Watching a cartoon with Jack, begging him to make progress on his waffle.  Think the hot water’s ready, in the coffee machine.  Time for the writer’s first cup.  Next week, Spring Break.  Wednesday, the wine mission to Napa.  I’m quite behind on the page pace for this novel.  Not worrying about that now.  I feel fiercely vocal this morning.. I hate the word, but ‘rebellious’.

Coffee ready, but I want to make progress on the day’s thousand.  7:25.  Missing my café on Old Redwood, in Cotati.  Tonight, I’m looking to combine writing files, on this bloody laptop, getting me closer to 101 pages [the midpoint marker for the semester’s novel].  And now that I think of my story, my question– or my character [not sure why I wrote ‘question’], my written character, C——…  I want to be misguided.. or not-exactly-guided.  Too much rule is the lifeless trek that I want to avoid.



IDEA–  teaching blog, need be letters to students, continuing my epistolary practice.


The weather today, promising the same lovely scape as yesterday.  Little Kerouac, eating grapes after his waffle.  7:36AM.  We should be gearing for departure soon, but I don’t want to upset him by turning off the movie (even though I’ll have to, eventually, this morning).


Sun, slowly rising.

Everything swimming in a quiet

blue.  From my fence to

the avenue’s cracks, the leaves

begging to join the pavement’s



I know, the chapbook…  When are you releasing it?  Honestly, I haven’t been delaying.. I’ve just been enjoying writing poems.  And, I think I might push the budget to 61 pages.  Or would that be too long?  Yes, it’d be too long.  41 pages of poetry, budgeting $5/copy.. for ten copies to start.. easy.  I just want to enjoy writing a bit longer, then I’ll launch MADIGAN Publishing’s first OFFICIAL publication.  We’ll start in poems, eventually get to fiction, non-fict’.

Already thinking of summer, how it’ll look.  Will I still be at the estate.. thinking…  Depends.  On the poems, the lectures, maddenedread’s continued reception.  The teaching blog has several promises in its chants, I’m realizing.. only keying a traveling course for my career.  As a writer, educator.  This, much molded by this morning’s stronger mood.  And yes, I will say rebellious–  NO.  More so, DEFIANT.


8:41AM…  Kenwood Market’s lot.  Initially drove past, in my spaced envisioning.  Turned around in estate’s first few feet of driveway.  I’ll allow Self a strong 30 minutes of sitting before surrendering to the perceived obligatory.  The mocha, very much working.  Made by Kelly, one of two people I know well at the Safeway Starbucks.  Already thinking of lunch, what I’m to have.. funny.  Should I do a tasting like I did the other day with Chris, or get something with Dwight, something from that taco truck on 12 & Dunbar?  Letting the story carry me.. it’ll tell me what to do.  Either way, fiction’s to be made…

Wasn’t able to park by that downed, dead tree, next to the spaces that face 12, the mountains. It’s fine, now I can concentrate, force Self to look at screen, my finger’s frolic.  I was reading through that Tobias Wolff interview, the one in the Paris Review, and he said something to the tune of that’s the best way to get him not to write– give him a view, something comfortable, ideal.. I feel much the same.  Think I always have, or have for recent rile of whiles.

Another sip…  My story.  Yes, I’ll let it cary me, but there are some items on a certain, curt, precise, wish list.  Won’t write them here, but just know, reader, this writer doesn’t aimlessly write.  I can’t afford to anymore.

A little sun hitting the left eye.  Even when I monstrously focus on the screen, it’s bothersome.  Need to move I think…  Curses!


I miswrote.  The space by the tree was, is, was available.  I’m now in it.  There was just a neighboring truck, two spaces over, left.  I don’t like that.  I prefer isolation.  And now, the sun entering from right, provides a piercing reflection, heat on my right side.  Windows open for some airflow, which does help.  Maybe I should have just parked at the estate, in the overflow lot, typed there.  The sun would be at my back, I think, blocked by the house, trees.

I’m not moving.  I’m staying right where I am.  I can’t help but look up, how the sun adds a special stroke of sense to the vineyards across the street, the breaking buds, those mountains.

Now I’m blocked.. focus on something, I tell myself.  The mountains, pictures.. views, hiking…  Exploration.. this coffee.  I remember having the fantasy, if you’d call it that, of owning a Parisian Café, offering coffee, wine, beer, small plates.  But I’d rather write it.. walking in, opening up before any of the employees get there; making myself something, reading the paper, enjoying quite, no music.


Mind in a fonder wander.. but I

don’t know where

it’s going.

so what.


Those houses in the mountains.  Where are they?  What I mean is, how do you get there?  What would it be like to have a safe spot like that?  A writing stage like that?  Maybe it would be too comfortable, though.  We just need a house, soon.. time only lashes us with each chapter passing.

Coming up on departure time.  Current, 9:01.  24 minutes left in the “budgeted”.  Hate that devilish word.  Makes me think of how companies have to budget people, their salaries, reduce them to a ledger’s line.


Had a thought, but lost it.  Oh yes.. these colleges.  Are any of the remaining 3 going to call me?  Not too lowered by SRJC’s not inviting me for interview.  I know I’m making an impression.. with students, the blog, my letters, writings.. all’s falling into place and shape.  The story’s on the route I calculated.

May have another coffee when at “work”.  Already feeling this espresso tapping in a flee.  Maybe it feels unneeded, as I’m so motivated this morning.  Don’t know.


Students.. should drop them a note for the day, try to keep their written waves hitting a paper shore.

And then Grandma’s words taunt me, again.  “It’s your life,” she said, then paused, eyebrows raised, as if to say ‘listen carefully to my next sentence’, “you have your choice.” I find the structuring of her sentence professedly arranged, obviously, genuinely, emphatic.  She could have been more curt, like saying, simply, “It’s your life.” Or, “It’s your life, do whatever [or what] you want.” But no.  She infused a purposeful pause, emphasized the ‘you’ personalization in three cleverly laced locations.  This only helps my rebellious feed this morning.  Thank you, Grandma…