Late to the office,

my Yulupa coffee base.  This morning, one of delays, coupled with waking late.  So my mood is volatile.  And I bite into the sausage and egg sandwich and then I’m calmed, eased in the IMG_7403placement at this table.  Writing fast but not too fast.  Thinking I’m just going to relax and enjoy this slowed, much slower pace.  This morning, no run.  But tomorrow come death or something else I will wake at 4AM like one of the students said he does nearly every morning, writing his final paper on a general Wellness that one can reach through fitness and exercise.

Not in the mood to recite anything today, to repeat and describe and look busy or .. then don’t focus on that my consciousness tells me, and I’m here in this café, quiet with music in my ears and just me and the words, the magnanimous deposition of my reality, written in books for people to love and hate and shun and embrace, maybe even learn from.

New possible writing prospect.. have to do a better job of marketing myself as mmc.  And the business cards, I’ll do that today at work if it’s entirely slow.  Just need to get to my office, and write what I need to, no bothers and no distractions–  I pick my head up and look around the shop and see so many probably going to work, in uniforms (road workers), and others that just seem in a rush, and I feel for them, then a lady walks by with eased pace, nothing bothering her.  And that’s me right now, and for the next 35 minutes when I have to pack my bag and leave.  “Have to”… I don’t HAVE TO, do anything.  But even still, I’d rather be writing, or running on the treadmill, oh that sounds amazing getting in a hurried 7 or 8 miles.

Tomorrow morning, 4AM, me up an on the pavement running the same route I did the other day, maybe a bit varied.  Depends on how I feel, really, what story I want to scribe in my strides so early with no light and barely any cars.  Love that feeling and love the rush, and the slight touch of fear when running that early.  It does something to me, not sure what but it certainly shapes me and establishes my temperament in something advantageous, or at least that’s what I hope to feel tomorrow morning.

Have to call back a prospect, and write some notes for tomorrow’s meetings.. then work on something else, then plan for class.. and all before 6PM today.  Somehow it’ll happen, somehow, right?  Have to finish this entry and market myself a bit, be a realistic entrepreneur– get my family to our farm, our vineyard..

There, did a little marketing, now back to relaxing as much I can before having to be at the vineyard, set up and the bla bla–  A little left in my mocha, but I keep the thoughts in their rumble, in their talk, their momentary symphony, or noise climate, either way it keeps the writer moving, in his movements, so he can move his family to the farm.


Tired and not in

much mood to write.  Not type, or scribble, just dive to this last Racer, and be done.  My “toy truck” project, the novel, Mr. Massamen.. why do I have to have it such?  A toy.. a dream.. “yeah I’ll work on it when I can…” Fuck that.  So here I am, now, furious with my procrastination, and that I’m not in my office yet, that I haven’t traveled like this other dad I just met, having two jobs if I accurately recall and he goes to Chicago frequently, and Boston, even seeing a game at Fenway, and Wrigley, coordinating his trips to see games at the parks he’s always wanted to experience– and I’m still stationary.  But no self-pity, only ardency in me– the novel to be done, diving back into those 100 days, damnit, the project I was so proud to finish and only let rot in this goddamn laptop.

Should be in bed soon, to wake, early, go right to the novel then to meeting at 11 (mmc-related), then to Napa…  then to class.  But when do I have time to grade?  Life closes in on my like a buzzard pack.  And I just lay there being picked at, staring at the sky while the last layer’s ripped away.  Wish I lived in Kerouac’s day, or Hem’s, when there wasn’t a cell, no laptop, not much phone reliance.  Just me, the paper and pen, the transference of idea to page, true page, not some screen.  But here I am using one.  This bloody laptop makes me not want to write, not want to be me– I just stew, sit, in the perfunctory.  No more of this journal.  Only the novels.  That’s it.  The novels will be the journals– is that possible?  Is this my last journal entry?  Am I to be Mr. Massamen?  Like being a “method actor”.  I guess.  Have no idea what that bloody means.

Already smell the morning coffee, however many cups.  Doesn’t matter I just need to write in the novel, and only the novel, the Massamen piece; his story and message– he’s not like me then I see so much.  What a writeable paradox!  If you could see this particular ‘doc’ on the laptop, toward the screen’s bottom it tells “Page 378”.  378 pages.  And for what.  This blog?  There’s a problem here, only now I see it and realize certain directions and directives, like with mmc– I could have done that years ago but only now I follow-through and somewhat succeed.  huh, “succeed”, I don’t know about that exactly, I know I’m trying but that’s about it, a little girl on the way and I have to have my whole life in a special order before December.  It’s a deadline.  We writers are used to that, no?  One of little Kerouac’s trucks to my right, and close.  I’m tempted to push the buttons, hear the sirens.  But he’d wake, I’m sure.  So no.  Illustrative signs pointing me to that sound, my own siren.  No tech, just activity, and thought, a stretched table and another pour.

Morning of the 13th, and I’m in motion, needing and wanting to harder push.  Have to follow up on a couple leads, at some point between my 11AM and the trip to Napa.. and teaching, in Fall, what to do.. part of what makes me so marketable, I think, is that I’m an active adjunct prof’.. but, do I want two sections come Fall?  Could I even do it, if I have a full client load?  I can’t let go of teaching, I don’t think, as it gives me so many ideas for the advertising and copywriting.. so, then the TR would have to be cut, right?  I don’t know.  Don’t want to let that go, fully anyway, at the moment.  The Story will write it all for me.  Time for cup 2– shave shower dress and launch.  Not much time.  Not much at all.

Just know I’m aiming for whatever’s beyond the stars.


Edit Suggestion

Back from dinner with Mom and Dad, Alice & Kerouac, and like that.. the house is ours. Autumn Walk. Now, I’m at the Yulupa base, on couch, typing to a Racer 5 cap, and thinking about all on my page, or plate, or stage, or slate. Trying to start a copyediting/writing service, and some ad copy.. posted to some social media plain and I’ll see what happens.. dinner at Rosso’s, had a ’12 Turley Zin and again was surprised by what greeted me. And I thought more, about the day and where I am in Life and what we’re doing as a family with this new house and how I’m about to turn 36. 30-fucking-6.

IMG_5975Kosta Browne reaction posted tomorrow morning, before heading to Arista.. and more thinking. I’m overthinking, thinking about the meetings with students this morning and again where I am in Life and re-reading Big Sur to see if there’s anything I can learn, looking through my Comp Book, what lectures I wrote and reactions to student presentations. Next week, the last of reg’ instruction. How is that possible? I shouldn’t be writing right now, but just enjoying the day, the notice of what’s ahead.. and no matter what’s before the writer, he’ll keep writing. He’ll take notes at the very least, jot feelings and reactions and moments– all in the book and all noted, notes, he’d learning and he’s forever a student of Life and the students and what he does in the classroom. Yes, maybe overthinking, but like Michael Browne I’ll stay on the river..
Quiet, this night, and I only think of the Autumn Walk base, where I’ll build this writing life, my “business” if you would, and sell ideas, visions, visuals..
And my thoughts break but I keep typing. One thing I notice about myself when I have wine or IPA of this seismic significance is that my attention roams and I disconnect from aim, but not now– no, I have what I want in scope and fold and determined with dire discourse to it acquire.