4/29/14– And I know. The students, our interactions, that can only be described as Art, and seen so. The songs in my head involve them, and the pages we discuss. The industry holding wine hostage, only an ugliness that would be described in some apocalyptic bible tale, where monsters rule everything, devour whatever the moment allows.
9AM. I’ll give mySelf a good 20 minute freetype. That’s what I need, and the music helps, the day helps, in its youth. I want this novel to be seen as the most gloriously cubist piece of Literature ever constructed, with some straight strands, I guess, if I have to. Do I care if I’m reviewed? Not sure. I mean, I’d like a nice word or 12 said about my writing. But I won’t dwell on that now.
Mad at myself for getting so easily turned-off by the submission guidelines of the lit mags, yesterday, and last night. Can’t let that happen. I’ll be 35 one month from today. And these chapters need be re-inventive. Still thinking about what that lady muttered as Carmen and I passed her at the strawberry stand on 12, when I said to Carmen “I feel something in my right knee.” The lady overheard, chirped “Don’t run downhill!” I thought of the lady yesterday, on the way back from the Fountaingrove hill intervals. Funny how pieces piece themselves together like that. Was also thinking of what Dick told me the other day about one of the Cline daughters winning some writing contest, fiction I think. I can’t allow this, I thought.. some industry heiress suddenly being viewed as an author because she one day was in the mood to write a short story, or essay, or whatever paginated carcass she chose to share with the world.
Poems will be written all day. On phone, posted to blog, just so they’re not lost in the mini-book. There’s still a couple strong pieces there I have yet to transfer. This mocha, has me thinking in Kerouac-esque haiku, playing with form. And I will. The Beat in me, everlasting, transcending, angry, intent. And that’s what has me already on the Road.. my mental Road, the Highway dealing my days. No need to be jealous of Katie, Lila, Hilary, or anyone else. I’m already in mental sailing. I’m not here when I’m here. I’m a Beat, no longer feeling beat.
10:09PM. And with my Merlot, my own Merlot, I relax. Little Kerouac, putting up quite the fight whilst his mother dined with her other mother friends. But I’m here, dancing around in this novel. And my writer friends, L— and Rex, not in any way preoccupied like I. Not to say they aren’t working, or busy, but they don’t fluctuate between Autonomy and obligation, constriction, like I do. I’ll get there, soon. I have to. I’m in a 9th inning mentality, being only one month from 35. That bloody number. I even more viciously reflect after a day in the reserve room. But I had a chance to spend it with real friends, sipping SB when we could. That’s how the writer progresses, my character ever enveloped in whimsicality. Poe condones my tone, I’m sure.
Need another glass of my Merlot. Wonder what C—— would think of this. I think she’d like it. She’s not big on tannin, and neither am I, really. She’d love the floral entanglement, and the expansive middle-lay. This wine has the Literary edge that someone like me seeks.
Going to pour another glass. Relax. Class in the morning. Need thoughts as I approach the end of my book, and as I near the term’s close. Tomorrow, I’m sure something will greet me, new, and move the story in some direction. I pray towards freedom. Today, just the circle, the repeat, the cycle. Laundry life.. how deathly.