DoughNutty

All but impossible to

write in A.M.  Layers added to make

it all

more layered.  Interesting

how that works.

Brew more coffee to

speed me– but that takes time.

Frustrated, under floods, forms, days’

doorsteps.  Horns by lighthouses call

to relieve me.  Why would they want to help?

Another dream.

I brew that coffee.  More

alive

now.

Have to maintain motion.  No 2ndthinking..its

death to progress.  Ask

anyone.

(9/18/13)

Flooded

7:59am.  Home sick today.  No way I’m going in.  Want to be fully alive for tomorrow’s rough draft workshops.  Not sure if I’m taking little Kerouac to his daycare fort today.  If I do, then I’ll get most of the 41pg piece done, I’m sure.  And if not, I’ll wait till he sleeps, here.  These vignettes I’ve been penning at work.. goldmine.  And I love how everyone carefully skates around me, watching me record surroundings.  Couple times, one’ll ask,  “What are you writing?” Or, “What are you writing NOW?” OR, “What are you always writing about?” What I get from this, gratification’s puddle-wise: I’m seen as a writer, ALWAYS writing.. recording surroundings.

Still no word from Ms. Lisa–

Just heard.  She’ll be crediting our account.  So the little Artist with me here remains.  Relief, as I don’t have to leave the castle.  Keeping Self writing, recording whole day.. imagining Road.  Coffee cup3.  Don’t judge

me

please.

Looking for online resources.  Memoir, poetry.  For both classes.  Think this to be the logical transition before Plath, Poe, respectively [Eng 5 then 1A].  While the Artist sleeps, his nap time less than 4 hours away, I’ll also be “backing-up” all writings on this device.  Soon, I’ll be solely pen, paper.  Then to typewriter when time to finalize manuscripts.  From these vignettes.  Outside, overcast.  Me, not feeling well presently.  Hard to write, actually.  But I have to force Self.  That’s the genre, MY genre.. in that “obsessiveness.”

Yesterday, day broken up by return to home, since I felt cold-stricken.  Quick nap, lay on upstairs sheets, then return to tasting Room.  I did feel better, but still not full Self.  Today, I believe I’m paying for my work return.  I’ll just hole Self here, in castle with little Kerouac.  And now,

time for a sip

from 3rd cup.

 

two sips in, i’m fenced by

my own intent–

i’m intentioned

i think

 

9:46am.  Think I’ve been up since 4-something.  And as it happens, the writer may enjoy a 4th cup.  Keep the obsession trellising.  My vignettes from the last couple weeks, the observations of both guest and fellow-employee, mounting.  Soon, a book.  One that changes everything.  All this.  More peace, Autonomy about my day.  My characters, coming to life.  As

am

I.

 

Taking a break from the keys to play with little Kerouac.  But then he walks away, to play with toys on the Room’s other side.  So I’m back to typing.  Waiting a bit before next cup.  And he returns to side of the floor…

When he’s finally asleep, I’ll go through these vignettes about which I’m so excited.  Also need to draw up budget.  Transfer money into Schwab1 acct.  Pay cable bill.  Always something for the writer to do.  Want to take care of all this “responsible” nonsense so I can clearly commit to page.

10:33am.  Just did a rough budget.  So thankful for the teaching income, I can’t even tell you.  But I’d appreciate my money stream even more so enhanced, by chapbook sales.  So today, one new standalone piece.  Flash fiction.  After these words are “posted” to this abominable blog.  (9/16/13)

Cared, Full

New rule:  No photos on blog, anymore.  Just spent ten minutes waiting for phone to “sync” with this stupid laptop, so I could attach a small picture to last night’s entry.  Waiting for pictures to “upload” or “sync” or “post” is NOT writing.  So.. bx is only a writing spot, 4ever.  On walk with Alice & Kerouac, thought about Grandma, her closing words with me.  “It’s Your Life, You have Your Choice.” I capitalize for emphasis, respect to her insight.  On the path, walking back to domicile after defeating the Woodview hill, I thought about simplicity, the bluntness of that paved path I was on.  Yes there were some slight bends, curves, but it’s straightforward, leading to ONE place.  More pen2paper, I thought.. which I have been doing.  More short posts to bx; finish books, that’s what makes you a writer– the blog doesn’t, no matter how “Literary” it is.  It’s a blog, a web log, dependent upon the internet, its functionality, the device for access.  A Comp Book merely needs me, the ink, ideas.  Pretty soon, I won’t even use Comp Books.. want to go back to legal pads, like I started using in late ’08.

Kerouac, so fast now with his walking.  He sits over there, by the little sofa chair we bought him for xmas, talking to me in his own perplexing pidgin.  He looks out the window now, seeing only this lingering grayness.

Going to café in a couple hours, when Alice returns from meeting, to begin formal work on Fall Semester.  So much I want to get done in these 2 days off.  Car wash, haircut, order books, pickup SRJC check.. so much.  I’ll place book orders next week, or email them– No, would rather order in person.  So maybe I should just do it today, then.  NO, don’t rush.  Just start with the lectures.  1A, Poe..  5, Capote, his Portraits, Observations.  Don’t want to do too many short stories, as they too are structurally traditional, or can be, like the novel.  And I want students to appreciate the shorter, more unorthodox works disseminated by a penner.

(6/11/13)

Worlds Slept

34–  Here.  Turbulent morning, not being able to find a writer’s keys, but here I am…  Stopped by a mixer at one of the new tasting Rooms in the valley, Naked Wines, in the old St. Francis, then Blackstone, building.  Went with Jay, closely trusted cohort from work.  Saw many of my closest oeno-allies, namely Kaz, his daughter, son-in-law, my sweetest of sweet new writing confreres Crystal, and certainly Sarah.. my darling ever-trusted friend, sister really, from Napa.  Interesting day, turning 34.  No run with Carmen.  That’ll be Friday.  Tomorrow, grading [lots of it], then working evening at St. Francis.. the KJZY event.

Opening one of my ’09 Lancaster Estate Cabs.  Finally.  Was going to pair it with the Monti’s sirloin burger, other night, but wound up drinking only ’12 SB.  How that unraveled, I’m still unsure.. we writers, when we sip & scribble.  OR, tipsily type.

New idea for OFFblog log: deadline in late July.  Likely, 7/20.  On that date, print, then send to print.  Like 100 copies.  No more than 113 pages, like this first book.  I’ll edit as I go, like with the regular blog entries.  Seeing much, this day.. 34, angst, inner-turmoil no more.  The Comp Book, now calling.  For rhyme, song, poem, unreasonably rhythmically reasoned “rants,” like she says.  All Artistry, this night.  Whimsical space jaunts, paginated.

Hot weather ahead.  That means ripening.  My wines, sitting in their barrels.  Haven’t tasted since the last topping.  I’ll visit the holders, my two not-so-neutral barrels, Friday, early in A.M. Tonight’s mixer, still in head–  Celebrating wines, winemakers.  Then the occasions that those bottles beget.  Tonight, watching Capote, I think.  Haven’t screened that film in a while.  His short story collection, the one I have upstairs.. one of the selected texts for one of my classes.  Thinking his work’s more suited to 5, a more blustering canal’d critical, reflective bow.

Again, glassed in Kelly.  See her coming back from one of her tours, or out-of-state gallery visits, then attending another gallery back home, here in North Bay.  Me, the folder-over author, just silent, still.  And, quite frankly, too deep into the ’09 Lancaster Cab.  Too much dialogue, forth/back, from my character, hers–  Not sure what to do, but write through it.  To Her.  If I can, this Cab’s unusually strong, well as dramatically delicious.

Unusual spot, as all I want to do is envision her, that character, then try to write.  But how do I do that?  Kelly’s more than a subject, character.  Shame on me–  And WHY do I want to so formally?  Has 2B the age, this birth’s day.  Don’t think I’ll be able to run, tomorrow.  So, a bit of healthy, useful fasting coupled with core regiments here at home, in morrow.  Think night’s final cap, coming up.  Too much wine’ll hinder the first hours’ efforts.  I need the mornings, so I can’t waterfall too novelistically.  See us in docility.  I know you’re reading, but only before you vent on canvas.  I don’t blame you.  So explain to me if you’re inclined to decline, but not compromisingly.. trust me.  Write you letters, hoping you’re reading on the road, at least sympathetically.  What are you painting, now?  MY novel won’t finish till I know.  So I sip.

(5/29/79)

mikeslognoblog-like

4/2/13.  After the morning’s thousand, now 958am, letting Self have a standalone here on blog, or log[noblog].  Tonight’s offerings, all surrounding Art.  There are some students who I know don’t connect to what I put in.  And that’s fine.  I don’t write for them, nor do I have them in mind when writing my session notes.  This book, taking an interesting shape.  Almost its own direction.  And it doesn’t remind me of anything, anyone else’s work, which is refreshing.

About to finish second verse of spoken word piece began yesterday.  This one, the first in a collection I’m going to TRY2gather for reading’s intent.  With little Kerouac asleep upstairs, I can put on something.. something on Pandora..  Imagining what music I’ll listen to when on Road.  Maybe nothing.  Maybe I’ll only need the measures of my thoughts’ sheets, keys.

Just noticed, approaching bottom of page 500 in this doc.  Started 1/1/12, when I was still at box.  Today, 4/2/13.  Interesting to measure, play with numbers involving my pace.  500 pages in 1 yr, 3 mos, 1 day, 12 hrs, 31 mins.  Think I have that right.  Anyway, less than 16 months to produce 500 pages.  And is there a story?  Yes.  Me.  I’M the story.  My passions, pursuits.  And I know not everyone’s a writer, English Instructor, reader, wine lover/maker.. but they can identify with and hopefully appreciate passion, my passion, passions.

Lot on my mind, now, looking at these numbers, realizing where I am in Life.  And again, I reserve FULL right to blend these “posts” into first 200+ page piece.  Otherwise, it’s just wasted and forgotten on this “blog.” Or in this device.  The words need to see paper.  Always.  41% left in laptop’s life.  Need for charge.  So annoying.  Like when people say I need to review wines on my blog.  Why would this writer want to do that?  Where’s the Art in that?  Yes, I could write about them Creatively, or whatever, as I did on mikeslognoblog.  But I’ve moved on.  There’s more Art here, how I’m writing now.  May be more work for readers, but too bad.

Still researching Mr. Picasso.. his habits, numerous periods.  Can’t believe how much he created, how many standalone’s he left us.  -12:41pm

Lost Taxi

Tired from day.  One mountaintop tour.  Couldn’t believe the elements up there.  Would have just picked a plot, my own spot, if I wasn’t on tour.  Had planned to go straight to the Art supply store in Montgomery Village after work.  I actually skipped my usually post-shift SB glass to get there with timely tune.  But, just before needed turn, from Mission, I took left on Summerfield, back to castle.  What it is, as I see.. I don’t want anything, even another Art body, potential portfolio, to take from the writing, this book.  Not till it’s done.  Not till I’m on road.  No writing in book tonight, as I need to just freely hover.  As one penning.

Memory:  Walks Dad and I would take through Big Basin, I think it’s called, when we lived in Boulder Creek.  This whole day, pulled by memory hands.  Never see them coming.  They just shoulder tap.  Only tour to top, with a young couple celebrating an anniversary.  18 years, they told me.  Hard to believe, as they looked about my age.  Probably younger.  They were from DC [Daily City].  I couldn’t help but think of Palo Alto, San Mateo, Redwood City, Burlingame.. everywhere I used to stomp.  Then, for elemental story seasoning, a man from Menlo Park, in tasting Room, just before we close.  If I were one to read into progressions, this shift told me to look into past days.  But for what?  Need another beer.  Maybe the rest of that Cab, a little less than a full glass.  […]  Just opened another Little Sumpin’.  Giving Self deadline tonight.  11pm, in bed.  What’s my enterprise with 2nite’s sitting?  Just to enjoy the quiet downstairs.

Didn’t grade any of the papers I brought today.  Shame.  And even more critiques of Self as I submitted to urges in way toward Kenwood’s Market.  I’ll concede, I’m a pupil of the chicken salad sandwich.  And I write that with a  bit of humor, but that’s not the writer I want to be.  I want to be fortified in all realms; existentially well-rounded.  I should be balanced with all angles– financial [which I am], health, occupational, social, family…  I’m not accepting compromise with Self.  And this is all ME, acting as supervisor, or combatant with Self.  That’s why I have no urge to “go out” anymore.  But if I ever do, I’m always in writer’s wheel, gathering material.. content for these books.  Oh, and the new length: 206 pages.  As I’ve written so much, and with this goal of having EVERYTHING published by Self, BOUND, before I leave Earth, I need to chisel away at these pages stacks in 200+ page rushes.

Tomorrow night, Ms. Alice and I off to her belated birthday dinner, delayed as we were both injured by that viral invader.  I do plan to examine the restaurant in our revisit–  Shouldn’t say “examine,” just survey, or evaluate–  No, hate those words, too.  I’ll just be recording, either for blog, book, both, who knows.  Either way, this writer looks forward to a lovely meal with Ms. Alice.  Could use another sip from this bottle…

TV, muted.  Should just turn off the cursed thing, already.  Looking through these photos, their collective account.  Time, mounting a respectable ambuscade.  But I’m still writing.  And these 200-page unloadings will only help.  Time.. devil.  Saw a man walking out the winery’s doors today, just as I returned from cave tour: quite old, needing assistance of a woman at least 20 years his junior.  Thought how I’ll be there one day, maybe.  But I don’t know if I want to be.  Not something upon which I necessarily want to dwell, but it’s blipping more on my compass these days.  I forces me to draw Self in two shapes, for two worlds.  One saying “yay,” while the other knows only nihilism, the nay.

Need a ride.  To Cabernet’s land.  Need to see my wines, tomorrow.  Too busy to touch them today.  And I fall into slowness.  Present’s inoculation in past.. impasse.  But I only have 47 minutes left for composition, or any reading of former sittings.  Makes me think of how I used to write papers at the last minute, when on campus at SSU.. and when I lived in San Ramon, for my grad classes.  Speaking of, moved to take some classes at the JC, French and Art, after my friend telling me of his new mental endeavors.  He’s always researching, Self-educating in something, always active.  His French studies, the brewing, winemaking, gardening, Astronomy.. always studiously steady.  About 8 years MY junior, helping me as that lady did the man.. to stand cognitively straight.  All these papers I have to grade, only getting in a writer’s way.

Always want to be studying.  And this returns me to a category I left out of my well-roundedness mention.  The mental activity.. have to be studying.  French, French History, French Wine.. ART!  Thinking I should have gone to get those colored pencils, the sketch pad, pads.. if only to play with colors.. blend them and see what happens.  Want what’s left of that Cabernet.  Only about a half-glass.  And one wine, have to pick up allocation from AV Winery.. my 2010 Cuvées.

Wine, glass.  Capping night for speeded day.  Had a memory from last year, while at AV Winery, arriving to grounds during a vicious rain, hearing that all the downpour, accompanying storm, moved one of the vineyard blocks with sliding land, and pushing down a 200 year-old oak tree across the street, close to a cottage the winery owns, rents to special guests.  All these memories, like complimentary profiteroles.  Well, no, I’ve paid for them.  With Life.

10:36pm.  If I could, I’d go to Paris NOW.  Just for a couple nights.  For a fix of sorts.  I’d walk with my notepad, as I did in St. Francis‘ vineyard that one day, on lunch break.  I don’t even think I’d eat.  Or even have any wine, if you can believe that.  I’d just write, take pictures so I could write more when back here on Yulupa.  Paris, becoming my genre, my totalitarian topic.  Still listening to that Parisian Jazz song set I downloaded a couple weeks ago, envisioning me, back on Montparnasse, walking out of the hotel journaling whatever I hear, smell, see.  All around me.  Soon.

Need.  A.  Ride.

Don’t know if I’ll go to painting, drawing.  I see dependency.. in the materials.  Can I afford them, are the items in stock, is it the right color, or what have.  With writing, I could journal my inner vocals on receipt paper, if I needed to, as I’ve done in past.  This form, forum.. so FREE.  And that’s what this pen pusher just needs.  New truth phillumenist.  >3/10/13, Sunday

spot bell, struck

I’m in mode of wind-down.  No rain.  No activity.  Too much still in this Room.  But I’m writing.  Jackie, asleep upstairs.  As is Ms. Alice.  A little Chardonnay in glass to left.  Would love a glass of red, but this writer can afford to wait till morrow’s afterwork hour.  Have to get to road, as my sister does with her winemaking travels.  Not sure how much Art her jaunts entail, but even still.. she’s an Artist, on her Road.  Traveling, conversing on Craft.  As I wish I could.  Stagnancy, stabbing my perceptive sanctum.  Thinking of Notre Dame, on that island, what I felt looking at those candles, hearing onlooker echoes.

A year ago, what I was just reading on this godforsaken “blog,” my days at AV winery.  Would love a glass of anything red, but I won’t.  I’ll write it.  And if not, then about it think, dream…  Me, on tour [like Katie, in her NYC stay], sipping some red while I scribble in my Comp Book.  Just engaging in purism.  No tech lean.  Kelly, not even having a single social media account.  She has email, but only checking in when she needs.  She returns to her couch.. sketching, then painting, applying shade.

Memory:  the short story I wrote in freshman English, in Mr. Stapleton’s class, about my then-pet, “Bubba the Bunny,” providing a correlation to Alice’s chase of her white rabbit.  And then I think of how I wrote my Master’s thesis on Carroll’s work.  And how I thought of my potential–actually, eventual–thesis on his pieces while walking to my advisor’s office, merely one day.  Miss grad school, being an ACTUAL student.  Just after 10p [10:10], thinking I should slow.  Up since 6a, but still quite musical.  OR at least that’s how I’m feeling.  Need more song, like what I started scribbling yesterday, while watching Mr. Jack.  Looking at these old photos of my little Artist beats me into epiphany.  All passes.  Where do I go with these thoughts?  I’ll have to let them rest in barrel, on this blog/book.

[3/8/13]

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)