…jumpstart the writer. This jazz that I always play just momentary like my thoughts and this moment is mine, mine. Saw my friend Jeff and his wife, owners of Palooze, just enter for their daily setup, prep, counting, cleaning, and what owners do. His start: hotdog stands. Seriously. That’s it. And now, he’s Autonomous, answering only to himself, and I guess his wife. She, kind, loving mother and wife, so welcoming and hospitable and vocal with recognition, saying “hey good to see you” and “welcome back, how was your day” every time. Can’t see even a pinch of the Mayacamas. The fog and low clouds demand them first. Selfish but I agree. I would too. Feels so wrong going into the winery after more than a full day of teaching, writing, thinking, exchanging ideas. My lecture last night on a new way to interpret Kerouac’s title, ‘On The Road’ definitely catching the interest of the students. What would I grade myself for week 1, honestly? ‘A-’. Yesterday was strong rich and continuous.
…poet, or journalist. Wonder what my journalist amigo Dav’s doing, over there in MO. In class no doubt. Or still sleeping, if he tended bar as he said he wanted to. He took classes at the JC to satisfy some gentle and innocent wonder, “what would it be like, that’s what I want to know,” he told me before he left. He’s a noted photog’, he in no way hungers for that check, or the tips. He wants the story. Is he going to start writing more seriously, frequently. Is he going to submit? Whatever he writes? Will he be another who does it, leaving me, me here alone, working FT at a goddamn juicemill and teaching 80% commuted between two campuses over an hour apart.. while.. while… Maybe I’m awake. But I’m envenomed. Oh yes I am. And I’m also that kind of writer.
…vision, or dream, or ongoing wishlist. And I won’t be brought down, by anyone or anything I’m just going to keep writing I won’t even let punctuation interfere with my intent.. I’m hellbent in my own telling tent. Just keep this writing going for my students, show them that their teacher or instructor or professor, whatever they call us now can actually DO and not just teach, that’s quite clamant about me; there has to be a point made with my pages. And one– I hate tech. “It’s evil,” one of my returning summer students said the other night, quoting me after I asked them, the summer returners what I thought of devices.
I need a female character, one new, one different, a sudden extempore inamorata. I’ll call her… What. Don’t want the name familiar to me, at all. So… Lela. I always loved that song, and the name.. so there. Lela. So what does she do? Where is she? What does she want? Square one design from beginning and I need all wits about a composer’s core. I want to be obsesses with this project so that when I do meet with the nucleus columns they’ll notice a new me in ME.
If I could fold or shape or reduce my writing into some kind of an average like with baseball or some win/loss record I wonder where I’d be. Part of me’s afraid to find out, but there’s something to be formed there, I’m sure. And as this beer leaves my CNS, I wonder what to do with tomorrow’s run.. do I do that same tired old Lawndale route or do I shape something different in spur? I need to touch seven or more miles…