Getting hit pretty hard by allergies but I refuse to let it slow me. Have a mountain of work to get through and over today, and I’m more than enthralled with everything I have to tussle.
The labor itself is my substance, intoxicant, my elixir. Call myself a tireless writer, and today more than any other I promote and put into action what I promise and chant. In addition to writing, I have papers to grade, grades to submit before midnight tonight. Have to fit in a run somehow… put a poetry collection together, something I keep putting off and I’m not sure why.
WHY. Think ’cause I’m afraid I’ll have trouble selling it. Well that’s not an excuse. There will be no exhaustion from me, today or ever. No coffee at side but managed to get down two cups earlier, after little Kerouac woke just after 05:30.
Picking up a check in a couple minutes. In car, collecting thoughts, thinking of everything I want for my family. 2nd day of June, very much a connector to yesterday, day 1, hiking up that mountain with wife. Metaphor obvious, but with varying emphases… staring out at that field, the mustard flowers and other foliage.. no phone on me. I felt free, not worrying about writing, money, getting a run in, nothing. I just charged up that demanding incline. When at the top, we just looked out, breathed, sunk into the moment, just her and I.
Demanding more from my Self, as that hill demanded persistence from my legs. I didn’t survive what I did just to be complacent, be accepting of normality. Already warm outside.. 10:02, and me already having touched SEVERAL intentions. Do plan on getting a run placed somewhere, but I have those papers to grade.. no problem, will turn it into story, somehow. Maybe going to campus, enjoying the quiet and seclusion of the adjunct cell. Home now, quiet with A/C in its motion, and I remember what Jackie said last night in response to my questioning him, “What should I write tonight?” He simply smiled at me and said, “Notebooks.” Loved the simplicity of his answer, and that’s what I need to gather today as I battle allergies from the hike wife and I took up Taylor Mountain. But I have to stay tireless and work more today than I ever have, straight through to 12AM.
Still nursing the coffee from the bank… maybe today’s verse should be about that. Where’s my external hard drive? Okay… find I’m moving too fast, maybe. Get started on next VLJ piece… but, no wine sipped last night, right? No… OH, the rest of the Trecini SB.. a bit one-dimensional and template, but still no problem sipping. Going to organize a workspace on floor— bet you really wanted to know that. But, disclosing my patterns and writer-thoughts… books, Comp tablets.. pens, on floor, near couch. This desk anymore, a bloody wasteland. Sip… colder, but I don’t mind. Weird, woody consistency, and more pronounced that the cup loses its smolder.
Quick and free, maybe a little manic, this written me, today, listening to my chilled “wine bar beats” as I used to call them back in ’11 when I worked in that Napa Marketing office. Seems like forever ago, makes me feel much older than 38. And to make me feel even more a fucking fossil, Jackie’s last day of Pre-K is today. How? HOW? … how. Need to be quicker, more tireless, do what he told you, write notebooks, be free, liberated, more creative with each syllable and character.
Paper towel, crumbled up next to coffee. Between these keys, that cup. Not sure why I find it such a story right now. I throw it away, it goes to some dump, then to some somewhere that I’m sure hurts the planet. So what do I do.. hang on to it? Make art from it somehow? Write about it more? Its shape is odd but widely fascinating to me. Like a cross between an alien face and a swan, and the side of a large gecko’s head. There’s Art in everything, a story in everything— like this part of a toy we bought for little Kerouac when he was much littler. Not sure what it is, but it looks like something that invites a stomp, a child’s foot being slammed down to propel air through a tube and… that’s what it is! It shoots some Nerf-y rocket. Wow.. that was so long ago. Don’t swell on your age… demand more from Self. MORE.
Have to use the restroom but I don’t want to stop with my types. Thinking what else I have to, or want to, do today. If I want to run outside rather than the treadmill, I should do so now before it gets too broiled on the pave’. Day off.. hate that idea. Most just laze, be lazy and idle and do much of nothing. I could never do that. Not that I’m better, but I’m just different. A writer. A TIRELESS writer… opened the Carpe journal, and saw a note about waking at 04:00 to write, and how so much would favorably change if I had that in my written stretch. Tomorrow morning, maybe? I did it the other morning, got out a thousand, then took a quick nap before going to Foley.
Sneezing… You can’t stop me! Sip coffee again and listen to my tracks. This one, “Stroker Ace” by Lovage. Heard this piece far too many times. Need new tracks… need to write new ones of my own. Comp’ Book out, under elbows while I type. And the allergies are not happy with my dismissal of them. “Write through it.” I tell Self. Okay.. well, okay… easier said than done. Such a mess, I’m one. Tireless, tireless… actuate what you advocate there, professor. In a rime-scribbling mood and mode, now. Switching projects. 10:38. Shit, where’d the time go? It flew away, to look at what it’s doing to me. Then go ahead, I already forgot what you said. Your clock numbers are blotched blunders…