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1:45pm.  Back from lunch, one coffee cup down.  ‘Bout to make another, for these next 10 pages.  Not a fan of editing my own work, I’ll gladly confess.  But I need to get it done.  Need the money.  The material, so far.. quite pleasing, and not as many errors as I expected.

 

10:05pm.  Went for a 4mile run with Alice, after returning from the 12 & Mission coffee spot, where I enjoyed another mocha and wrote 2 standalone poems.. one, a recite-worthy verse.

Opened a blend tonight, from 2010.  Only 5 pages more to edit, after the 10 I read at 12 & Mission.  Wouldn’t let mySelf write till I finished my reads.  In nook, can’t type too loud, as Jackie upstairs moans, rolls in his crib.  Not crying, just with motion bursts.

He’s stopped for the moment.  I’ll be writing from the sofa in a minute, to only my 2nd glass of the Bordeaux arras.  Going to close laptop in a minute, connect with newJournal again, put day’s 3rd poem onto canvas.  Oh.. I should edit the final 5 pages of the book, shouldn’t I?  Maybe I should wake early tomorrow, the final day of the writing retreat, read those 5, post to blog.  Tonight’s remainder should be spent treating Self– writing how I want.  Forget project, the immediacy of the blog.. what do you want, Mike?

I want to write poem, verse in those pages, newJournal’s.

Then do it.  (10:32pm)

 

11/2/13–  Already.  As November wages its time attack, I’m here in the coffee spot, on my  backwards “blog.”  No earphones, so I hear everything.  Two ladies in booth to right, talking about holiday plans.  And I’m reminded that, yes, it’s that portion of the year on our plates.  Five more pages to edit, in 41pg piece.  Hoping to have it printed, today, but we’ll see.  Will it hurt if I push printing back to Tuesday, between classes?  That’ll mean I forfeit time, writing time, at Redwood Café…  We’ll see.

First sip of mocha.. more people walk in.  Difficult to write with this rising voice wave, but I’ll use it.  The coffee.. elemental stake.. how everyone NEEDS it in morning.  And this being a Saturday, characters around it plan, just like wine with a meal, linked occasion.

Young couple in front of me.. their three, that I can see, children.  THREE.  Don’t know how they function with that roster.  I couldn’t.  I’m nearly sure.

What this coffee house is doing to me.. telling me characters need to invade my writing.  But if I have too many, then I’m not focused.  Maybe have each book be a character study.  My next book, 101 pages, vignette collection, with my newest character.. her employment struggles, wanting something more, something for her, something not dependent upon anyone’s “review” but her own.  She’s young, yes, 20-something, but too old she feels to deal with this.  That’s her mentality, and many tell her she’s being silly, as she is so young.. but she’s convinced: if she doesn’t change her arrangement now, she never will.

 

Ladies in booth, opening some gift, from postal box, to bubble wrap, to additional layer of substance undetermined [maybe tissue paper, or like].  “Oh how CUTE!” they both say, pingponging.  Oh how annoying, I’m thinking, between their laughs.  “There was a long line outside, and I say on my phone.. this guy stepped up, and I ordered my latte.. I know he’d order me a new one if I just stepped up.” left says.

“They wouldn’t just make you another one?” lady left says.  “What’s wrong?” right leans, sneezes.

They’re shifting subjects faster than I can record.. and frankly, I’m not interested anymore.  Just want to drink these 3shots.

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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]