Love mornings like this. Where Jack is talkative, unique frequency, an unparalleled motion behind his words. “Dada, wha’ doing?” he says, then runs to his little table where his trains and trucks and cars are. Now the guitar. Much I fear it, he grows; today, back to the preschool, giving them a check; official, he’s in a school, my little boy. Whichever one of them said I should write about this little Artist more, think it was Glenn, well now I have or better see topics, pages. He throws the little soccer ball across the room. His arm more forcible and precise than any other baby or toddler I’ve witnessed. But I’m biased, incredibly. Should have Glenn draw him at some point, or all of us, a family portrait, the one that’s a fixed detail in a story; symbol of stability to which a fiction writer can always return if ever in subject drought. And the illustration’s centered on his impact, this little Jack. He now sits next to me, watches me write as he often does, throws a couple questions whenever he feels it needed.
In excavating through old writings yesterday, I found a couple entries, or notes, ‘cubeNOTES’ as I labeled them, from when I worked at the wine marketing firm, ‘the box’, being stuck at that cubicle– headset, computer, call list, stapler and notepads, pens, highlighters I never used, hearing others make their calls, brag as they made a sale, another, and I just sat there unable to see the outside world– I one time talked to Scott about this, told him how that was the worst time in my “professional” life. He told me, “Great, that’s what you should write.. if it hurt or if it made you made, if it still does, then write it!” I guess he’s right, but I don’t know if I want to immortalize them like that. But I want to break from those percipiences. They won’t help now, or I don’t think it will. Tonight, my second to last class, and I need to shock them somehow, show them something new– as I don’t want to write the same story or entry or poem or anything over and over, same with the lectures. It need be more Artful, my approach, more diffident, more delicious with my scribbled senses. And campus is such a provoking place, why don’t I just write there, but outside, at one of those tables just outside the cafeteria, currently closed. I will. Always a student there, though, or two, just talking, using valuable writing space for flimsy, broken beaded conversation– who did what, where, what they plan to do or say. It’s youth, a part I don’t miss. Like the walk on Del Playa with Alice, seeing all those houses and apartment complexes occupied by students, either from UC or SBCC; all the litter and Charles Shaw bottles on the driveway’s concrete, the walking around, the people just welcoming themselves into your house– privacy’s silly in their world, but in mine it’s become more a fueling tornado of necessity– I’ll still in its desolation or arrest. So if there’s a student, even one, at the caf’ tables, I’ll relocate. And I’ll scribble in the notebook as to be a student again at least in some line or three. Just what rolled into my head and vision and fantasizing wheels while walking the UCSB campus; we tried to get into the Humanities building and the bookstore but it was Sunday, everything shut down, resting like the DP & IV residents from the night before. As Jack watches his train show, I think of the day, the weekend in SB, and what I want from this semester; what narratives I can spin and how separatist I can be and push myself through narration– the end goal, freedom from work, the wine industry, live by my pen and only what I put on page.
The library on campus, not pleased with the summer hours. Inconvenient for students, and leaves me with no sanctuary, yes I could write in the adjunct cell, but the utter lack of exterior connection lately has left me feeling suffocated and blank.
Finishing a paper I started a couple nights ago, on transitions, and how they impact a paper. Went upstairs to print it, but it sounded formulaic, so I tossed it. Why did I do that? I printed it again, and I’ll share it with the ‘100’ class, see what they have to say. I’ll also print that poem I wrote the other day when the power went out. Print print print! Submit submit “SUBMIT!” I order myself, watching Jack sit with crossed legs on the carpet, watching every move Thomas makes on the tracks. Just keep printing. These screens aren’t pages. Submit everything as Glenn said, everything.. there’s a home for everything. And I agree. I text Glenn, typing “Thanks buddy”.
“?” he answered.
“For the writing advice. Didn’t know painters could help us! Ha ha..”
“No prob. and yeah, ha ha”.
9:33PM. After 8.01 miles, the last “regular” class, and observations on campus, I’m ready for the rest of the wine I opened last night. Is this planned, momentary, whim’d or pre-destined, I don’t know, but there’s a peculiar synergy to everything today; Jack with his first day of preschool, or a preview at least where Alice and I observed, then right after I run in the ridiculously early and equally as offensive heat; a nap short after, more reading of Kerouac’s letters [which reminds me I need to write my writer friend, Amber, see how her wine and blogging session went this evening], an email from Mendo assuring that my texts, all of them, were approved. Couldn’t be more pleased with this chapter, but I need to finish my short, still, the one I started the other day– AND, I have to go the Santa Barbara notes, STILL. Why won’t I just review them already? Can already feel the red cartwheeling and circling and divebombing my veins. The message of the day, quite clear: I’m in control. Running into one of the SRJC football players, Jonny, who’s also one of the stockers at the winery, garnished my day’s progression with a whispering lament, not sure how to describe it, but watching them, his team, exercise and play their game while I was walking back to my car just after showing the ‘100’ colony a piece of ‘Secret Window’, made me think of my baseball days, and what competitive sport brings– the healthier compounds; just what I need to push into my paged efforts. Read a poem in class tonight, titled “8/6 Sonnet”, I think. Not much reaction from students, but I read it. As a standalone. So I win.