Whistling character at Safeway, making sandwiches, nothing bothering him and I mean nothing. I’ve seen this young man with the curling mustache several times before, for years even. A customer complimented him on the mustache and he said, “Well when the place of business says you can’t have facial hair down to here,” pointing at the the sides of his mouth, “you have to make do.” And he said this with conviction, and a wait, as if someone would challenge him and if so he was ready. Loved hearing him whistle and sing whatever songs those were, almost like pirate songs or disney tunes, or show tunes, or some old Scottish verse. I don’t know, I just thought he need be captured and put to page.
About to print the first ten pages of my novel Quarry Swing. Not sure why. Knowing me I’ll get distracted and these pages will wind up in some pile around here somewhere, or at the bottom of the paper stack, or in my bag, or in the trash. But here I go… PRINT.
And here the pages are right under my left arm while I type with this jazz and coffee. Was going to take a nap but no, I need progress, I need to gain on the day, and I am having graded as much as I have, which includes a small handful of the Wolff submissions. All will be done by next Wednesday. No short standalones today, just the blog and novel. Gorgeous outside, tempted to go for a short ride, or even a longer one up to Windsor, or just up to Fountaingrove to imagine one of those houses mine, with a small vineyard in back, dozen rows or so, Syrah, and just write, looking at them approach dormancy, or fantasize about bud break– My next book already talking to me, ‘notes– book1’. A crazy arrangement of pieces, from short stories to journal entries or whatever. And no, I’m not tempted to write like David Sedaris now that we’re reading him in class. DS is a comedian, to me, and I’m not funny. I’m not playing at my age, not even a little. So many at the winery say, “Oh Mikey, you’re so funny, you should do standup…” I appreciate the liking and approval or whatever they’re trying to express but I’m a novelist, diarist, journalist. I’m not playing. My pages will free me from the bloody winery and I will be on the Road recording everything, down to TX over to LA and up to MO to see Dav. Soon. Soon.
This desk, all clutter. So representative of my life I feel, which is regretful, but I can change that, by shoving this one stack into the closet. And when I finally have my office, it’ll all be there, making more room for Jackie to play, but by then we’ll have a house, if the Craft wills…
(11/6/14)