Loft Writing, 12/9/14 (minimal edits)

Spent too much time downstairs deciding what I’d sip with this session.  Well here I am in my loft with my pour.  No rain and today, just slow but painfully, I don’t know why I haven’t noted anything, not a single detail or character or tonal shift in day.  First sip, not bad, not what I usually have–  Two characters: couple from SoCal I think, lady telling my she’s retired and that a friend of hers kept journals and now has a book out, if I listened astutely or recall correctly.  Either way there was a Literary mention.  Already thinking about how much time I have left.  Goddamn time and what it does to me and how it governs me, I should be focusing on the fact that there’s a regular seated table up here, that I don’t have to sit at the counter, on the tallboy chair.  And this, what I sip, taking me away from here and the fact I’m a t work, a working day.  What should I note when back–  Well, what I really want to talk about is something the woman from LA asked me, something like “So where are you taking your writing, Mike?” I should keep that secret, that I write, as I hate being asked anything about my work or what I’m writing or what my newest interest and effort is, but I invite that on myself so I can’t blame her.  I told her ‘novels’, obviously referencing my ‘QS’ novel, which I will animalistically edit starting tomorrow.  I want that pageblock out in the world, right in front of everyone.  Another sip.. Bend, Oregon, the house in Sunriver, the weather, and on weather’s note: everyone talking about this “storm” that’s about to hit.  Why?  It’s rain, maybe some elevated wind.  And?  I relax for a bit, looking around my loft, door to the office close, with that translucent window letting in what light’s even partially ardent outside.  These clouds letting nothing in.  The season is for writers, not that we can’t write to sun, but we, at least me/the New ME, prefers rain, staying in; to coffee, espresso, or this, what I sip.  27 minutes left in sitting, or till I have to be back, so if I budget 7 minutes to get back into the TR’s walls and zone, then I have a solid 20/19 minutes for my words, and my thoughts of a wine bar/operation of my own.  I’d have to have my sister in on it.  She’d have to help in a number of areas, especially if the shop is to have our own label, like ‘A’, the guy who owned the store next to the box, downtown Napa.  I remember I used to go in there and just look around, stare at the bottles and pretend I could buy some for myself, those higher-shelf projects, the bottles over $100, $200.  But for what?  Would I really be able to tell the difference?  And if that yahoo in Sebastopol can do it, then…  Love the wood feel of this loft, and I love hearing the people downstairs– people, people, it’s the characters that push the story forward, so naturally when there’s no one in the TR but us, I become a little uneven.

17 minutes.  I relax, slide into this moment forgetting about angst, the drive tomorrow morning, one of the last.. yes, I’ll have to drive up there to drop off papers graded and maybe for something else, I don’t know, I’m measuring/mentally budgeting 2 more trips up there after tomorrow.  And 2, no more, not a drive more.  Think on the last trip up there I’ll stop in Hopland to taste at one of the Rooms, see what wines they offer and what kind of feel, what encompassing and pervasive, persuasive, character exists about the room, the room as a character– ROOM.  I need a Room, and office to ME, I need be given a little Room to write, operate diaristically the way I like.  Haven’t had this since .. can’t remember.  I calm and become equalized further, not caring about much.  Think of Bend, Dad, how he and I talked about that River walk just outside the brewery, again calming and intercollective.  I need more than a vacation, I need be given ROOM– no, I’ll take it.  And Time continues to fly away, just remembered I need time to edit this sitting and it’s more of a meditation or like the lady said at the bar, “affirmation”.  And I affirm I’m a writer–  I don’t want to teach, less appropriately monetized, I just want to move my pen–  Dad the other said, firmly and in his Philosophy major conviction, “You’re a Writer.” Cozy up here in my loft, MY loft, my space to write and be a writer and act like a writer, not downstairs with the public, I can’t see a single character right now and I explode with thought with reflection with Art, the bean counting buffoons don’t get this, why we are, why we write and log thoughts like this.  I think of my students and their ambitions and how in class they have everything before them.  Their notebooks/journals, and some binder, whatever text we’re addressing.

9:16 left on this clock, or phone, or clock.  How many times do I look at my phone for the time, does anyone else find that odd?  Think I wrote about that yesterday, a poem I wrote while the 6PM section was workshopping their essays, each other’s work..  If you could see it up here, kegs, the bar, the empty bottles on the bar the seated tables the tallboys and the painting behind that small bar–   I want to go stand behind it, think, act like a tender, imagine I have one in my home, the house I’ll move Alice and Jack into.  I want to image then actualize.  And publishers can do that.  What if I left early?  Could I?  Should I?  One of the other FT-ers always does that, complaining that it’s too slow and that this is a waste of time and that they’re going mad being there when no one’s walking through those ridiculous doors.  While I empathize, we all deal with it.  But what others think and mention doesn’t concern me.  I just use it for page, confine it to composition.  Five minutes to edit, and I don’t want to overpolish–  I want this to be simplistic and raw and Truthful like this loft, like this pub, like what I sipped.  Outgoing notes, dialogue swirls that I can’t sort, too many talking down there, if only I had more clock to me, more space…  More ROOM.