journal

I did it, I did it!  I finished the standalone piece I began last night, the piece of flash fiction.  Even edited it!  No procrastination from the writer today.  So far, incredibly strong beginning to Sunday, which would be my…  OH yes, I don’t have days off.  And I don’t want them.  I’d have no material if I stopped moving.  Could retreat into my head, but that’s not the type of writer I’d prefer be.  On second coffee cup, still wanting to write.

Planned run after work.  Not sure how far.  Thinking five miles, maybe more.  No, no more.  Having 5 be my magic number.  OR, I could do that 7 mile run I did the other night.  Want to charge that device, so I can get some reading on my time, maybe listen to some music while dashing.

Also tonight, organize grading books, materials, do some grading as well.  Not letting Self get behind this semester, not even a single stone’s toss in time’s debt.  Already September’s end.  How is that possible?  Time catching me.  But I run faster.  With recent news of a sick uncle, cancer of course, I can’t afford to pause, go back to sleep if Ms. Alice offers in morning, when Jack wakes.  Stay lucid, sip coffee, write write write–

Brewing another cup of the medium roast Ms. Alice bought her writer husband.  Diligent in these reactionary revolutions.  And if I’m to see Stanford, they need be unplanned, whimmery, spontaneity’s storm.  I don’t have three or six years to write a book.  I don’t know how any writer, regardless of genre thinks they can afford such.  Constant Create, my mode.. and to coffee, yes please.

Wish the rain would come back.  Better writing weather.  But the A.M. chill currently set just outside that front door, within which little Kerouac and Ms. Alice walk, up the steepness of Woodview with her friend Lori, her daughter Addison, sends me into portraits, observations.  Oh Mr. Capote.. how I’ll never be able to release you.

And to the coffee–

I’m wrapped in my own

thinking–

terminal:

writer life..

survive to

die–

finally quiet.

(9/22/13)

Bench Approach

9/3–  Three days into the ninth month.  Progress, that’s all I’ll allow mySelf to see.  Today’s lectures, reflecting same.  Into the morning’s first coffee cup.  Alarm sounded at 5:15a.  I woke, tried talking Self into a write, but went back to sleep.  Just need to keep Self in habit of waking at that hour.  No evidence of last night’s Chardonnay.  So pleased I forced Self into those two heated cups.. though I really wasn’t ‘forced’, I’d say.  And anyone knowing me, knows I’ll always side with coffee over wine.  Always.

Anymore, wine’s distanced from my sittings.  From me.  Yes, I’ll have a couple occasional glasses, and there I’ll leave.  Want to be speedy writer, not one altered by some chemical compound one shoved into a bottle.. and self-boasts an Artist.  I don’t align with those shapes.

Planning the 1A section down to the minute, tonight.  Needed.  Saving Faulkner’s works for session’s end.  Going to move backwards, in a manner, I guess you’d say.

More coffee sips for the writer.  More cups.  Thinking of starting the 5 session with group activity, refocus on community.

 

11:46am.  In a student lounge, on third floor of Doyle Hall, just a couple doors down from Eng5 Room.  Ready for class, finally.  Finishing 3shot mocha, thinking about rest of day.  Want to get haircut, but don’t know how I’ll fit that in.  If I drive straight there, I may be able to squeeze in.

Hear several voices, steps in hall.  Think class is out, the one that was being held in our Room.  What do now, this writer?  Return this device to car, settle in Room early.  Beat them there.  Want to travel light throughout term, stay speedy.  Feeling uneasy in this Room, unexpectedly.  Need air, walk to car to shed this screen, these keys.

 

10:25pm.  Depleted.  No wine.  Running tomorrow morning, alarm set.  Also planning for jaunt with Carmen later in day.  Think I have the writing routine that will finally finish these projects for me.  Flash fiction, very much a part of the 41-page piece.  So lovely to capture moment in little space.  More comfortable for readers, I think.

TV on mute.  Pleasant, finally.  Don’t want to hear anymore voices.  Done4DAY, definitely.  Only want to note a bit on character [Kelly] before sleep.  Her studio, her wardrobe.. simple but artful, sightly, chic, splendidly situated.  Her music, wine affinity, end-aims.. everything.  I need to know her better.  Saw a short piece I wrote about her in 2010.  Not bad.. but I need to give her more life.  Ask mySelf the most detailed, unexpected yet precise questions about this young lady, who hasn’t left my Literary image levy since I thought her, back in ’10.

10:30pm.  Only allowing Self 10 mins more2WRITE.  But I don’t think I have the energy for that, even.  Price of a long day.  Not sure I want to write much more.  Have to put Self out of writer’s tilt, and into runner’s.  Only want to do about 3 miles tomorrow, if I can.  Then, 6+ with Carmen after work.  My 7-mile uphill rush through Annadel, only 5 days away.  This run, to be my most hardy test.  Not at all worried.. as I urged the English 5 students tonight, in the Pedagogy blog post: balance.  I’ll set reasonable pace, budget my intervals, sprints.  Off to bed, for morrow’s run.  One last sip of sparkling lemon water…

 

9/4/13–  Woke at 5:15a, but no run.  Should have at least written something.  Shame, this morning.  Sipping the café mocha, wondering what’s ahead of me in the tasting Room.  Not in the mood, honestly.  Jack, over by window singing.  A dollar a day, like Uncle Scooter.  Going to restart that, immediately.  Get my house, our house, and free’d from this HOA-ruled condo complex.

After work, won’t accept less than 7 miles.  Or 6.. 6 miles, more reasonable, as I haven’t  had a rewarding run in some time, it feels.  Tomorrow morning, again 5:15am.  If I don’t run, then WRITE, you bloody writer.  Write something.  Anything to keep you awake, used to the early rises.  That’s the issue, I believe.. I’m simply not used to such a harsh waking.  No wine, that IS helping with me actually coming to clear conscious when alarm sounds.

Also bringing newJournal with me to work.  Will write in break room while lunching.  Poetry, this next class set.  Also, a couple assignment handouts.. one for journal sub1, other for essay1.  Semester, moving quick.  Need to intensify my writing efforts for my treasured sections.  Especially if it’s to carry me to where I need be.

Outside all boxes..

offer to students–

instill, don’t let them be taken

by others at

class front.

teach them to speak,

louder louder.

No gray.  Sky, bluer than I’ve seen in a few days.  Should be playing with little Kerouac.  Why am I writing right now?  This is obsessive, addiction.  Activity like I don’t know.  Yesterday, a colleague called me “quite an active writer.” Another compliment, like Crystal’s the other day.  I’m only enabled, empowered.

 

Flash Fiction notes–

“Where is Tom?”

“I saw him a couple minutes ago.  He said he was going upstairs, to find some older vintage or something.”

“Good.  I hope he gets lost.  For a while.”

“Why, what happened?”

 

8:13am.  So far, day’s pace, all to the writer’s favor.  No 2nd cup.  Not yet.  Want to get this collective entry past 1,000 words.  All I can think, this morning.. poetry.. notes…  Antithetically full-sentence.  Tired of convention.  I know precisely what I want, what I need to have full Equilibrium.  And I know how to get it.

I will get it.

Downstairs, going for 2nd cup.  All I want from today.. material, and exceptional run.  If for some reason Carmen can’t go, as she hasn’t been feeling well of late, I’ll go by Self.  Lawndale– actually, a derivation thereof.

With 2nd café mocha.  Reminds me of the hot chocolates I used to get with Dad, when  I was a lad wee, in Sunriver.  Miss the times up there.  Would love to have a weekend to Self, or maybe a week, see what I compose.  NO WINE.. just caffeine.  There, by the Deschuttes woods.  Time 8:22am.  Letting Self leave at 8:50-8:55.  No music on.

Sometimes I need

it

that way.

Silence for more introspection.  Not ‘psychoanalysis’, as we discussed last night in class.  How else could I word it.. introspective interrogation.. meditative mediation– huh, somewhat take to that word arrangement.  Will check with students, see what they think, what wording they prefer.

Much I don’t want to, should stop with these types, re-read these entries, throw onto blog.  Simplify, I keep telling Self.. simplify.  Before I leave, I’m throwing away three envelopes that came with past bills, that now litter this finally-liberated desk’s top.  Another thing 2do:  plan term’s vestige, all the way up to week 18, or 19.. however many we have.  Want the students to know precisely where we’re headed.

And they

will.

 

blogs

chapbooks

book by semester’s end

albuthology1

7/8/12 — Again, hunched over, typing.  What if I just stayed home, wrote.  Or better, called in on the way to work, stopped at a coffee spot to work on mss [manuscripts, for all non-writers reading]?  My Friday, this Sunday, today.  Already past 8a.

10:42pm.  Proud of Self.  With the exception 2day’s above lines, wrote almost exclusively poetry, today, while at winery.  Finished a 16-line piece, wrote a couple additional rhymes when back home.  Retiring to rest early, aiming to wake at 5:15a, Barleycorn-like.  Again, only verse.  Tomorrow, only goal, 3 poems, printed.  Could be pieces I wrote a while ago.  Doesn’t matter.  From now on, 3 poems printed per day-pulse.  Now, rest.  Sipped a little more more of last night’s SB.  What a colorful display of a wine.  Need to buy a couple more bottles, when these chapbooks can fund such.  Bona sera, reader.  Thanks for being so patient with this ever-impatient Artist.

7/9/12, Monday.  However, Saturday, to me.  And so happens, back to poetry, almost exclusively.  Not so much experimenting with subject, meter, or rhyme as I am FORM.  Different length lines, stanza lengths, what have.  On my 3rd coffee cup this A.M.  Resisted compulsion to get the expected morning mocha from that coffee brothel.  My friend Lacey, however, did give me that 12-pack of assorted beers.  Excited to try some out, as I’m again tiring of wine.  That SB last night, however, has me more than eager to produce a bottle of mine own.. the one I WILL produce this harvest with Kaz.

So after these morning 500, I’m going to time mySelf on how quick I can scribble a verse.  Why?  Not sure, just something I want to try.  Another avenue to explore with verse, spoken word.  Overcast outside, but it won’t be ‘round long.  The news this morning promised temperatures in excess of 95, for week ahead.  Great for grapes, assuming canopies have been managed appropriately, but not so for the writer.  Want the rain to return.  Also saw on this morning’s reports that a baseball game in Texas was stopped due to lightening strike, loud thunder clap that made players scramble to their respective dugouts.  That would help me–those sounds, rushing drops–my paginated mood.  Never knew how to handle heat, as its relationship with my pages go, at least locally.  Now, when I’m on the road and temperatures elevate, and I’m by ocean, sea, lake, even river, I’ll know how to respond, as will the pen.  But this, here…  Need ideas.

Just had memory flash.. that guy in the St. Francis tasting Room I saw pour for himself.  This was in ’09, well after 4pm, and this character had definitely enjoyed impressively proportioned tastings till that point, we all knew [we all joked, guessed how many other Rooms he’d been to, prior].  I remember telling him he couldn’t do that, and that we both could get in trouble.  Then, went to the other end of the bar, well away from where he was by the entrance end, to pour for some other visitors.  Just as I returned, he did it once more.  I merely warned him again, brought the bottle behind the pouring bar to the back counter, which I should have done the first time he offended.  Not sure why this leaped into my Creative absorption, but I’m enjoying the image again.  What could I do with this, if anything?  Either way, you know, reader, what I’m thinking, seeing…

New music, low, in Room.  Jackie, asleep.  His new sounds indicate he’s trying hard to, getting closer to actual communication.  Or at least I think.  He already shows persistence as a character, determination, inspiring focus.  I credit him with my re-immersion into poetry’s cradle.  This first little album, or collection [anthology?], of verses should be done by Wednesday, when back behind bar.  Which again makes me wonder, how DO writers spend 3+ years on ONE project?  I’ll never get that, at least with how my thinking works, with my process, with my speed.

characters from yesterday: Canadians, telling me how they lived in Italy for five years with their children; how they loved Italian blends, varietals, especially when paired with authentic Tuscan dishes.  Made me think of what I would write, exposed to those elements, interactions, images, tastes, “pairings.” [9:46am]

inoculated into

1:06am.  Still awake, writing.  Going for 2am.  Well, I’m justing letting anyone actually reading that I COULD write for another hour.  But, more than likely won’t.  And I shouldn’t, really.  Need to save some fluidity for the before-work-writing.  At the side of a coffee cup.  Made an ATM withdrawal today, put some into writing stash.  Wonder how much is in there, although it doesn’t really make a difference as I don’t plan on touching it anyway; not spending any money to have my art noticed; one reason I’m not funding/going forward with the chapbook, putting more blood into this “blog.”

Already nearing 1000 words.  How is that possible?  But, more crucially, 3 pieces.  For recital, reading, performance.  Can I perform prose?  If I want to.  If you’d listen.  Would you?  Could use another glass of that ’09 Cuvée I was sipping earlier.  It’d wake me up.  Or least tilt my mental, usefully, dutifully.  Sleep sounding tasty.

Hope I dream to Paris.  Or Belize, or somewhere else I’ve never.  I’ll let you know when back consciousness’ corner.

9:29am.  Wishing I would have tried for 2am.  Could that be qualified as “surrender?” Not letting my Self think that way.  Rocking little Jack’s bassinet with my right foot while typing.  Makes for an odd rhythm [finally spelled “rhythm” right for once on 1st try, there.]  In tasting Room in just over an hour, and I couldn’t be more ready to write absolutely every detail that greets me.  Notes, only.  Going to make an angry effort to avoid sentences.  Time, more than simply “precious” with my life’s current stage set.  Mr. Little Kerouac requires a daunting portion of my hours, so it’s difficult to write in extended sittings.  Which is fine, as I wanted to write shorter, more stream-of-consciousness adhering pieces anyway.  The standalone’s, saving me, getting me closer to the road.  Speaking of Kerouac and roads, travels, writings, intellectualism, poetry, much else, I’m going to bring Kerouac’s novel with me to work.  Not sure I’ll read any, have a chance to, but I’m making mySelf bring it.  Viewing the act of carrying it to the winery a victory.  Many warned that a child would disrupt my writing habits.  Constrict, cripple, confine them.  Not at all, trust me.  I’m more focused, strategic, confident with my pages.  I’m fine with not completing a novel anytime sure, with this poet/songwriter-like approach to my work; writing in the moment, riding the consciousness river, wherever it leads.  The not-knowing’s the boon for the material.  (9:45am)

6:02pm.  Back home from tasting Room.  Thick crowds, all ready for wine to keep them warm in rain’s return.  Outside, an swarm of police officers, helicopter combing skies overhead.  Makes me think of another genre.  But, don’t have time, now.  Maybe later, when I can afford the time.  Just called SRPD, they told me someone thieved a car, ran from squad cars.  Weak plot, can’t write that.  Want to write a murder mystery, something Basic Instinct-reminiscent.  Rain, still in swing.  So I write with little Kerouac being rocked in his little bed by my right foot again.

Tonight’s wine, the remainder of the ’09 Cuvée from last night.  And more spoken word.  More song, rhyme, cubist writing.  Should do something with the notes I took today in the wine Room, all the dialogue lines from guests, and a couple from mySelf–on I voiced about Cabernet Franc being the crotchety old man of Bordeaux varietals.  No profound, certainly.  But memorable, for me.  Time to revisit that ’09 cuvée.  Sips needed.

My days extended, in ways so blended; see strays ascended.

Precipitation in my station. [3/24/12]

3/26/12 – No typing on 3/25.  But, I did write yesterday, on the side of Chalk Hill Road, before AV shift.  Finally.  Had always wanted to do so, and in the painting-perfect AVA.  Wrote two short standalone’s in my car.  Will I post them here?  No plans, now.  And I hate that word, “post.” So digital, inartistic.  Looking in my phone, at all the pictures, makes me feel behind on writing, like I need to write following the captured stills.  And in the “blogosphere,” posts that don’t have at least 1 visual aid receive criticism quicker than entries bringing solely text.  But that’s not Literary, picture-depended writing, of any kind.  I don’t write for the photographs.  In fact, I want to reduce the presence to pictures in this “blog.”  I want more writing here, from me.  And there will be.  And if anyone thinks there’s too much, then stop reading.  I won’t be bothered, believe me.

Already over 500 words this morning, after writing a rec letter for one of my favorite students, Sarah H.  She, along with the Stanford Law student from Saturday, atop several other moments recently, have me redirecting towards the classRoom, studies, the Ph.D. notions.  Was thinking this morning, I really only want the doctorate for mySelf.  Not for “professional development,” really.  I don’t need it to teach.  Well, I do if I want to be at the University level.  But it doesn’t matter, all this entertainment, deconstruction.  I want to be a student again–reading, taking notes, studying.  Investigating a couple programs, including Stanford’s.  I know what you’re thinking, skeptic, “Mike, it’s very competitive, and very expensive.” Thank you, I know.  But that won’t stop me from thinking, applying, envisioning.  And who’s to say I won’t get in?  My writing, if anything, will get me in.  Revisiting all these ideas, the books on my desk, remembering my days at CSUEB (grad school), makes certain things seem so minor.  Notably, the wine industry’s inconsistencies, contradictions, laughable self-elevation.  Ending there.  Not worth characters on page.

In writing my letter for Sarah, I thought about all the interactions I had with her class, especially with 1984, Orwell’s message, predictions.  Want to return to that world.  That’s my true world–thought, writing, ideas exchange, nothing technology-centered.  Nothing chemically-woven, bottled.  All free.  This is me.

11:40am.  Wildly caffeinated, writing like the castle crumbles, listening to Amaru, struggling to emulate his pace, ethic.  Heard wind sneaking through a non-visible opening in the window’s encasing.  Want some air, atmosphere, characters.  Need to find my Lewis Carroll texts, for the writing sample.  Don’t want to rewrite my M.A. thesis.  Going to produce a new argument, but parallel to what I submitted before graduation.  Tired, probably from the wines tasted last night.  Mom made these delicatessen sliders, brought over an ’08 Syrah (can’t remember winery, but the AVA was Paso Robles) with Dad.  I brought some wines home for tasting, from Lancaster of course.  09 Merlot, 09 Pinot, 08 Blend, and an 08 Estate Cab.  Oh, and that 2010 S-Blanc.  This caffeine’s curing, partially.  Tonight, no grapes.