once said.  Right now, after re-reading his words, I’m thinking about vignettes, as they don’t really have to be “complete”.  In the conventional sense.

Alice asleep on couch, no TV.  Total quiet.  Almost excess peace, frankly.  Waiting for the refrigerator to sing in that low, tinny tone.  This is just how Plath wrote, but in the morning, or so I’ve recently learned from a documentary from years ago.  Hoping that since no wine touched the writer’s place this evening, and that I plan on going under my covers quite early, that I’ll wake just as early, before Jack even–  Lately he’s been of the early 5 o’clock hour haul.  Maybe I shouldn’t shoot for that.  OR, play it by ear [hate that expression].  But I do need to wake early on a stretched bench of regularity, if I’m to be whom I want, whom I always envision, have; the Mike I see.

Now the quiet is bothering me.  I should lay down on the couch opposite to Alice, rest my eyes.  Has been a long day.  Forgot how long that drive was, to SCC.  But I would have done it, up to Vacaville, for that English 2.  But, onward…  Restart.

That mezzanine spot, interesting place to write.  Wondering if I should hit the café tomorrow, before Eng 5.  No.. get the Poe Projects for 1A graded, done.  Then it’s a sail till semester’s true close, when you have to grade the final submission.  If I can get them all done before 5 starts, then I could write for a couple hours at the café, from about 2-something to early 4.  Don’t plan, don’t OVERthink.  Just let it shape take.

Oh how a nap sounds amazing.  But if it’s this late, is it a nap, or a rest, or just breaking up “bed” into two parts?  Either way, I need to stop with this writing, and just be Human.  Just for a minute.  And then, the fridge starts its whispering song.  Telling me to move.

Over to the couch.  Rest my