On same couch but different structure. And what’s going through my head? Everything. Everything of life and chances and possibilities… With this new house and the writing.. had an upgrade instituted for blog, to deem it a “business blog”, as I couldn’t upload or post any more photos as the media memory was full. So now the Bottled Ox is a business man, one writing and now needing to live from the writings.. Alice leaving early in morrow so I’ll write somewhere in this new structure, and where, backyard or front patio? Backyard would be lovely but I don’t have any chairs.. so maybe upstairs, on bed.. need coffee… where’s the nearest café? Let me think, on Hopper? Not used to this side of town, so that’s Newness. The Newness I’ve wanted and still want. Sipping the rest of that Porter Creek Pinot.. lively but a little oxygen contamination. Can’t believe I’m here, that we’re here, the Autumn Walk base. Driving home from the Crawfish event at Arista I thought about the two words: Autumn. Then ‘walk’.. To walk autumnly.. meaning with calm cords and frequency.. Autumn, then Walk.. so “Autumn” is the modifying lens to my walk, THE walk, the rhythm and consistency of Life, the living of it all.. so the writer thinks, and overthinks it further.. the what of this new walk, my AUTUMN’d saunter.. a new chapter and novel and story– wait, I know what to do in morrow.. I need internet to post the Kosta Browne narrative.. so go to nearest café, do that, then write freely– this new beginning and new castle promises so much to the writer, now I see more, and in this sight and freedom and Newness I know what’s before me, finally: the ROAD. MY students, present, past, would most be proud of the adjunct, shedding the adjunct chains and being what the others only TEACH but never do: actually write and live from the writing and see things that are only written and dreamed of: the dreamed BEAT– me and I don’t stop ‘cause if I do I die. And I’m not ready for that finality, not even faintly.
I feel like I’m in someone else’s house, housesitting or even haven broken in, invaded, but this in mine, ours? How? So much to cognitively sort and conceptually gather, and how, when– The writer’s dumbed by the Now, and the Newness.. need another sip of the Porter Creek Pinot.. hear Michael Browne’s words again and trap myself in the interpretation.. the river, the barrels, wine, and colors– shades and tint and deviations of perceptive promise– again, when, what, when again?
Dad set up a workbench in the garage for me. And there I will aim to be more crafty, crafting, but I’m sure I’ll use it for writing. AND, my sagacious and instructional patriarch attached [if that’s the proper builder word] a beer opener, perfect for the novelist after a day pouring or adjuncting or just when I need something alongside a blank page. 10:06, in our new house, and I know I should bed, and I will.. hopefully waking early to come back down here to the couch and more write– be that writer that capitalizes on the new, the Newness.. the novel comes and soon finishes, and I can see more wine and travel and thoughts harness to pours and the reds I enjoy– Pinot and Cab and Merlot and Cuvée I made in ’12 with Blair. I just see something tonight, reader, that’s all I want you to know– and yes, as I always do, but tonight it’s different, I indulge in the singularity of the house’s significance and that I have to pay for and support this and I’m more than motivated to– and what a story! What a rile for this diarist! Thinking of where I was five years ago: and adjunct, two classes, I believe at NVC, and pouring PT at St. Francis Winery. And now: a writer who just won’t stop, that’s admirably obsessive and in the novelist’s coma, the page churning: words being my opiates and simply smattered in artistic sense. Yes this is a ramble but it’s delightful, a dimensionally taciturn exposition. Contradictory, I know, but the multitudes multiply and I’m mulled in my muteness, as I need be– wine wine all the wine time!
So quiet here… In the condo you could hear the speeders on Yulupa, driving up towards Bennett Valley Road or West (or North) toward Hoen, or 12. This is all strange to me, this new house and this Autumn zone; quiet and family-geared and cozy, close, comfortable, equation’d.. so now what, I’m here, with the Newness and structure I sought, but it’s only plausible and attained from Mom and Dad’s intervention– they intervened, and intervention, like there was a problem– my nihilism, ME: Nietzsche, just for a second–
Wine gone. And I see how much I adore that nothing’s turned on yet– not TV, no distractions, no noise, only these words and the session– yes on a laptop but still, reader, only words. I yawn, seeing what is and what’s not and that I can’t stop in this first session. Can’t wait for morning coffee, for the rush of writing early here, in this new Walk, this new roll, rhythm, BEAT– me in this chair, hearing motions new and stories tha tI have to translate: all the children on this street, no knowledge of life or what is or what will be, and I envy that but don’t mind observing– life, LIFE, I tell myself.. hear Jackie.. he’s uneasy with this new place, and I don’t blame him, not at all, me too, but I try to write, try to translate, boxes, everything in boxes, and off and odd items next to me on couch; a printer and stuffed animals and pillows I haven’t seen in months. Where did these come from? Where were they at the old place? And how did they get here? WHY are they here? They have priority, prominence? I’m lost, not at sea or in this new neighborhood but in my own thoughts, even with how confident I am in the singular approach.
session 2, morning next.
8:03 and everything’s a first this morning; Jackie coming into our room (yes he slept the whole night, waking at 4-something and calling for us but then going right back to his dreaming).. and then we getting ready, teethbrushing, showers and dressings and arrangements other: first waffle, first goodbye with Alice driving little Kerouac to SAC to see his Grammy and cousins and aunt Jenn in from DC. And now me here with my Miles Davis and coffee and the laptop, here in the kitchen, on the island, island writing if you would in my Autumn’d slowstroll.. and everything’s about a type of piece for me now here in this collection, couldn’t stop writing even if I wanted to, and soon all these neighbors will know me, my family, and that I write, and that I’m always writing, and what will that do who knows but it will happen, this new synergy with elements atmospheric, scenic and conceptual and tangible. Have to get in the shower eventually, but not going to concern Self with that now– this log, or diary or journal, blog either way, now a documented business.. I need to get that overhead back: my first goal. Post both this narrative and the KB article when at Arista, first thing. Next week, last of instruction regular, and what do I do but build for the coming terms.. another 100 section this Summer.. the first meeting will be discussion, of Life and what motivates characters and what TRULY pushes the story forward. Again, maybe, just an idea, and just something for the adjunct to entertain, listening to Miles play– and jazz like that, jazz in this morning and in this coffee, a large like I get on T/TH mornings this semester. Slight scratch in throat, may be a cold or something finishing its novel but I won’t let it be visible, no publishing no slowing the writer this morning or ever again.
In this new house, the Autumn Walk office (ha!), I set new vision in motion: no distractions, and more more MORE writing from the novelist, or writer, or diarist, whatever I am, I just write– and I’ll write more directly from and toward my character.
Brainstorming for day: pick one wine and write about it all day. The RRV Zin, ’12. $45 price point and wildly musical and harmony’d with initial sensory contact. I’ll pretend it’s my wine, that I made it and that Arista’s featuring my work, my writing if you will, in the tasting room for the day. And on the note of selling wine, I think I found a way to sell wine online– may cost me a little with initial startup but I think I may try it.. do additional writeups on bottledaux and sell from this other hosted site. Stumbled across it yesterday and didn’t have enough time to investigate, as I met these two delightfully charming ladies from the city, and wanted to better know them, AND.. turns out they have a writer friend, one like me, writing wildly and quirkily about wine and the reaction and the enveloping story.. no nihilism about Mike Madigan this morning, or ever again! And this proclamation not so much any kind of ‘first’, but certainly the renewal and the fact the renewal is being voiced and written and venerated in this kitchen, in the new base, in the first of I’m sure thousands of islandwritings, it very much is it own shape of ‘first’.
And for class Tuesday, both sessions: 5 pages is that magic mark, I feel, no matter the aimed-for size of the MS. Five is when you know you’re serious, when it, the writing, has life, that it’s a standalone piece, that it has voice and conviction and its own punctuated and individualized flavor about its pace and progression. But the maintenance is the myriad, where so much can happen.. and oh that thesis, that centralization, the core of your conviction, so what now to do from here? You all know I value singularity and building upon those solitary ideas and words and images.. but there’s more, so much more.. the piece itself, and your motivation for composing it! Imagine yourself reading in front of a crowd, a group of concerned people, be they students or citizens or professors, or just unknowns in a crowds. Deliver your position with not only confidence and authority, but an enveloping love of your own idea! Show the reader these five pages are YOUR five pages, and read them with vigor, with unusual connectedness to your topic!
Just some introductory thoughts for Tuesday… What else can I fit into my remaining minutes? Technically only one, as I should be in shower at 8:30.. but I don’t want to stop with my types.. a story, a short piece to submit to Alma.. but she said she would call me and didn’t. Probably busy, I’m sure, so no blame.. just heaping eagerness on my character’s part, and it’s not just part of my character but the whole and the whole is a wholly riled writer with this new chapter and new base and slew of ‘firsts’, the new scenes and dialogues that will change everything– so official with the blog being a business, right? Not so.. just more urgency and I need to not slow in my writing ever anymore, so minimize wine intake, as alcohol only slows the writer goddamnit!
I let the remaining Syrah fall into my character and I just thought. About everything. I felt like I should be having some seismic and revealing revelation but no. I just sipped. And that’s it. No swirling, even. No ‘nosing’. And none of that horrid slurping they did. I couldn’t even listen to myself do it. So just sip. And I did. Thinking of the bottle, the label, how I chose the bottle ‘cause of the label. And there I was, just sipping, and looking at the label. And living in a chair. Spot for me. With a deeply convincing varietal, and type, and Time, and rhyme to everything in the room. The wine wanted it this way.