journal, 1/8/14

to self:  It may seem like you’re adding more clutter with all these notebooks, one for each arena, but it’s organization.  And you need to start with this semester– the equation: Big Sur, notes in teaching notebook, giving way to poems in Comp1, which will connect to Philosophy notebook, returning full-circle to the Massamen novel in that black hardcover journal you found today.  Think you listed everything.  Wake early tomorrow and write by hand, did you hear me?  WRITE. BY. HAND.  Like Plath did, under shy light in living room to not wake anyone and be more connected with what you write, like Sal when he was on the Road, stopping where he did.

8:23, and I’m ready for bed, nearly, loving that the nausea side-effect no longer visits me, from this sinus medicine, the all-too-heralded amoxicillin.  Everything’s in a pill these days, and not just for cures or highs; it’s the recruiting, the pills are their documents, but I won’t address that.  In ch 6 of Sur, Duluoz opens by addressing Monsato’s cabin and how flawed it is, but still on the same stroke his source of sensibility, sanity.  “dreamy afternoon meadows” and “wild gloomy sea”.  Precisely what I want for me, my days; I need an escape, and I have one planned, with Ms. Alice, but I can’t note further here, she’ll know, and she reads these entries quite devotedly, with high commonality.  “Allow me to stay here, I only want peace…” This is just why I study Mr. Kerouac and his pages and want to follow his Beat, the rhythm he set before me.  All writers, teachers, have their writer.  And he is mine.  I don’t want to write like him, I want to write FROM him.  And I close, enjoying this last pour of SB, the ’13 I opened last night from Lancaster, a favorite of Mom’s.  My 15k race on Sunday.  Am I prepared?  No.  Should have run today as I noted in my 3 pages but I didn’t and I can’t repudiate my delinquency.  It was a choice.  But it was for the writing so I feel it somewhat remunerative.

My little Artist, upstairs, asleep in that bed that I still envy, he swathed in blankets and stuffed animals and two ancillary blankets and that charming cartoon pillow.  He was so pleased to see me early, before 4.  And I was more than internally cheering to retrieve him, bring him back home to play, relax, tell me about his day.  Upstairs he would tell his mother, tonight, about all he’d do tomorrow, then follow with “What else?”.  Alice and I could only do what we always do, look at each other and smile.  That’s our little boy, and whenever he’s to have a brother, or sister, the material will only compound, probably more than I can capture.  But I don’t have to write everything, some moments aren’t meant to be written, there only intended to remain moments, part of Life, part of the Personhood and the frame and figure of things.

I keep reading, even thought I know I should write a poem for the day, add it to my list of standalones, I want more of this chapter, of Duluoz and his narrative and record of Sur’s scene.  “…it’s time for me to quietly watch the world and even enjoy it…” And that’s what I’ll do tomorrow, as much as I can at work.  But I need to focus on this, me, here, in the nook, no TV, just this book, my notebooks (right), the last sip of SB waiting for me and my family, Alice passed out in family room and J upstairs in that bed I wish was mine.  Alice’s device, the one I bought her for xmas, left, keeps beeping, but I won’t let it fumble my wording, and my recording and recollections of the day; the bookstore, the near-crash on Mendo (can’t believe that lady just darted out like that.. I did have my blinker on, right?), and the run I didn’t launch.  Why, why do I always think of what I could have done better or what I didn’t do?  Negativity like an opiate, like a wine of its own that I know I shouldn’t sip but I do anyway goddamnit.  And the SB’s gone.  Good.  I want to read more and I don’t need that pourable chemical puddle interrupting me.

Interesting what that book did to Jack, and how he reacted.  He wanted it or he didn’t, the fame.  I say didn’t, but it was for him, his story, that was his story– so what’s mine, Mike Madigan’s?  Certainly not that winery, wine, the wine industry, all that brings; the guests, or visitor’s, or customers, tourists, what the fuck are they called?  The setting up; opening bottles and wiping glasses and putting out menus (how exhilarating, how rewarding, I’m fiery in my pride)– and there’s more: counting and noting and the morning meeting which does what–

Closer to retiring the day.  Had my final cap for night, mintchip icecream, and I’m relaxed on couch like an overworked waiter.  And the paragraph above, didn’t want to waste anymore of my night talking about that place, going to be there in just over, or actually under, 12 hours.  Have to make certain I get Jack out of here with enacted haste.  I’ll write in the overflow lot, or maybe the Kenwood spaces, one of them, who knows.  Again, I don’t want to plan too much, that always deflates any possible ascension.  Spilling myself into the next day before it starts, that can’t be healthy, or useful, or —  Imprisoned in my imagination and the visions; my office, the Road, the university campuses at which I’ll lecture…  Clutter with these notebooks and all the notings and projects now that I think about it but I can’t help it, it’s the kind of writer I am.  Was going to watch the news but for what, to be depressed?  TV, die.  Next program, one only I see, as I write, little revision.