Week 2 Starts

And I have the same positive invincible attitude I had last week that only met once, Wednesday.  This has to be the semester, I tell myself, the semester that I use two classes, just these two, a ‘Critical Theory’ and ‘Composition’ to build what someone, most pertinently ME, would consider a career.  Should get to the library but I’m quite cozy in this shared adjunct cell after having to leave the peace and isolated boon of the conference room.  Felt like I was in one of those balloons over Dry Creek, just enjoying the view and the placement up there, the moment which was all mine.  Would love a nap right now but I can’t afford a pause, or such halt.  What I should do, is leave my bag here and head to the library with my Composition Book and scribble some ideas for the PhD sample (shooting for 20 pages, not an inked character more).  Pleased with myself for already having a thesis in what I’ve written for the sample, Kerouac and music as his savior, his “religion”, how he gets his “truth fix”… you’ll see.

The other adjunct leaves, and I’m quite out of coffee.. shit.  Well, perfect time to get some at the coffee shop in the library.  Brilliant!  Done!  Leaving!  (9:38AM)

Back from the library and I wound not getting a coffee (no cash and didn’t want to use debit).  Emailed self article for PhD research.  Should stop calling it that and just “my own research,” a lecture I can use this semester or later, or whenever.  It’s my writing, I’m merely sharing it with those reviewing the applications.  A student from last term, ’T’, applied to Stanford, Berkeley, Harvard, and I think even too Yale.  And she’s the level of student that would be admitted into schools of that magnitude, I have no doubt.  And it’s funny that this term I seek to be more like students of her form and habits than the English “professor” I’ve been all these years.  This semester I’m more a student than a professor.

10AM.  Office hour starts now— oh shit!  Forgot to include in the email my office room number.  I blame the exhaustion, this fading coffee.  There… sent it.  Now to focus on the 1A class.  First meeting on Sylvia Plath.  Should print some poems for them, which I will.  Talk about ideas addressed in the text without getting too into the text itself… just scribbled a couple ideas.  Will do the rest at home.  This semester reinvents me as an educator but as well as one knowing what he wants from life, in his life and how he wants his children to see him.  Professor— or teacher— educator…  Just happy.  Me as a brand, that has to be part of it, seen as someone who LOVES and is obsessed with what he does.  Words.. literature.. pages and expression on the pages.

A student again.  With aims, and end-game, one I can see, finally.  And yes, I garrulously keep the invincible sense about me.


For the Sp16 Students—

Freewriting, may just be for the sake of doing so or it may quake to some tremendous composition.  And think of the work more closely, the provinces of the idea, to free-write.  Yes I write it as one word only because I cringe at ever separating the concepts of ‘free’ and ‘write’, even if it’s proper, or some kind of standardized something.  But don’t discount yourself when scribbling erratically in your Composition Books— it could lead to something, it could lead to some remedy…..  It could lead to a sterling stretch of Self-Education (what I believe to be the most truthful form of educating).  Be your own force, in your writing, what ideas you bring to class and share with your colleagues.  Be what YOU know you have to be…

When you write, hope to be out of breath.


NaNoWriMo (no edits)

…on giant corduroy beanbag on the first floor will Joyce upstairs naps.  I should be working on my growers assignment, deadline tomorrow at first morrow, but I’m deciding to write freely, play with wine illuminations and deconstructions, words and rhymes and poetic flyings of reacting to wine– “palate peril… song’d stretch..” among others, just writing like I did with those poems if you could call them that.  And I think, gather poems and wine sketches and odd writings, outside the blog, and bind them, sell them, have and be my own merchandise.  That would fill these income gaps, being paid once a month as an adjunct, then the microchecks from the winery.  Enjoying my day in words, opening the Comp Book to a blank page, just noting and writing, scribbling and drawing or doodling around the words like that one student from English 5, Fall ’13 at the Petaluma Campus.  Never forgot that, how she made the journal her own and noted how she felt aught.

Week 13.  So what.  I’m done, as I said, done done–  Not getting overzealous in my attitude I hope, but I’m lazy now, sinking into this bag, looking outside and the sky tries to rain but doesn’t, then the patch over the fence outside, the thinning gray with a small lenticular black arm is pulled, exposing blue.  Sunny, that Fall day where the air becomes even more savory than it was just ten minutes back. 

I hear James wake, upstairs, but he doesn’t come downstairs as he usually does.  He talks to something imaginary, possibly the stuffed animals I put in their for them, and some provided by Jim.  I go close to the stairs so there’s more shot to ear but not too close to alert him to my proximity.  I write in the Comp, “converted, conversation…


Entered a page in the new Comp Book.  And I’m tired, sipping the 7UP I bought at the store, just hours ago.  Overwhelmed already by all the work I have before me for the semester, but I’ll keep my life simplified, into one Composition Book.  This laptop, used less and less.  It has to be that way; simple, condensed, fluid, singular.  Feeling not at all pained by the 5 mile run, but more from Jackie’s 1st day of preschool.  How is it that my little Artist is here already?  He grows quicker than I can handle.  Need a cocktail, or something, a sip of this 7UP then one of the Stewart’s Root Beers I bought.  Tomorrow at lunch, going to the Warm Springs park for writing, collection.  And only bringing this Comp Book, layering myself in nothing I have to, but only want to.  tomorrow’s theme, or major subtext note: exploration, true boldly honest exploration.

As I read further into Kerouac’s journals, I find he had the same struggles with the Craft that I do.  Not sure if that has meaning or just something I’m looking for anyway seeing’s how much I love his work, but it’s something I’m here noting.  Becoming renascent in a way I’ve never been, at least in my stepping, what I see, feel.  Going to alter me tomorrow, in some way, and write it all in my little notebook– so I have that one, this new Comp Book, and “Front”, the notebook I took from campus, from the English Dept’s mailroom, me writing “FRONT” on what I believe to be the front side.  Not sure, that’s why I wrote it, so I’d always know how to open.  Somewhere in there’s the key to Road– well that and all the old blog entries.  I hate the blog but then I love it.  We’re richly and tastefully dysfunctional.  We’re to be admired.  Our mutual abuse is like thrown seduction, a loud tryst with unavoidable light and shape and beat.

project R, 9 days till…

Now that the day’s errands have been satisfied, I’m with my new Composition Book, strictly for dedicated writing for project progression, the Plath entries, and my own questions, thought play.  Just writing whatever comes to head.  Certainly exploring the effect of Art on the Artist, mostly because of the quote I used in last night’s entry.  She needed her Craft, her moments.  And me, quite the same, but entirely different.  Feel I’m too strong to have the same ultimatum as Ms. Plath.  Neither there, here.. I write on.  Just brainstorming as I once urged my students.

Idea for Lecture — Images; what they do to us; what they say, independent of us; relationship between them, us; multiple meanings.. how do you know which one is “right?” I literally cannot stop writing.  Been writing quite a bit of poetry, as I’ve already disclosed, and occasionally posted here.  Means I’ve been changed by project R’s birth, approach.  And by little Kerouac, his optimism, constant smiling, chuckling, surveying gazes.  At a routine appointment today at the hospital, at which he landed, I was nervous, quiet, lightheaded, uncomfortable.  He, however, in his usual mode.  Looking around, making his discretely high-tones hums as if to say “interesting,” smiling, composed.  I need to mimic his character, as I think I’d benefit here on page.  Little London, as I don’t much anymore call him, continues to show the writer that he’s full of lessons, his own lectures.  Me, needing coffee or a nap, now.

Cup2, preparing for freewrite in Comp Book.  Objective: quite clear.. verses; songs, poems, lines, rhymes; whatever springs into head.  Need to do so to preserve, empower journalistic integrity.  Plath wrote, pg 166: “Writing on the side (she says ambitiously.) But to write you have to live, don’t you? Should I, then, get a job: in publishing company or factory or office?  After all, I should be able to observe life intelligently and intuitively, and experience in living is something I’ll never get in the idealized scholastic environment…” Like what she infers here, about not having to be in academia in order to be, I guess, “intellectual.” Or Literary, or insightful, reflective.  Her entries go on and on with varied introspection and consideration.  She literally addresses and directly tackles everything with which I’ve toiled and tussled as a diarist.  Her pages vitalize project R’s aggrandizing momentum, focus.

Time for pen, paper.  Jack plays just in front of me, on some jumping jungle-y gym-y thing… -y.  And speaking of the “-y” usage, that’s almost all I hear people use when in the tasting Room, trying to deconstruct a wine.  Which I think is great, and altogether Human, and fun, that they’re looking further into their sips.  Where I find it especially valuable and florescently amusing, when wine know-it-all’s [like the somm’ from the other week] from some obscure state use it, thinking it adds to a visible expertise.  Priceless for page.  Example?  One of my favorites: “tannin-y.” And, “alcohol-y.” Then, the overused words where the “y” doesn’t have to be hyphenated in.  Tangy, fruity, earthy, chewy, jammy.  Ugh, bores me just thinking about it.  Topic next, please.

10:18pm.  A movie I was watching again reminded me how short all this is.  Putting more pages into project.  Not project R.. another.  But, project R is on mind now, for some freewriting I’m about to taste.  Need to break this typing habit.  Just finished a glass of SB, moving on to the Carignane I last night opened.  Wonder what’s waiting for me, when I remove the cork.  Just poured into glass.  The color, seemingly darker than I remember, but I’m sure that’s just my slowed perception.  Or, it’s just wishful thinking, that I’ll find some new complexity or dimension the second night it’s open, some discovery.  And…  No.  In fact, the profile’s compromised.  A little licorice-y, or oxidized.

Scheduled for a run around the estate tomorrow morning, 9am.  Should have this be glass last.  Or not.  Breaking presence on keyboard, this device.  Off to scribble freely, read more of Ms. Plath’s pages.  Bona..



8/28/12.  Back in Room, tomorrow. Always write that on my “Sunday.” project R, nearly done.  8 days till.  Just have one final edit 2do, which I have penciled for Saturday night.  Trying not to over-plan Sat’s evening.  Have a meeting with a marketing lady after work, then home.  Thinking some Roberto’s, for thought, paired with one of my best Cabernets.  Has to be a Cab, that night.  Right now, sipping SB, partially oaked, the other metallic.  Nice balance, but I’d like a little more acidity in my bottle’s skip.  Nice run this morning, followed by a little verse writing.  And now I’m here, with my luminous pour, planning.  project R, literally days away.  And how does the writer feel?  Equal.  I finally experience Equilibrium.  Reading more Plath today…  She has me thinking about everything from time to ink on page [rather than typing, like I am now, especially for some banal blog], from death to dreams, to me vs. Me.  Have to think more about her crater in my core.  Everything from her I read, I’ve thought, especially in terms of writing.. the struggle it brings; making promises to Self with studies, ambitions.  She, certainly part of project R.  Most of it, surprisingly.

My glass, over there.  Too into the composition to drink wine.  OR not…

9:57pm. Last SB glass.  Tired, and not at all interested in typing.  Find this keyboard a drug of sorts, lately.  Want to be sober, just move a pen across paper.  Why can’t I do that?  Another sip, tropical.  Fresh, musical, refined, surprisingly vocal.  Can’t forget to take pictures of the Primitivo, tomorrow.  Is my camera charged?  More on mind that I need be.  Why am I so into this photography?  Maybe I’m like Ronnie Wood with painting.  Except he’s talented with moving a brush.  Me with a camera…  Not sure.

This Friday night, a French-themed dinner with the Madigans.  Mom, Dad, winemaker sis.  Need to bring a bottle.  Has to be imported.  Actually French.  Spotted a nice Côtes Du Rhône today at store.  Vintage, ’09.  Should just buy it, see what happens.  Should adopt that mentality more, just embracing possibilities of what could transpire.  Especially with the writing.  No time 2B delicate.  Started a Jack photo project, but have to power off, as batter bails on the writer.  Bona… [10:48pm]

Track 7 — anti

No wonder I don’t publish traditionally.  I don’t want to be “traditional” at all.  I’m not asking for permission to be published.  I can do it mySelf.  At my age, and with my artistic ardor, I’m not applying.  I’m not submitting.  No galleys stripped from my mitts.  (3/2/12)

Why else I’m not interested in syncing with any “tradition” in my writing, is that I don’t find that “writing” at all.  How is it Art if it’s just safe, something expected?  How is it mine if the manuscript true to my vision is gutted and reconfigured by a death squad of editors that have never met me, sat down over coffee, sipped wine with the pages’ creator?  I’m against anything resembling.  I’m the publisher, now.  The funder, but always the Artist first.

Interesting day in Alexander Valley today.  Met some club members who love our wines and told us how they’ve dropped from their other wine clubs, kept ours.  Made me think of how wine entails family, loyalty.  How it’s subjective.  Art.  How wine enables healthy attachments.  Also made me think of verse, my poetry.  Especially when the man referred to a past vintage of the estate Cabernet as “sipping poems from a bottle.” My coworker instantly looked at me, knowing I’d get something from a Literary reference like that, appreciate it poignantly.  I went to the back, scribbled a little in my little notepad.  Was one of the few times I had today to write.  So busy.  The way I prefer it.  Material, material…

11:13pm.  Should get to sleep.  Tomorrow, pouring in Kaz’s Room.  Those defiant varietal interpretations.  Love how Kaz sticks to his project visions, never second-guesses himSelf, ever.  That’s Literary, the Poetic.  That’s Art.  How Wine should be.  When Wine deserves the capital “W.”

Composition Book on bed with me.  Had rhymes in my head while brushing my teeth.  Now they’re gone.  Hate that.  Think I remember one…  No.  Lost it.  Once I start scribbling, new ones’ll find my brain’s branches.  Need to keep writing, finish this 1st project.  Almost done with the rough draft.  Have the money set aside, so I only need to edit.  Then release.  Thinking only 20 copies with this first mini-manuscript.  Don’t know why I’m calling it “mini,” as the primary piece, fiction, is over 16,000 words.  Isn’t that a novelette?

The ’07 Cab last night was divine, by the way.  Paired incredible with Mom’s artisanal meatloaf.  Dark, thick, deep, mysterious with its night-like fruit, smoky curves.  Just thinking about it wakes me up.  Now I’m in the mood for Wine.  Funny, no?  Today, only sipped some of the ’08 Cuvée, which is mostly Cab.  Same kind of character, but with more prevalence in the way of vanilla, herbal strokes.  Oh, my wine, in that lonely barrel in the St. Francis production facility.  Need to taste it soon.  Monday, maybe.

11:25pm.  Only giving Self 5 minutes till I throw my Self to ink, paper.  What I prefer.  Feel like this computer, this blog, is just virtual writing, not actual writing.  But I have to engage in such in order to have projects out, in order to be a writer.  How to reconcile?  Maybe I don’t have to.  Just thought entertainment, for a writer.  And, I just remembered, barrel tasting tomorrow.  Should make for an entertaining day.  Need to bring cameras.  Still and video.  Characters, cometh.  My pages need new pupils.  (3/3/12)