Night. Can I just have quiet? Can I just write? What does the writer do when he, she, is in a mood? Write through it. Acknowledge what it is that disgruntles you and surgically remove it. This day has tested beyond testing me, them more challenge to garnish, while listening to the people who live behind the Autumn Walk Studio part and laugh and not give a shit while I work toward something. Noticing more flaws in my business practice. The more I expand or try to diversify the more I forget— “YEEEEAAAAH…” some idiot frat boy fuck behind my house yells. God I just want quiet. And I mean Alaskan quiet. Nothing around me. No sippers, no coworkers, students, colleagues at the JC, not even my own kids… just still, the sight of snow and a mountain’s eastern-facing side as the sun ascend to wick-light a day.
And the more I hear those voices on the other side of my backyard’s fence, the more incensed I feel. Meant to write salable pieces tonight, but I can’t, not with the mood I’m in, so I write freely, imagine I’m a bomber, one of those planes that just shits bombs, and I’m right over the house behind me. There won’t be any shockwaves, or debris, shrapnel, the house with all its fratboy asshole occupants will be vaporized.
I’m having another glass of that Cab, the one I brought home from the winery. Those people come in so happy and carefree and eager to taste— I want that, I want to be them, but with no other them’s around. Nothing ‘round. Just me, like Kerouac in Big Sur, recording the sea’s octaves and oddly congealed chords
I’m only in the mood to cause trouble, rouse the rabble and talk shit. What can happen to the writer? What would the institution do, fire the adjunct? Feel like I’ve already been fired but still work. We get NOTHING that advances our careers, as adjuncts, while some full-timers just hang int heir office like it’s some kind of contained and elevating spa, taking a nap when in fierce view of passersby— ugh, they disgust me. I need to be the mammoth writer I planned, the troubler, the shaker of so many earths. Seismic in my syllables, in paragraph stormings— take on EVERYONE.
What if this night’s the one that changes the script, the dialogue, stage setting and character abetting? What if I just said ‘enough’ to certain gates? Didn’t walk through them? Just stopped, refused to be lured and walked away? Now I’m certainly contemplative with my musings and multiplying sensory takes. The books present themselves to me, in fronts, climatic, even over the fratboy fuck-fuck’s at my right. God, listen to them, like overcaffeinated goats with only sounds to make, no communication just vomit gurgles and slappy exchanges; comics, I should thank them. And pity them. The disabled, behind my house. I should offer something. What.. a dictionary? Coloring books? Some of my son’s toys?
Where the fuck is the writer’s wine?
Over there on the counter. Don’t want to rise as I’d rather write— OH NO! I’m writing! I could be doing so much else, right? But I’m a writer, and writers fucking write. Next week serves as the final of regular instruction, and how do I feel, torrentially indifferent. This writer’s mood is curving his rationale and realist reap of the real, what’s around him. Yes, I need a sip, NOW—
Just took a full bowl to the face, and I feel not affected but free, looking at an ocean in my head, by myself, free, writing down sounds like Jack in Sur and thinking what’s next. Do I hitch into the city or stay where I am? He should have stayed stationed in that Ferlinghetti cabin, writing and thinking, delighting and driving himself to something from true quiet, to find truth, a void of sound and messages, communication and conundrum. Should have one more touch of the cabernet, then stop with the scribble, the frenzying types, back and forth and reverse cosmic revolution and allusions— why is it so quiet? Those fucking pseudo-masculine puppet-ducks must have went inside. To play some dumbshit drinking game, I’m sure. Altogether frathouse of them. But what do I care, I’m in a mood. And I’m of the mind to say godfuckitall, plainly. And I just might— no, I will.. fuck, there they are again, the frat idiots. Ugh, tonight just gets more and more interesting.