much sleep as I would have like but there you go, and here I am in the adjunct office at 6:13, sitting for my sitting with coffee and yesterday, thinking of how resplendent it was around the property and how every color was accented in its own way. Not too busy so I did have a chance to react and write a bit, about the winemaking character, Krystal, and other notes of note– But now I prep for the day and the adjunct realizes there’s not that much to do..just some small prep for a writing prompt, the Creative Writing piece they’re to do by next Thursday, and hand in the Hemingway papers and then adjourn. I figure why not.. it’s the first week back from break and I hit them all pretty hard last class with information and prompts and directions, so today’s my treat. I’ll hang around for anyone that wants to meet and dissect the semester’s remainder or just talk about what’s ahead– oh! And the poetry reading/open mic at Redwood tonight.. almost forgot. Should I postpone or stay on path laid? Latter.. definitely latter.
Didn’t write a thing last night and I hate when I do that, just enjoy my night and not write, I always think of what I could have written and what would be on page but I can’t punish myself and I can’t think in past terms and tenses– just keep with the story, I tell myself, and I find now that more and more wine’s finding its way back into the constructs of my compositions. And the blog.. a blog.. bottledaux, with more wine fiction and pieces but then I think I don’t want it drowned or redundant.. just that my character involves wine, the story includes wine but does not in any way depend on it. In fact, many times I wish I could expel it altogether while still at the same time extolling it. Possible? I don’t know, but I’ll keep writing.
Set timer for 30 min, have 23-something left. So no real rush needed. Terribly quiet here in Emeritus, in this office, hear a hum above me. The lights. No heater on this A.M. And I don’t think it’s needed, and I’m glad it’s not on actually as there’s a chance I might fall asleep if it were with its usual hallow metallic hum. Coffee, I think.. more! Sip and force myself into some posture some readiness for day. Tomorrow night, night 1 of my newest writing retreat: dinner and wine and write about it into unfair hours, hours that are cruel on my consciousness and concentration. I’ll have coffee standing by. And a new restaurant.. to try.. maybe. But then part of me just wants to get snacks or something at the grocery, as there’s next to nothing in the house, no one’s fault. And maybe that’s what I need, some meal from a house I haven’t tried. Be a foodie for once, and “blog” about it. And have a nice bottle in cue (may have to get one as nothing at home is really what I’d call “new”). And the Newness is just what I call for, just what the pages demand as they always have.
When I left, Alice and Jack were still deep still into their respective sleeps. I didn’t watch them long or lightly rub Ms. Alice’s leg too forcefully as to not bother either, especially little Kerouac who had trouble last night with yet another cough. Must be allergies, I thought, as he didn’t have a fever or any other noticeable symptoms. I went back downstairs to attire then out the door, to coffee, back to car, listen to NPR, Farmers to 12 to 101 to College to Mendocino to right here where I sit, struggling to sit up straight. Tuesday, managed to run 7 miles on tread after the long day I had, waking at 4:58. Today, I’m thinking only a short run around BV, or maybe not if I’m to do the poetry gathering at Redwood– I’m a mess this morning, even with this coffee trying its damnedest to wake the writer. I wish I were in bed, still, still sleeping, still with the pillows convivially encircling my scalp. 14 minutes left in my timer, what to do what to write what to be this early morning. At least I made it to the keys. I HAVE A SOLUTION! I’ll have the open mic be virtual, on the teaching blog! Yes! I’ll compose a post right after 1A meeting and wait for the pieces to precipitate! That way I can get in my run so I don’t have to tomorrow night, I can just fly home from winery, or to the new restaurant I select, whichever it’ll be– Then the heater comes on, and I automatically think of sleep, what I’d be thinking of in sleep, the singularity and serenity to personal dormancy. Books.. characters.. wine… all tomorrow night. With some bottle, what, Cab? Pinot? Merlot (one of my 12’s that I made?)? All questions. And yes I’m very much overthinking, but that’s all I do and can do is be somewhat manic in this hour (6:32AM). Just writing that hurts, but I know what’s building my character and getting me closer to the Road, like the writer I met yesterday at winery on some writing retreat, sponsored by her publisher, I think, and or one of the wineries (Inman I believe). She told me her MS is due in November, as we sat and talked in the inlet, the table by the brook, surrounded by rocks. She too has a blog, more centered around recipes and food, but she told me her book is about the concept of wellness, and civilly beneficial balance with enjoyment, or “hedonism” as she put. Either way it was nice to have another writer with me on wine’s parcel and I could only think of what I should be doing to get on the Road, what shift in my character habit I can catalyze and forcefully initiate to get ‘There’ quicker. And I always come back to Newness, acting out of any pattern, and today’s prime in such exemplary envisage. Meet with students, talk briefly about writing their stories, again due week from aujourd’hui. Quelle merveille! Un plan! And all for the story and for the book. Didn’t get a chance to read a single goddamn page of my book yesterday, so the 360 pages sit in the thorax of this laptop devil, waiting for me and laughing at my inconsistencies. They won’t be neglected, I order myself with the heater still going and my coffee cup losing its smolder…
Less than 3 minutes. Should look at notes and read Self for the meta-meeting I’m about to hold with the 1A-ers. Over a thousand, already, and feeling like I didn’t write a thing. Hate that. Wonder who has this office after me. Which adjunct. Have I met them? More than likely no. And who cares. They don’t. They don’t know me. None of us know each other in the adjunct pot, or ditch, or hole. And under a minute– concluding. Thinking. I’ll write Dav a letter.. or Amber.. or this new writer friend.. or Lila.. or Mom.. or Alice.. just keep communication and with the characters closest.