Spring 2014, novel notes…

9:12AM. Leaving in 13 minutes. Now 12. Still quite under the weather. In Kenwood lot, right to left of dead tree. All I can think about it poetry, my novel this semester, Monday’s lectures. All else: destructive obstruction. Even– no, ESPECIALLY– wine. Didn’t have a single glass, last night. Just finished 2 poems for first book. Thinking of Poe, his short stories, how they ripple in the reader’s vision, memory. And how they are all centered in images. And these images, what I need to dissect. Not just for the next time I lecture in his works, but for my own advance. And then, right here, I feel blocked. I blame this bug. My body does fight it away quite successfully, but I’m tired, even as I progress into this mocha. I’ll brew mySelf a cup when on the estate, see if that helps. There’s a house in the hills, just up, right, obstructed by a single very sizable tree. What a silent writing spot that would be for me. I have the $400 to start my label/publishing house. So no more stashed away. NOW, to save for a house, viciously put money away for family. 9:18, leaving in two. Hope so very much they send me home. So I can fully recover, and WRITE, PRINT. I watched a short film on a poetry program outside of CA. All the students in this grad program had either hand-scribbled sheets in front of them, or something typed. Something to TOUCH. Not some bloody screen at which you’re meant to stare, become still, more-or-less dead. (4/3/14) 4/4. Staying home today, after the cough mounting an educating attack. That’s just how I’ll be today, with my pages. Two waffles springing from toaster in kitchen.. be right back. Went to bed quite early last night, just after little Kerouac.. which would put me… A bit after 8PM. Today is about recovery, and progress. I feel that I may be pushing mySelf into even greater a stall by depending on these community colleges to offer me something tenure-track. Outside the box, where I’m going.. and starting with poetry, yes, but I will print ONE page from this semester’s novel, the first page, at some point today. Like Steve said, “Write for my Life.” So quiet in this house, now. Should try for more sleep. Two more waffles. Need to stay awake till around 8:30, when I call in. Post to teaching blog.. that’s what I haven’t done. Done. 8:17. Will call in 15 minutes. Give whomever a couple minutes to settle. Strange, the light rain last night. Wasn’t expecting that, at all. *** Up, ready for writing. Had shower, cup of coffee–which actually very much helped me combat the sinus headache–went to store for Advil (took only 1, as I hate medicine), got mocha, and here I am. Ready for session. Won’t be posting to teaching blog again till Sunday, I anticipate. Printing one poem from collection, and one page from semester’s novel. More and more, I’m starting to find mySelf more imbued with wine; how it changes, how it looks, smells, from where it’s birthed– the Earth, those lovely vineyards. Listening to my music now, I think of this new direction, centered around images, taking my day into my own hands, yes, but more motivated hands. Images, things.. “No ideas but in things.” William Carlos Williams said. And that’s my approach, with everything from empty wine glasses at the Hill House, to the Syrah Hill, the tank room… Entry into the tasting room, the caves, spilt wine on the counter, stains on the towels… But I want to focus on new objects, things, a revolving door of propulsion. In the lab: tubes, samples in the miniature jars, or vats (not sure of their proper item tag), other pours, bottles, winemaking notes… And the headache is gone, completely. Now I can really write. I look at my wallet, right. Hate that thing, all the clutter I assume, just within its borders alone. Opening it… Emptied it. Even the cash. Put into the company’s budget– or stash. 1:30PM. What to do with the day’s rest? Research. I’m starting to find National Geographic’s content quite moving, repairing when I don’t have a subject. OR, “thing”. Getting sick of this blog, I have to say. How the formatting now doesn’t read paragraphing. That is, I have my prose pragmatically placed on this screen, appropriately divided, but the hosting site doesn’t read it so. It just bloody throws the content to that square, and I have to fix its mistakes. Tech, you’ll soon know your death. And it again rains. The drops tell me to calm. This morning’s weather urgency suggested no rain, that this “storm” was passing. But, for the first time ever to my liking, the weather boxes were incorrect. The rain fell encouragingly as I went to Safeway to retrieve that Advil, caffeine. Advil.. a thing. Fixing something, pain. Allowing for comfort, and this writer to write. But now, I think it time for a break.. a writing exercise for Self, list things, places, people, subject! I don’t like the word ‘thing’, or ‘things’. So bland, limp, nonspecific, noncommittal, lazy as a word, concept. “My favorite thing about wine is…” I remember hearing someone say, years ago, when my first blog was very much considered a traditional wine blog. I just remember thinking the character speaking sounded quick, like she wasn’t taking it, wine, seriously– well, ‘it’ also being her words, her thought process; her SELF! 1:44PM. The money on my desk, destined for the publishing pot (think that’s what I’ll call it, here onward..). I’m just staring at it, listening to the rain, just below the volume of this song, “Limbe”. Wondering where I want to start with my search.. which “things” to target. Frankly, as I long for the road, Newness, I need distance.. frames from far away. Turkey, a former Soviet state, Italy, my city of Paris, Yellowstone, Kenya.. anything that would push me somewhere I’ve never been with my writing.