6/4/14

9:01AM.  Clocking in one minute late.  OH well.  First thing on day’s list, and I do have a list, done.. emailing a student not happy with his final grade.  Now, I get to write freely, but I need music as I always do.  I think of Kerouac, his writings, and he was never in home, while trapping and recording.  I need to write offsite, but where.  This Room’s far too cluttered for me.  Thinking I should go downtown, to Peet’s, something new.

 

9:21.  I need to speed up.  The mocha wearing off, leaving cup.  And I don’t feel “it”, here, in the condo’s “comfort”.  So I have to leave, right?  I have to go where the material waits, lies.  I’ll finally use that gift card that Mercedes, a former student from Fall ’13 English 5, bought me.  Need to keep the Beat motioned, jigging about my vision and senses…  Stopping for a second, calming.

Think I’ll stay home after all.  There has to be something to this confinement, something here, something to see, touch, hear maybe.  What else can I do but just keep writing, more than obsessively, just sickly, me in a wee series of inner-reads.

Just printed another poem for the book.  I’m ready for the day, now, but I want to type more of the loose poems here in this room, and the three I wrote the other day.  I need these poems DONE, printed, ready for sale–  Hate that I use the word ‘sale’ in conjunction with poetry.  Poetry’s above sales, selling, sales campaigns.  I’m not a bloody “numbers guy”, I’m a writer, poet, ARTIST– SEPARATIST.

 

Just printed another one.  But I want to go for a drive, up the street, into Bennett Valley’s AVA, or somewhere different to write.  But that won’t get these pages printed–  Staying here, but I’m rejecting what’s around me, all this clutter, all these items that weigh me down like a furrowed anchor.. I won’t listen.  That’s simple.  But I’m going to keep with my current thought curl, and I know I need more coffee, and the distractions of life’s reptilian stroll pull at me.  But I ignore it, and I’m like this at 35, ignoring bills, appointments, and so what, what does it matter?  I’m a Beat, I’m the Kerouac disciple, just riding my own Road– so, as it happens, I don’t need ‘the Road’.  I only need my mind, my fantasies, the frustrations that I can turn into full joys.  I’m thinking of wine, drinking it from a hotel’s balcony–  I need to throw the old papers, from past semesters, away.  I don’t want them looking at me anymore.. I will see that balcony, and I will be on a Road that will gift me stories, stories that I will translate–  I won’t have to beg for solitary teaching assignments at the JC, or apply for some reeling tasting room post where I repeat, repeat, to sell, for Them.  I’ll be free.  And no editing needed.  It’s just a pour of persona, my paragraphs mummified in truth.