Chapter Turn Counting

8:16PM.  14 straight days of 1,000+ words.  Where do the pages go?  Into a book, some book.  Not sure where precisely, but somewhere.  They have a destination, they just need to tell me what it is.  Tired from the day.  Finally I get to sip a bit.  Starting to finish a couple lectures for Spring.  And, making respectable progress on Plath paper for PhD app.  Can’t wait for GRE, 5/29/14, defeat it like it’s never been before beaten.

Just found out my friend lost his cancer struggle.  Life, so short.  Going to pour a glass for him, celebrate his life.  And mine.  And how I should never complain.  About anything, ever.  And only be driven.  Self-pity, doubt, or anything of the fold completes not a single MS.

Poured myself a FULL glass of Zin.  Not sure how to feel now.  All I feel is urgency.  In this morning’s session, while in the Mt. Hood gravel parking lot, I wrote a short-short.  Guess a vignette.  Need to stay on that path [guess there’s a pun in there somewhere, as everyone exiting their car went to the path just behind my car, the Passat today..].

Still waiting for rain.  And that topic arose multitudinous rounds today in the Room.  This weather, hardly any wine, extremity.. so boring.  Does not a thing to shape my sentences.

My wallet, thin.  Need to start selling these zines.  Maybe that’s where the first days of the 1,000+ streak go.  Who knows.  Either way, I need to push the pages.  Honestly, I blame that corporate coffee brothel for my tender note drought.  Or maybe I should budget it, from here out.  Not sure.  But the pasta on the stove smells amazing.  Hungry, from no lunch today.  Well, that’s not entirely true, getting a beer and apps across the street with ‘some people’.  Their names?  Not scribed here.

2014…  Coming.  And it couldn’t come quick enough.  Tired suddenly.  My cough, which I’m quite certain stands as the most recent gift from little Kerouac, fades, sounds less frequent.  Not a sound from the little Artist upstairs.  MY most recent glass of Zin, not as lively as the last.  Not sure what’s occurring with its components, voice, but a change shows.  Cold down here, in the kitchen nook.  Too much so, nearly, for the writer.  Older I get, I need comfort.. like what I had this morning.  Both on 12 & Mission well as the Mt. Hood’s base.

Am I changing as I age, in ways I don’t want?  Not if I write it so.  And I’ll write the rest, of my Life.  I know what I want, what I want to see.. what I want others to see from me.  Story still being written…  Thinking…  Interesting…


dialogue:  “My second wife and I used to go for bike ride off Silverado Trail,” a man said to me, while with his current wife.  Three, or four, or more.  Who knows.


My friend, Scott, or “Schipper” as I used to call him, when we worked at Longs, not even 30.  I guess he would have been 30 in June of ’14.  I have to write more.  And quicker.  Just release, put it out there.  Sipping the last of the Zin, I’m realizing that anything that stresses me isn’t worth the homeostatic disruption.  Show my passion for writing as he did for his music, playing the sax as he did, magically.


Milk numerics, wheel caps over inhibitions.  I

win.  I think.  Blankets and pillows know where

I go.

Table for one.  Two if my new mood shows.

I’ll be stood up, more than likely.  I don’t

blame it. Select my

precept, but I go let.


He stopped writing.  He hated his laptop.  Done.  Sleep needed.  There’d be more writing to do in the morning.


12/30/13–  Another day of 1,000 words.  That’s 16 days.  And my goal, 31.  Those sessions will make their own world, project.  Tired from day.  Only want to relax, but I have to keep writing.  Welcoming the new year with an attack of material.  In a minute, I’ll be in poem, completely; in the journal.  Starting to find this project hopping, and journal hopping, too tiresome, laborious; wholly detrimental.  Need a glass, of that Cab/Syrah blend.

Quite certain I’m writing in too many places.  What I was just realizing, thinking again about this 2014 approach.  The way I live this year, the year I turn 35 [ugh…], will be how I live for my life’s ahead days.  So, this acclivity thought beckons a break.  Know just what I want to watch.. but I can’t help thinking something, some things, have to go.  This very blog being one of them.  Now I’m nebbish, needing another sip.


10:47PM.  Why am I so obsessed with time?  Is it part of my genre, my voice?  I’m thinking by now it is, yes.  Of course it is.  The story writes itself that way.  Time, my enemy, most certainly part of my story.  It’s sails through the narrative.  And it’s my job to deliver bumpy seas.

This upcoming semester, the second and final portion of a project.  The story will write itself.  And much of it depends on the students, what they submit, how they react to my words.  No more stretches for my work, falling victim to my own consciousness stream.  I need standalone pieces.  That’s what will have me above other applicants for the programs I’ve encircled in concentration.

For the first time in many whiles, I’ve lost interest in this log.  I’m more into the thought of this 1,000 words a day sprint, collecting my poems; the PhD program; actual paper.  I’m still writing– will worry about rewrites later.  IF at all.

Grading tomorrow.. not looking forward to it.  Just want to write, but you already know that.  I want those sights of the café– all the timely and lively Art there.  I have to pack everything I can, so I know just what to eliminate.  But I’m behind schedule tonight.  I should be working on the poem I wrote today, somehow reshaping it so that I’ll be able to maybe market it.  Ugh, “market it”.  Such revolting language.  This is not a product, some sale.  No.. this is ME.  Bloody me.  The industry would tell me I’m thinking about it all wrong.  But I don’t care.  It’s a clumsy industry.  And I’m an Artist.


Need another sip of that blend.  Disappointed.  Thought I had more.  What happened?  Oh, of course.. the writer had three glasses last night.  This coming year, not knowing how serious I am about overtaking it.  In all respects.  Like a fight, revving Self.  Mythology, poetry, all to Me.  Wish waves were running to me, as I did with them in view, in Monterey.  Curse this familiar– it only operates in the dull.  I’m sandbagged, to pattern dragged.  So I’ll here stop, write more, after more wine.