Sam I’m sure has been up for at least an hour, working in his garden. When he told me of this extremist practice, working with him yesterday in the res room, I felt like I was lacking, in my overall habit. So I sit here, on the couch–after moving Jackie into bed with his mother, as he always likes to now do–try to catch my friend in his garden. Wonder if he has goals, missions specific, or certain standalones he wants to see come to fruition (pun, yes, meant).
The fridge hums from the kitchen, as if to relax me, telling me to just calm, enjoy my writing session. Going for my run after work today.. failing isn’t available for entertainment. I need that run, and I need to time Self, try to match what the running group’s doing now, more or less. Someone told me that last Saturday they had an eleven miler. Won’t hit that today, but I could easily catch them.. if I wake early to run, go to bed earlier, like Sam told me yesterday. He said that some nights he prepared for dormancy by 9-something, sometimes before, I believe he said. That’s the Hemingway practice I want to forever have in motion..
Coffee… Just remembered, none in house. I’ll go to the store, get some after these 500 words. Wish I had my own garden, what a new thing for my character, and to cook breakfast as some do.. so early, so creative.. but I’m not one for breakfast. I’ve never been able to enjoy such a sizable plate so early, not sure how some do.
This couch: needing replacement, eternal substitution, soon. Old, too old, damaged.. this we acquired it–or Alice did, years ago, before I was in her story–from her uncle Mike. I don’t mind it, I just feel its miles. Hard to write, not much greeting me in the way of symbols. Or– The pillows, tempting me to lie back down. “No!” I counterfire, “I’m a writer! Bugger off!”
It just stares at me, knowing I want to rest a bit more before a promised day of lunacy in that tasting room. The tasting room: (formerly tasting Room) Where wine sits, looks back at people, then they respond with bizarre remarks, comical questions, or display no interest at all; where these club members dance around like fat cat shareholders of a company; it’s confusing, it’s lovely, it’s maddening. Why do I keep mySelf there? 1, I have to, for bills, money, and all other obvious. But, 2, it’s fascinating, what a zoo it becomes on days like Saturday. And how serious some take it, approach the goings-on.
6:48AM. Fridge still running, thought I’m sure it’ll soon stop. Not sure where I am in comparison with my gardening friend, but I write on, unswayed by anything, really. Can hear Jackie upstairs, playing around, not at all interested in sleep, much like his writing father. Should go retrieve him, give Ms. Alice a chance for more rest, my lovely wife…
Little Kerouac, down here with me, watching a new movie that Mom bought him. A little was watched last night at their house, can’t remember how much exactly. Mom, Dad, a couple of their friends from the old neighborhood will be coming by the winery today for the mountain tour. I’m not on the mountain. Positive I’m ‘TR’, where all the nuttiness will only surround all my senses. Yes, it’s material, but incredibly difficult to document, especially with how fast it happens sometimes. All I can do is live, write, write by living, not actually writing.
This train show Jack watches has me wondering what it would be like to cross the country on a train, and not just write, but truly experience the contrast of that travel to others; plane, driving… My run today, a travel to itself, outside like my friend, wrapped in purer elements, atmospheric ingredients. Just want to run, like I have nothing else obligated. And I will.
The sun, with more elevation now. And Jack, with more energy. Tomorrow morning, I’ll easily rise at a gardening/Hemingway hour. And much of that will be feasible with an irregular bedtime this evening. This will be my new practice– no, life– no, ME. Would love coffee right now. Am I dependent on the caffeine? Of course. I’m a writer, but I need to be more farsighted with how much I need, my house inventory.
Not sure what to write, now. The trains movie, its singing narrative, distracting me, with the obvious British intonation. Feel my momentum crumbling… And that’s most assuredly from coffee’s absence.
Jackie rises from the couch, walks around. It’d be incredible to have him helping me, in my garden, early, as I used to Auntie Linda, Uncle Stevie in Sister’s, Oregon. But I have to acquire our base, first. And I will, soon, following the printings ahead; the poems, this novel. But I’ll need coffee, coffee… COFFEE!
Sam very well may experience a peace in his garden, so early, that I may never be able to palate. But I can get close, I was just thinking. My thesis, again, ‘I will be free by this semester’s close’. The 19th, today, which means 1 month, 10 days till 35. I will have my books streaming, I’m thinking.. I’ll release books, shorter and larger, like singer/songwriters have new “tracks”. My Literary speed will never be caught, or equalled.
Can’t believe I’ve shouted this much onto the laptop’s screen without coffee. Maybe that’s meant to tell me something. Jackie releases a moderate yell, sounding like a warrior call, or that’s the first thing I thought of for comparison’s court.
“Bye bye, Dada,” Jack says, driving his car into the kitchen. Then, he’s off one car to work on the other, or that’s how it looks, like he’s inspecting the other vehicle, testing the sounds it makes, taking the cargo from the hidden space under seat. And now he watches the movie, again, analyzes what the trains say to each other, how the narration contextualizes the characters. -7:36AM
Just saw.. the 19th. That means the novel’s due in a month, all 202 pages. Need to write with the ‘5’ section, more, build the pages, the story, my trail to Autonomy, Equilibrium.
10:13PM. And madness it was. My glass, ’10 Cab, in kitchen– usual route, having to rise to sip, then come back for character contribution. No run today. But for my permission: we left late, quite late, from those just wanting to sip more, and my friends demanding my being at Kenwood Bar & Grill. Tired? Of course. But I need to more write. Will be running tomorrow, in devoted dives. Keep forgetting the writer has the day free, tomorrow. And I can’t just shove C——’s notes into some file. Have to keep her in this MS. But then what? I’m overthinking, just what I tell both sections NOT to do. […] Distractions… But they die where they breathe. Should be in bed soon. And I haven’t risen for that Cabernet. I think of Poe, the Pendulum, Pit, what they both forward. I’ll be frank, I’m disgusted by the modern pop lit, what you see on the wall by cash registers at the market. How is that Literature? What happened to Compositional Cubism, the Art, the whim’d? This must be the wine talking…
So why not pour more? But this be the last of glasses for the dire diarist. Stopping.. perception, object near, about…..
The phone. Plugged into the wall. That should be the only in this penner’s Life. Why do I need this cell? Society’s hold on me; a modernist tech wreck, unavoidable. So funny how people ask me, “So you do this for fun?”, after I tell them I teach at the college level, like what I do at the winery full-time, is somehow tattered, disreputable, lowered. I won’t lie, I think, as I know what I truly want, need, AM. I just get annoyed by the question, but maybe I should reveal as little as possible from here forward.
Jackie’s toy train cars