thousand words from today’s 3 pages…

Writing retreat in reverse, the kind I need honestly.  No wine distractions.  Listening to those chilled “wine bar beats” that I used to on the lunches I’d take working at the box, crossing the street to the Roasting Co, but it’s distracting, this music set, I feel unfamiliar.  So, remedy: jazz.  Ah…  There.  This morning is about getting closer to New Mike.  Have to budget for the new printer and the gifts I want to get Alice, Jack, Mom & Dad, my little sister.  This desk and its clutter, not “getting to me” today, at all.  Even the filthy laundry room here in the complex; dusty, gray, unsettling, I’m always in a rush to leave it, but when so I drag one of our clothing articles unintentionally across the interior vent or whatever it’s called and get some of that lint shit on the piece, be it a sock a shirt, one of little Kerouac’s blankets or what.  I hate that room and it’s always the sun in my motivating spirit; sending ires of fire and explosive forwards into my prose.  In my head writing in there this morning, just before Alice left, telling myself I’m going to put more money into the house fund, a huge part of this New Mike, and what a problem pummeled away: getting my family out of here.  Oh this jazz, this retreat, just what the writer needs.  Still very much feel the run last night, on that blasted belt.  But I have enough in me this morning for a jaunt, I don’t know about the 13.1 I intended, but certainly something meaningful.  Need to get rid of– sell or give away– some of the books in the closet, make a section designated for my Kerouac research and exploration.. hate that term, “research”, so clinical.  ‘Exploration’ I much prefer.  I can’t get over how renewing this feels, how Transcendental, being up this early (current: 6:15AM), jazz and my coffee and these words, which are begining to bore me in their usualness.  Don’t want to just regurgitate a thesaurus’ innards, but I need more in my arsenal, in my salvo and cache.  This goddamn closet–  Finally spoke to Katie’s wine compatriot at SSU, yesterday.  Interesting opportunities but it’d take from the writing, and it’s just another form of the adjunct cell they keep us in.  Can I make it work for me?  I don;t know.  She did mention and interesting idea, this lady, Liz, and it involved writing press released for wine, new wines and releases.. but to construct a whole semester of such, that’d be a stretch from me and it’d take a tremendous momentum from the writing and the Kerouac reading and me as an Artist.  And at this age, I can’t I’m afraid.. I’ll email her and mention some ideas, but kind and passively apologize that I simply can’t at this point.  I will be grounded and consumed, incarcerated by my Literature, my Beat.

After this page I begin my clean, the one I intended to do that night Alice was away but became too relaxed and lazy with that Lagunitas Ale (only one bottle, remember) and a touch of my Merlot.  This morning, it’s a cup-after-cup approach, not to exceed three.  If I developed an immunity to coffee I’d be devastated, but I’ll impugn that feasibility with the staunch conviction that coffee’s my entrenched ally in this marathon writing of mine to free me from the clock, from the blood job notion.  Was reading a piece in ‘Atop/Underwood‘ where JK talks about having a job and how his aversion to the job expectation pushes him.  That’s me, especially this morning.  Approaching this page’s lowest tier, so I have to start my de-clutter, if I don’t now I’ll never do it, I know me and my tendencies, ones that will always frustrate me.  My first cup, just deceased.  Second already in cue downstairs, but I’ll hold for now.  If the first sign of lethargia show in the next halfhour, then I’ll fly downstairs for my caffeinated aid.

7:02, done with desk for the most part– next I take the roaming writings as I call them, scattered sheets and notes and expressions forgotten till now and I’ll put them in this containing holding the Eng 5 Spring ’14 papers.  Then I was thinking of getting ready for my run, just get it out of the way, maybe a 10k in the spirit of next Saturday’s race.  Something.  Then when back home, coffee, shower, or shower then coffee, or make the coffee put it on bathroom counter so I can sip right when I get out.  Reiving today of massive material.  Legs weak now that I analyze, and think about what this structure, this aging frame is saying to me at the moment.. can’t remember how cold it was outside when I tended to the laundry.  But I’m sure a bit brisk, maybe a little bit.  So I should wait to run, right?  The story tells me now that I need more coffee– looking at all collected in the closet and all that I have to now throw away that I should have thrown away months ago, sickening.  Why do we collect so much.. shit.. stuff, this evil clutter!

7:29, back from a break and I reason to forget about de-clutter for a bit and just write.  Was going to skip out on run but I can, I have to run, as running is writing and I want to smell the wet pavement and the richness of what soil and dirt even mud surround the streets I choose.  thinking I’ll do my old “big daddy” run as I called it.  After I finish this second cup.  Shouldn’t have brewed it but I noticed myself getting tired.  And if I feel a crash coming whilst in stomp, I’ll slow, and just enjoy my run– “Just forget the numbers, and just enjoy your run..” as I chant to myself many times between leg reaches.  Have to be at Mom and Dad’s in just under 5 hours– (12/5/14)