Double coffee brewed here in home, Jackie playing, Alice readying for her spin class, and a dastardly day ahead of the writer. Not even a handful of us in the Room and several appointments on books. But this could be an opportunity for me, the writing, the current book, somehow. Check yesterday wasn’t bad, really. Still not what I want to be making, but it’s something.
Read an article yesterday about getting up at 4 to work-out, and how it starts the night before, a few guys in a men’s health mag testifying to their methods and how they do it, how they’ve BEEN doing it. Last night, I needed to relax, having a glass of the remaining T.R. Pinot and the last of the SB which amounted to about a glass. If I set out everything tonight, running gear, charge watch for running (“Garmin”), socks and shoes, open laptop and have it charged, I should have an advantageously story-shifting set of moments come morrow—
new character: young girl, photographer, working at bar in the city (SF), selling a photo here and there on the side to augment bar pay, tips, but nothing getting the attention she needs. She’s only 21, but she knows what she wants, and the aim is singular and admirable— to photograph the world, all of it, even the parts where people say she shouldn’t go; that’s just where she wants to go, see, the suffering and pain and expose what humans do to each other and how it’s monstrous, inexcusable; she, Jewel, as well wants to see beauty of the world before it’s ruined by man; jungles in southeast Asia, South Africa, Yellowstone, the Everglades— she wants everything in her lens; she recently did a couple pieces she exhibited in SF, about the city’s Mission District, showcasing the beauties and dimensions and richness, and LOVE, of Latino culture, titling it “The Mission is LOVE”. To her disappointment, she only sold a couple prints, but received high laud and compliment, love from the community—
Just writing about this new character idea has me thinking of changing my modes and exercises as a writer; write like a photographer, collection of snapshots, stills, portraits of people, things, places, create from more punctuated and precise singularity. Wake earlier like photographers, write like them, examine my own work like them hunched over a shot with a one-eyed magnifying lens.— huh, just hit 80,000 words in this document, titled ‘bottledaux, 2016…..’ So why no book? There’s one coming. Don’t go down that thought road, just write, gather later, enjoy your shots: Jack, Emma, this street we live on, Russian River, Dutcher Crossing and what it’s done to me and how I appreciate and see the wine world. Yesterday I built material with writing prompts and the isolated adjectives upon which to build, some of them being scribbled toward the end of day: ‘decided’, ‘layered’, ‘ravishing’, then a couple others I can’t read (hate when I can’t read my own scribbles—).
9:05 at Hopper sbux, should have ordered a straight coffee as I was initially compelled to do but I went for mocha, then waited which cost me I don’t know how many minutes, now I’m in the corner of the side nook with a wobbly table. My price for not waking this morning at 4. Listening to Hutcherson and he motivates the writer to just keep typing and ready for a busier than busy day. But I’m not thinking about that now, this is my moment and set of moments, thinking about my character and her photographs, selling them one by one (or at least that’s her ultimate aim)— again teaching me, more than my past characters (Kelly, and I can’t remember the other one). Kelly the painter was interesting but I couldn’t see her backstory, where she came from and if she even had a clear aim or sight for herself.
The 3-shot mocha’s hot and I need to temperature adjust with everything; my teaching, writing, lectures, blog content, photographs, and see wine as only something to enjoy, not stress over, ever. Odd smell in this corner, what is that— never writing here again, ever— Moved. Homeless person’s articles were next to me, so now I sit next to someone else with a laptop but I don’t think he’s a writer. ‘Fact I’m sure he’s not. Busy spot this A.M., so many with a day off and I envy maybe a bit but then them pity a bit as they don’t have this, words or some elevated passion or fervor that coerces them to work at any opening seen. That’s one thing I can declarative punctuate about this Self: he writes with every autonomous second, each tiny tick and clock tock.
18 minutes left for the writer, so he types like a mad hatter, a mad character from wonderland, entirely endemic to me and my mad people. Another man enters nook, see first table to wall’s side, more awobble than the one I had, then he goes to the one I at sat, not liking lighting, nor smell, so he leaves. The day’s story, this day, one of singularized and focused expansiveness, a lecture to itself and of its breadth and bravado— so what’s the point of the day’s lecture, its thesis? I have to wait, but far as the writer can discern and calculate, to heighten the fire’s reaches, make my prose and verse more energetic, eclectic, electric, like this Hutcherson song, how the mallets hit what they hit and maybe there’s harmony, something for song, and maybe the opposite. But there was movement, there was something done, there was an effort.
She looks through her pictures in the few minutes left before having to get in the shower, do her hair which she’s in no mood to do, more than likely will just tie it up, back. One, of a boy playing with a soccer ball in an alley to the side of his family’s restaurant.. another, of a spilt garbage can, a rat approaching cautiously— last, of an elderly couple, man with his arm around his wife, but neither smiling, police car blurred behind them. She closes her binder, laptop, writes a note to herself, “More street material, what the streets have in them, on them, what they’re made of.” She takes one more look at the binder, sees the shot of the old church on that one street, can’t remember the name— then her phone jerks, message: “can u come in early, trisha didnt show thx”. Her eyes, roll, roll, breath, to shower.