Day 47 excerpt (no edits)

Saw them at Palooza, told them to ask for Jeff or Teddy and tell whomever helped them that I sent them there.  They, this couple from MI, Detroit, by where Mom grew up, were at the bar sipping Chardonnay from somewhere, one of the Sonoma Valley wineries represented at Palooz.

Poor Alice now doesn’t feel well.  And, like with little Kerouac, that hopeless and helpless feeling jails me.  What can I do?  Is the man of the house supposed to feel this, operate in this vein?  Have to ignore it, let it go like Dad used to tell me.  I look through my notes from today, not many, one reading “zin like a bomb, but even, explosive.. loud but light, tasty paradox”.  And another: “Merlot: soft, deep, persuasive, polite”…  What was it with me and descriptors in this noting?  This was before my conversation with my friend and my time in the loft, around 11:30 when the guests were first arriving in noticeable waves.  I remember needing something to do and thinking of my character and how she sees wine, and the singularity of one character, giving her and entire novel and making her and her novel my religion, for about a month or so.  But maybe she, Crystal, or Krystal, haven’t decided on final letter placements, needs more time.  But there needs to be a time, some bracket, as Time continues to attack me and remind me that I’m getting old.. fucking Time, with its clocks and reminders and alarms and deadlines.. fucking Time.  My beer almost done, and I’m glad, I’m done with the day and with the work concept and the shifts, always shifts.  Be on time for your shift.. When is you next shift?  When did THEY schedule you?  Who the fuck are THEY to schedule ME? I always ask myself…  That 1982 soccer game I saw on the restaurant’s screen last night.. 1982, where was I?  In Boulder Creek, and if was after 5/29 I was 3 years old, and my sister not even 2.  And here I am, 35, upside down, rolling, open and locked.. not making sense but sense is nonsensical to me, at this age.  And whose sense definition are we embracing, I have to ask.

I could apply to that PhD program I read about the other day, but why?  I don’t believe in the teachings of others, I’m aware of and accepting of my location and interpretations and findings, my writings and notebooks and explorations of depths (scubadiving into texts), later noting…  So quiet in the condo, at moment, nearly afraid to move, in fact I am, luckily the refrigerator’s in its usual hourly hum so the typing’s blocked a bit.  Jackie’s things are everywhere, surrounding me, telling me to play more, have fun, who cares about being responsible be an artist writer everything down ignore rules and that includes punctuation.  So what that full-timer piggy grease-smear didn’t like your letter to the students.  He teaches at Mendocino, and has for years, that’s his career anchor.. so .. what can you say?  He’s content with that?  You wouldn’t be, that’s why you left, you’re a writer.. so play, PLAY!