Not as hellish as yesterday. Not even close. And in tonight’s thousand, I simply acknowledge the speeded spurt of Life, how it dismisses what it influences, affects. And the one who best combats: the Writer. Sipping a Racer, here in kitchen nook, and I know that that’ll be the only for the night. No run after work, as I was still very forwardly depleted from shift previous, and the weather–with its gusts, overcast, and lowered atmosphere–ordered intermittent red visits with notes into little pages. Tomorrow, 1-on-1’s with students, in both sections. So not much lecturing to write. But more and more, the ‘5’ students are expecting a submission and reading from me, something from this semester’s novel. And honestly, it’s poetry.. the poem that has me centered. Not the paragraph blending.
8:35PM. Right from ‘5’, I’ll hurry to the library, I’m hoping. IF not, I’ll be back here, home, with home-heated coffee and a page or two. Asked a couple times today what my “specialty” was, with Literature, teaching. And, with Fall, I’ll make it quite clear that it’s with Poe, Kerouac. Both are challenging in their own melodic fall, but I’ll take the sentence-by-sentence approach– not just ‘line-by-line’, as there can be more than one sentence in a “line”. And I want students to appreciate the Truth in the authorial voice, as that’s how they can better understand their own voice, as not just writers but students, Human beings.
Little Kerouac asleep, bread in oven. Just heard timer sound, meaning the heat reached 425 degrees. At work today, one cave tour, tasted through many of the wines, and I couldn’t find a note that really took me– for riles of her.. C——. I don’t think she would like the wines– well I shouldn’t say that, really, she just wouldn’t be inspired by them. She wants wines with a voice that commands and demands reaction, with gentle arrangement.
I feel rushed this evening, and I love it. I can smell the garlic bread now, singing from the oven like a previously-overshadowed choir member. I need to cook more– Or, just cook, PERIOD. I need diversify my abilities, beyond just writing, reading, teaching, language.. I want to cook, pair with wine, make more wines, engage Astronomy, learn more about local plant life, animals.. become more aware of the environment… I want to build, everything from a bar for my future home to something for my little Artist; I want to learn to fly, like Dad…
9:36PM– Now, to straight water, and some sweets– only 2. Want to be equal, level for this entry, and the night before these meetings with students. No nap tomorrow, that would be amazing, if I can keep self writing, busy after classes.. or, meetings. There won’t be any formal meeting tomorrow. Would love to go for breakfast at Omelette Express, after ‘100’, but I fear that would only encourage a nap. Should only allow Self a diet of coffee, minor snacks.. like Jackie’s blueberry waffles. Stay in the moment, I tell Self, don’t worry yet about tomorrow. But distraction’s everywhere.. in these devices, conversations with passers (old friends or knowns that somehow path-cross). My truth flexes in this book, the semester that ends, and I won’t falsify: I’m terrified of the last day, 5/19, 15 days from when and where I here situate.
Still feeling damaged from yesterday’s sentence. Should go to bed sooner that 10:15. That way, I can earlier wake, get coffee, and prepare for the meetings with students. If I finish with students, with last names beginning A-K, by 8:30, then I should definitely come back to this condo base, and that would put me here in nook before 9, by at least 10 minutes, which results at least 80 minutes of writing. There, very well.. a plan of sorts, I guess.
Surrendering again to yesterday, over 24 hours later. To bed. Didn’t count Self-publishing funds today as I hoped to. Can do that tomorrow, at some point, I guess– And you know what, reader.. I WILL go to east 4th, to the Omelette Express, or ‘Omelette Castle’ as Alice and I call it, capture characters, imagine mySelf a server, or owner, or frequent patron.. put self behind the counter.. a cook, one fixing plates people become vocally addicted to.
Too tired and too bored with today, yesterday, to finish another paragraph.. but I remember that one night I finished a paper, while at Foothill, for English 46B (I think), nearly earning the highest grade in the class, the “professor” remarked on the paper’s last page.. has me thinking of submission, the act thereof… To bed with aims, quite specific…
5/5/14, home for some writing. I’ll leave in precisely one hour, 10:25. Thinking about the two young doctors I met at day’s end, yesterday, Kara and Pippa. So young, reaching something so noble, special. I revisit my progress, analytically, and consider the next action.. how much longer I want to be pouring, how much longer I want to be around wine, and how much longer I want to wait.. for ANYTHING.
Remembering the KY people a couple days ago, on their sixth or seventh winery, offering a “derby tip” in substitution for tasting fee charge, then when I said I didn’t gamble, ever, the older man, father of two pudgy boys, asking if I was Mormon. I’m still having trouble making the connection, have lost my perturb with his words, but now appreciate his character, for how ignorant, loudly stereotypical he was, is, and how their world is so different from ours here. But, plainly, I don’t want to deal with that anymore, those drunks at the end of the day, people thinking they’re so acute since reading some wine tasting tips or varietal “facts” on wikipedia.. why do so many get that way over wine… WINE! What’s so bloody special about wine? And a winery that I always drive past on my morning ‘commute’, with a sign screeching “Meet the Winemaker!”. What’s so grandiose and significant about meeting a winemaker, like he or she is some kind of special sage? I’m just rather incensed by the whole of it, wine’s world, anymore, and after meeting the two sweetly spirited physicians yesterday, I want to test mySelf, surprise my inner conversation with a new turn.
Meeting with ‘5’ students this morning, more rich that I projected. All of their stories, so unique and detailed, covering so much emotion, thought, reflection… Not sure where to start, but I took some notes in the Comp Book, for each student. “I’ll write until May 19th, 7AM,” I thought while walking across campus to the C Lot, where I have to park now as to avoid another of their petty tickets. I’ll be well past 202, and I want to use every minute of material I can. I warned a couple students this morning, “But don’t be too hasty, you still have a couple weeks of story left.. something could happen that would change your character.”
9:37AM… Need more coffee. Jackie woke early this morning with a fever, and now is at Mom’s house. Had a 4-shotter this A.M., and now I’m on Empty. In a moment, though…
Poetry, this semester… My return to the form, and furthered appreciation of Kerouac’s mentality and voice has me seeing more in mySelf, my potential as an Artist, that I can reach altitudes, like anyone be they youthful or more down their days’ avenue. It’s in my head, from waking to work, and I can shake it even when I try. But I never do. Too much obsession in the pace, the musical mold of my lines.
Already have to think about leaving, back to campus for meetings with ‘100’ students. After, haircut, then maybe a nap, or should I take mySelf out to lunch, something nice.. I deserve, right? Running on track today, right? I’m OVERthinking… Let the story talk..