Just back from a 5.17 mile run, my last before the Foot Race. Not bad time, 8:01/mile average… Started typing the short story, this morning, to my three-shot mocha.. not sure how I want it to end, but I will cap it at 1,000 words. Then, send it wherever I can.. maybe even to the New Yorker– but I’ve said that before. Felt a bit of a scratchy throat this morning, but I’m ignoring it. Warm outside, but not hot, just perfect for my run, clearing the writer’s head before class. Tomorrow, back at winery. Meant to go in today for some Cabernet blending, but the time just wasn’t there. And I wanted to start writing this story, this short about the journalist, David.. how he keeps the camera close to him at all times while out, then writes to what he captures with his lens.
Quiet down here, condo’s first floor, with Jackie and Alice napping upstairs. Both have a bit of a cold, but I refuse to let any bug, even the briefest of stays, stay with me. No class tomorrow night, so I’ll have chances to collect Self, rest before Lawndale and I go at it for the second straight year.
Maybe I should rest my eyes, be horizontal and still for a moment or two..
tonight in class: about writers, how they are…
Walls… her siblings in book
Groups, object of meaning (symbols, metaphors)
What she’s saying in certain parts of the book.. or what she could be saying
4:56PM, and I’m in the adjunct cell.. prepared for class.. Think I’ll get another Racer 5 at the Hilton, think about this new short story. No class tomorrow night, and while at work, I’ll be sure to bring this new story with me, contributing only notes, short sentences.. nothing full. Dad sent me a video of a thunder storm in Sunriver, right over the house. Wish I was there, badly, writing as the flashes encouraged me. These teaching assignments, the winery.. what is it doing? What is it REALLY doing for me? Yes, I get the whole bills notion, reality, but beyond that? How long am I, are we, supposed to be living like this? I’ll tell you.. I’m changing.. all of it.. with this new short story.. I’ll ride the short story wave, then put together a book, or I’ll ride it while I put together some MS.. I don’t know. I’ll just do it. The winery will be the first to go– then the classes. THEN, I’ll be living by my pen, like my character, David, or “Dov”. 5:01PM.. feels nice having this time to collect Self. Sipping a 3-shot mocha, yes again, and I have a bottle of water waiting in the freezer, in the mailroom. My checking account, right where I want it.. and I have a budget for Saturday night’s dinner.. have to have everything perfect that night.. as I will both finish my short story, AND put together, somehow, a sellable MS. I will. This is it. This will be a bold, vicious, and truthful work that will show everyone I’m the writer to read.. and that I’m not in any way mirrored in wine’s floppy industry.
Feel the run, definitely. And I can’t wait for Friday morning. Wonder how well I’ll do.. pretty sure I’ll beat last year’s time. I will. Don’t even know why my mind’s going there. Funny, usually I don’t care for this office, but tonight it very much suits.. need to find a word and quote for tonight’s meeting… Done. And with more than enough time. Rest of night? Well, I’ll now write it– class, beer, home, put Kerouac (little) to bed, dinner, early bed… but not before I have 1,000 rough words in short story’s body.. two objects: one character’s lamp, not used, and on desk, then Dov’s camera… And I’m here, I realize I’m here, a teacher, what am I teach, why.. Self, or at least passionately promoting it, I guess. I have the visions, the visions, of me on the road, and how I’ll get there, what I’ll do when there, how it’ll benefit my son, how he’ll have a more equalled father– one happy, not ashamed, not questioning.. I’ll live in my words, the words of others, I’ll drive over the Golden Gate, back from the airport, SFO, thinking about what I saw, did I write everything I should have, or that I could have? It’s imagination feeding, not necessarily lying, but certainly conveniently creating. Eight minutes to class, and I know the students will have questions, questions, so many questions.. good for them, my studying Human forts, with their journals filling, filling, page addition, I see it in so many of them! This does something for me, believe! IT does so much, something the fucking wine world could never do.. there’s no Beat there, only here, with thought, freedom, no chains or restriction or signs saying ‘go another way’.
Poetry, what if I just spoke in it, all the time, what if I always wrote before I spoke? What if I just drew my language, and told people this was the only way I could think, talk, walk, breath, be, see? That could do something for me, make me “successful” maybe? How about that, I’ll look at everyone around me knowing they know, who I am, that I put my envelopes in the mailbox differently than anyone else, because they’re manuscripts most of the time, not bills. I sold my TV, I don’t want distractions, none at all, only my little boy, Jack, little Kerouac, how he plays and makes new sentences and just IS. Why can’t I do that? I don’t know, but I can write it, I’m pretty sure. I’ll have fun though, and I’ll have this thought tonight, just as I take the first IPA sip, to its last sudsy stroll down the glass’ side, to my professed purpose.
Scrambling to realize where I am. At work. I have to go to work, go teach. But not for much longer. Thinking about my beer, precipitously, with a Zen’d pen.