Morning two with no Kerouac.  Still not favoring these mornings.. I need his voice, his quickness, his play, his questions, his new sentences.  Starting on this first cup of coffee, and I’m thinking about what I can do with this blog, and the writing paired with photography, moderated photography.  Going to drive out to Russian River, and I think to Dry Creek.. maybe get a sandwich, write, take pictures.. be a journalist, on the Road– granted these Roads will be local, but I’ll be mobile nonetheless.  And that’s what any writer should be.  Or any writer like me, anyway.

6:53AM–  Thinking about last night’s session with ‘100’, and how Gatsby’s written, the omnifarious arrangement of Fitzgerald’s words– more than poetry.. it’s like a revolving color wheel, one that’s hard to follow but the reader can’t help but enjoy the struggle.  I’m there with Carroway, Jordan, everyone, at the party.  Now I start a party of my own.  The run I planned for today will have to wait.  And on that note, a lady came into the TR yesterday, saying she recognized me from the runner’s group, and that I was an amazing running, which is more vocal gust motivating me to even closer link the writing to the running.. so maybe I should run today.  Just for an hour.

Cup one, nearly done.  Cogitating over me, at 35, where I am.  No job out there can give me the career I want, it’s clear now.  I have to build it mySelf.. so I’ll start with printing the chapbook, rush edit it today.  Deadline, deadline.. due date, due date, as my students would think.  Then, to the Road.  I’ll run later, as Ms. Alice told me it would be cooler today, hight of only 81.

Going to type the 35 Laws today, make sure I follow each one.. and have a daily reconciling of my adherence to my own laws.  That’s why I wrote them, right?  I mean why else would I have assigned mySelf that project?  Starting with.. ‘a poem a day’.  Writing one now, reticently not, however dumbfoundingly expository.  All my work should be that shape, that Literary Shape.

Before launching, I need jazz, lots of jazz, music to make me more musical for the day.. and only the Road, I’ll look for all the music I can.  Nothing will be disrupting or soiling my mood this morning.  Nothing.  And no one.


Feverish to get my day TRULY started.  Second cup of this Darker than DARK French Roast, and I’m thinking about the morning air, outside, how much I want to taste it, the start to my day.  In pajamas, in present, so I’ll look clownish, but I’m thinking of the day, all I can do with it…  The birds, can’t hear them.  John Coltrane has my attention, indivisibly.  I should go out now, get pictures, report back.. quick teeth brushing, some jeans, and GO.  See how the vineyards are waking to their day.. are they as optimistic as I am?  Are they in similar state, are they writing in their heads?  I should go..

I’ll be right back, reader…  I need follow this impulse, this pull, this drive, this galactic go-round.


9:22, back from drive to Russian River.  A couple photos of note…




But none that really gripped me profoundly.  Entertaining my run, now, get it over with, then return to write more, go through these photos AND older ones, see what I find, any inspiration or new directions to take.  All revolving around wine, the character, and characters, in wine.  And how it affects and influences us as characters, parts of a story, whether longer or shorter fiction..


Computer giving me grief.  Making a call to a winery’s GM in a little under an hour.  Going to get mocha.. may walk.  Yes, I’ll walk, clear head even more so after relaxing drive down Piner, Olivet, then Fulton– I mean River.. Road.  New chapter, I’m hoping.  I need that Newness.  So in true out-of-character form, I’m walking to get my morning mocha.  I’ll run at some point after the 11AM call.


11:48.  Alright, no more distraction.  Had call, we’ll see what unfolds.  I’m tired of this, though.. the chasing, the negotiating, depending on others.  Why is it so hard for a writer to be free?  You know what…  I should go tasting, examine wines from my angle for me, for the sake of doing so, find what life I can in those pours.  Why not go up the street, to Matanzas Creek.  Mocha done, and I feel even more frazzled than I did before.  I need to clear this desktop, be able to stretch, breathe, think, and with items circling me, rotating like a bully solar system, I get stuck, blocked.. and I used to not believe in that, that THAT happened to writers like me.  Need a drive, again.. where do I go?

Nearly noon, so a decision has to be made.  Made a gesture to de-clutter the closet, left, but just re-introduced the clutter to where it only moments before sat.  So no progress.  I had to write, I thought, keep the typing in tandem with thinking.  But I need material.. something to write about.  How about a winery I haven’t visited in a while, or ever.. like what– no, keep it simple, just drive up the street to Matanzas.  Then get lunch.  Students, tonight.. rough drafts due tomorrow.  Need to bring the Walls book.


4:27PM, and I’m in the adjunct cell.  Tonight’s class will be relatively brief, probably about 1hr 15min, as I want them to have a chance to make progress, significant advances, on their rough drafts, that we’ll workshop tomorrow.  Already had my iced 3-shot mocha.  Now I’m thirsty.  Is there a vending machine around here?  Asked my students the same thing last night, one of them, Clarissa, even volunteering to find one, or search for one with money supplied by me so she could buy both herself and me a cold something.

My bag.. too heavy.  Walking here I thought about the type of writer I want to be, or the one I am– as it’s too late in life, my life, I feel, to ‘want to be’ something.  You either are or you aren’t.  I’ll fill this bloody Comp Book, even though space is becoming more and more limited by passing days…  Just looked inside its borders, and it’s a mess, a disaster.  I need a new notebook, Composition Book, again.. ugh, again.  Then I will get one, post haste.. this will serve as a new start.. to one of the 35 Laws, stating ‘less tech’ or something to that effect; actually write, as Kerouac did, even though he was a master typist.. but I need to capture, capture.. two full-timers in the conference room, grading placement essays, leaning back into their chairs like royal characters not acting, so sure, so self-assured, so right, always.  How do they know what strong writing is?  Because they’re full-time?  That’s insane.  I don’t want to teach much, anymore, I realize, but want to write– but I have to be on the Road.  Well aren’t I already on a Road?  My Road?


Okay.. heading out of this cell, looking for a bottle of colder than cold water.  And after class, to the Hilton bar, with my Comp Book, something for record, for this new book, for any book, or maybe just a sketch (had that idea today, to collect sketches, of people, places, objects, thoughts, dreams.. anything…  Wine…).  The Hilton bar, from what I remember: dark, shiny, rustic but modern, space-age with the light pulsating slowly from counters; and all the guests, happy to be there, happy with themselves that they’re there.. at ‘The Hilton’.  Chic, suited, celebrated, and seen.  Disgusting, the vanity, but invaluable for a book, for my book.  I want these people, these self-anointed boobs, to act as obnoxiously as they wish, it makes better material.  They’re mine, in that hotel bar.  All.  Mine.