6:05 the next morning, and Ms. Alice is off with her running group, in Howarth Park, or Spring Lake, or Annadel, or all. Not sure, but I’m down here for a Hemingway session, here on this new couch and I can only think about what I want from Life, what direction I want it to take and how much more of this infernal industry I can take. Going to gather all “professor” materials today when at work, or here I at home– I mean, I can start now. Looking for positions all over the country. Moving out of California wouldn’t be my first choice, even to Southern Cal or way up north in the Siskiyous (did I spell that right?), but I need to make these scenes more watchable– and I always think about that, ‘if this were a movie or even a novel, would the observer or reader still be observing or reading?’ Not sure at this point, if you want to know the truth. But my wife on the other hand, getting up so early to run, training vehemently for her half-marathon in October (think it’s October), I can only find that impressive. Outside, from what I can see, the above is light blue, gentle and thin, barely sneaking through the blinds. Would get some coffee, but I don’t want to wake little Kerouac.. he already stirred a bit, moaning as if telling us to keep it down, when Alice left– and I find myself parched, in any event. Water sounds better– chilled, clean, thorough, light water. So neutral, so kind.. not rushing your heartbeat like an impatient five year-old who wants to get out of the department store or grocery isles and just go home and play. Have to write to students.. and this time, I’ll print it. Not posting to blog, especially when talking about Tobias Wolff, his writing, his characters, how he arranges his paragraphs, keeps his readers, observers, connected. That’s what I want, and I think moving away, whether to another part of this state or Oregon as I was looking the other day would be an beneficial development in my story. ‘My story’, don’t know why that makes me laugh right now. There’s nothing funny about it. Little Kerouc still asleep… I think of him, what he depends on, what he deserves, and he certainly doesn’t deserve this character– you know what I mean. I hope.
No poems from me yesterday, think I wrote mySelf away, like my wife runs around that lake and through those eastern Santa Rosa woods. I exhausted mySelf, should spread the writings out a bit more, but that’s not my style, I like the way these keys sound when I push them so fast, like I’m rushing to the novel’s last chapter, and that’s why I need to teach, share ideas with students– ‘cause I don’t want to gorge self on them, it’s unhealthy to keep them all in like this. Just looked through the last couple day’s writings.. so much, have to bind it, otherwise it’s wasted, just writing I or no one else’ll read, ever, again. The water calling me. Why am I so dry of palate, this morning? Didn’t have that much wine last night, and now I think, I want to stop with wine and beer altogether for a while, study the changes in my character, and just see how long I can hold the abstinence. My mind will be cleared and I’ll only have the words to elevate me and give me some alteration of view. Now the clock tells me it’s 6:24, and my wife is probably miles into her run with her running group. I’m jealous, but I’m running in my own way, still in a bit of dark as the early A.M. rays can’t seem to get through this room’s sun blockade. Can’t wait to go in tomorrow, to the winery– a winery!– and tell them, if offered a taste of something, that I’m not drinking. I can see the jokes coming: “Are you pregnant?” Or, “Are you on your period?” Something my close male allies would voice, as they always do with other things, like– can’t think right now of precisely what. But anyway, this is a new author writing today, and maybe I’ve said that before or at least inferred it. But I mean it this time. I’m angry. And as I wrote on the Literary rushed lunch from Saturday, it’s ‘irreparable’. Just looked at my cell phone for some reason– why do we always do that– or why do ‘I’? Should start writing for students, what ideas I want to let free with them, for them. And just like that my fingers stop. A couple chirps from a solo wandering bird, some ticking noise so strange from fridge, and some random clicks or bells from this laptop– I hate this thing. So unnatural to writing. Kerouac didn’t have one on Big Sur, Plath didn’t have one for her morning sessions, and Hemingway sure as shit didn’t have one in Paris. I like very much this bad mood, this even vision, the precision as a writer, a new writer, a new kind of Beat– one sans vino or anything else slowing him. Wonder how many miles Alice has logged– and how many words I have above this very line. Nothing else drops into my senses but this very session, so it’s all I can write about, other that wishes I can catalogue for you.. Alaska, Colorado, Paris, Spain, just away, away from here with little Kerouac, Alice, a backyard for him to run around, create his own worlds, be free. But we’re here, for now. I’ll fly us away, I promise… Just looked at phone again, and my “word of the day” from Oxford Dictionaries is ‘middlescent’… “middle-aged, but typically holding the interests and actions of those younger”. This has to be a joke of some kind, I thought. My next through was, “Can’t I catch a fucking break already?” Think I need that water. Maybe my brain’s dehydrated, needing replenishment, or something. Just looked, no FT postings for Northern California. But I’m not stopping, and really my goal today is to, again, regather my materials, to be ready for the postings when they begin to precipitate. ‘Cause that’s really all I can do. And honestly, like someone else said, I’m glad I didn’t get that job at the new Glen Ellen winery.. the devil you know vs the devil you don’t, or something like that– no, that’s it. 6:51, and Ms. Alice still runs, and I just listen, now hearing a crow from across the street, he sounds far away, some traffic now, well more than earlier. Can you imagine living like that, your whole life, working, just doing what you had to do because, simply, you HAD to do it? I’d rather be dead. But then I couldn’t write. So nevermind. Three minutes to seven, and I start to tire, but I had my Hemingway session, I made it happen, applause, and the day’s in my rhythm, to my standards, so far. Taking Jackie to his singing/music class then I go for MY run, which’ll only be 4 miles, give or take– maybe 5, tops. Have to gather all these professor app materials, and give a couple of the schools a call.. Solano, Mendocino, Marin’s Dept Chair… And the fridge comes on. Now I’m hungry. Knowing Ms. Alice, she’ll bring home a mocha for me to give me a boost and “thank” me for “letting her” go for her run, when, A, a ‘thank you is hardly necessary as I see her running habit as only inspiring, and, B, I don’t “let” her do anything.. she can do as she pleases, always! But she phrases it that way, for some reason, I think a consequence of the sweet character she is.
Now my thinking floats to Grandma, her last sentence to me. “It’s YOUR life.. you have YOUR choice.” (7/14/14)