Day 1, done. One thousand word standalone short piece… DONE! Now I can rest. Didn’t think I’d have it done today, tonight. Didn’t have a chance to take a lunch, write as I wanted. Was in the new patio area at the winery today, friends from MN visiting, thinking of moving out here. Good for them, I remember thinking, taking them through the caves. Didn’t taste a thing today– well, that’s not totally true. Had a little SB, the 2013, but that’s it. Thinking I have something else to write tonight, but I think after this journal type I’m done. And I need to be. I need to rest, collect. Leaving for campus tomorrow at 3, promptly, maybe earlier to grade, get my thousand word daily piece done, if I haven’t already.
Need a glass of water. No wine tonight. I need focus, I need the discipline of a Hemingway, or Plath. No thing that unlevels my balance tonight. Was lovely to be back in class with the students, talking about the book, ‘Glass Castle’– And now I fall, start to succumb to the exhaustion, from day, from the group I was unexpectedly assigned and had to thief for, answer questions– but they did pose some challenging ones, on soil type for example, in Sonoma Valley. I provided a general answer, which I’m learning now, looking up Sonoma soil types, was more evasive than anything. 11:01PM, I should get to bed now, more of a chance for me to early wake, take inventory of the standalone pieces I’ve recently accumulated.
7/9/14. Little Jack playing behind me on the couch, telling me to move, then laughing. Already with two cups into the circulation. Today I’ll need it. 18 papers to grade, plus a lesson to plan. I’ll grade some here, while helping Alice with her daycare duties. Having more than one toddler, or any other baby, child, infant, anything in this house stresses me–
And here they are, the two additional babies. Have to write my way through it. They’re beautiful, these other two, so sweet and playful, but it makes for a crowded corner, indeed.
5:12. Adjunct cell. On word 590-something of the day’s 1,000 word piece. Looking forward to a nice full glass of something red when I get home. I deserve it, and I need it after today. Thinking of novel vs short story, but I’m sure that all writers tackle this– no more tackling. Just doing. Red wine, making it.. writing about it, and what it does to the people sipping it, how it looks in the glass, depending on the glass you pick– how it smells, tastes, feels entering your tangibility.
These full-timers, grading the placement tests as if they’re some high writing authority.. what do they know about true writing, what it is to be a writer.. and who are they to judge one’s Life notes, experiences and trials? Look at them, the two of them, sitting in that conference room, at that long bloody table, with the eraser between their trapjaws. Annoys me. Want to combat them on page, see how they stand in a writing ring with me. Listen to me, in my Hemingway mode and pose…
5:20.. should plan the night’s lesson, which revolves mostly around the closing of Glass Castle, introducing Mr. Wolff and his book, ‘This Boy’s Life’, and maybe another of those writing activities from the Nat Geo picture a day site. Want them writing, as soon as they walk in today. On my way to the Room, thinking about my glass of Red, how it’ll feel, and what I’ll write to it.
9:25PM. And my first session on this new couch Alice and I had delivered today. Mexican tonight, from the restaurant by the Starbucks we see as ours. Sipping an ’11 Bordeaux style blend. Just poured night’s cap, as I don’t want too much, had small glass with dinner. Tomorrow, the long day, and I’m going to not write a thing, but rather live, and whatever I remember’s worth a page. And with all the grading done, today thankfully, I can write when I land on campus, even if I stop for my coffee, or mocha– and that’s what saved me tonight, with that paper stack, believe me.
A little over 400 words for the daily thousand project… Watching that interview, or lecture rather as that’s what it truly is, with Mr. Wolff, has me rethinking everything.. read more (which was on of the 35 Laws), and imitate. His thoughts on imitation were, are, fascinating, frankly. I love Kerouac, and Hemingway, and Plath, so I should appreciate them through adaptation, or a certain adoption, if you would.. and in the wine world, what could or should be more invited from a writer, especially with all these people and their funny questions– oh, one from the other day: “Why would a wine person drink beer?”, asked by a lady with whom I dropped into a conversation, against my astute throughs, telling her I drink more beer than wine when out with industry friends. She just couldn’t let it go– she nearly accused me of being odd, a traitor.
This couch, not as friendly to the writer as the other one, ones, we had hauled away by the Salvation Army. Feel like the cushions demand more posture from me, more seriousness, but what if I just want a relaxed sitting. The new pillow, right, under elbow’s nice. Alice asleep upstairs, little Kerouac too. Me, not far behind. My glass in kitchen, on counter by coffee machine, as always, to make the glass longer last, but that’s not the best approach tonight. I need to wrap it up, be done, timely. So much space down here, with the other couch, the sofa seat and ottoman gone. Like I’m in a new house, new stage… The Newness I crave. Brilliant! Another sip set, and I’m listening to a lone cricket outside the front door. He’s more persistent than any other bug I’ve heard this summer.. he’s pronounced, quick, sharp, metallic sounding, and pounding. Not sure what he wants, possibly speaking to me, or other writers in the complex, but I’m quite sure I’m the only one– or at least the most obsessive. The blend, forming a new branching in and on senses– chocolate, dark, earth, like a syrupy soil or something. 9:42, and he’s still leaping in his notes. Wish I had his confidence, this undetectable bug. All the toys, clothes, books, blankets on this new expansive area, first floor spaciousness, like ruin from a day-long war. But I have to give victory to my wife. Even after the other two littles left, she had the intro-collection to get the two orders of two tacos. We ate in the nook, where I usually write at night, when based, and discussed the remainder of our respective days.
9:45… not sure how much longer the writer can stay awake. Hemingway would probably just write about.. well, whatever. The red table that’s still at left, with the white, cherry-adorned cloth atop, and the wooden tower, or house, or column, not sure what it is– well it must be some type of inhabitable placement, as there’s a roof– don’t mind me, I’m writing till I see the Road, telling my students I won’t be taking next semester’s classes on account I’m free, and my own pages did it for me. And now my attention fades, symptom of the tired, and now the wine. Bonne nuit, mes amis!