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.


First time the adjunct’s had to sit and write, all day.

IMG_5081First accomplishment, if you could it so tag, running over 6.5 miles on tread. Then soonafter playing a bit of basketball. Felt amazing to workout again, feel my character come alive with elevated pulse and just the physicality that gets me closer to the 26.2 readiness. Then, delivering a sandwich to Alice at her school. Then the curious idea materialized on the way back home, before picking up lunch somewhere in our BV enclave; me getting a teaching credential, teaching high school English, preparing students for college composition; using my adjunct experience for prepping the students for what’s ahead; maybe being integral in the college application process; diving further into a more encompassing education; still entertaining the doctorate, feasibly in education, down the Road. Was going to investigate SSU’s program earlier but opted for a nap instead, woke to my alarm, brushed teeth only to have them again stained and coated in an added cup, that ‘breakfast blend’ coffee. Better today than whenever that first cup was. So much in my thoughts tonight after talking with Dad about a house purchase, seeing him so fluid and fluent and fanciful with numbers and budgets, anything organizational. And tomorrow I start, starting with the stash upstairs, and the change I have down here– no spending! No more lunches out! Nor dinners! This writer will be more than merely minimalist! Just the paper, pen, till the money comes from this blog and other associated paginated efforts– so I need not fret about printings… I’ve always wanted that ‘great consolidation’, I thought on the ride back from Alice’s school, and now I have all the reason to perpetuate and promulgate such. All to the blog, put all in the bottle, all of this Ox!
Sipping my cap, the Little Sumpin’.. tried an Oregon Pinot at Mom and Dad’s.. the… can’t remember it’s name.. took a picture of it. And speaking of wine, I’l get to RRV tomorrow after meeting with the two students.. I’m even arranging a lesson plan for the meeting, centralized around re-writing the Kerouac paper. I’m humbled that they’re so ardent in the meeting and the revision process. Should type the lesson plan and print it before bringing J to school..
Getting back into my studies of Poe, and not just for the Grim issue,IMG_5085 more for the exploration of consciousness and his shaping of imagery, and his word choice. His characters and the anonymous narratives only intrigue the reader further, and with the coming Creative Writing dimension to both the 1A and it’s all the more commissioned. My beer done, and I look forward to tomorrow, with the students most obviously, but the wine, the writing, the sights, photography– my last day of this ‘Spring Break’– which reminds me, ran into another adjunct at Whole Foods while picking up a Chardonnay (Monterey AVA, I think..) for Mom and some “Delicious IPA” from Stone for Dad. He was with his daughter and he posed, “Enjoying your break?” I told him I was and that I graded all before break. He said “Smart.” But then I confessed I had a wave about to land as soon as we all got back. We can’t escape it, the grading, as adjuncts or high school teachers or any educational level..
So tomorrow.. wine.. writing.. last day concept.. to make it fun, I do what. Going to let the story tell me. I’ll go to Arista after meeting the publisher for the Skyhawk Paper Mom told me about (meeting at 12 & Mission ‘muffin spot’..). Not sure she’d have much use for my prose, but it’d be nice to meet another writer/SELF-publisher. Hear Jackie whining upstairs. Hope he sleeps well, my little Artist. He has been, of late, but we’ll see. Time to close the day, my chapter append.. tomorrow will change the story just as it has me hemmed for better. (3/18/15)

gear grumble

Time will win

But not without me dying with a pen


The day, slowly in circular stream.  Know people are watching, listening to a writer in his tilts.  But I’m not Self-censoring.  Ever.  The rain, finally here, but not nearly as gravity’d as projected.  Night’s cap, at right.  No wine, though.  One of the writer’s firm IPA’s.  Heard a story about one of the interns, “Iowa” we endearingly her tag, having her cell phone stolen, just shrugging it off, calling it “a wash” after finding she landed an assignment in Australia, or New Zealand.  Why can’t I dismiss the affair with my old cell, its untimely refusal2recharge, so jubilantly?  Something else on mind 2day.. a co-worker having all his cameras, related-equipment, 3 YEARS of WORK, stolen from his home.  I asked him, in eagerness’ blunt bumble, “How did you get over that?” He told me it was difficult, but he did.  What else can you do, he inferred.

Honesty, evermore a necessity in these entries.  Have to look at my book’s content tonight.  Even if only a couple pages.  Can hear the rain outside.  I’ll confirm my attention’s posture, but I’m not impressed.  One of the wines I tasted today, strangling my inquisitive falls, pulling me to fantasy.. that ’09 single vineyard Cab.  AGAIN.  Three years ago today, I wrote about mySelf going wine tasting.  And that was it.  Probably my most concise, honest entry EVER.  Not sure where I was going with reliving that briefest of brief blurbs, but I’m in that set, right now, here at this table with this IPA.

Met a nice couple today from the Foothills, owning their own winery.  Nicest couple I’d ever hope to encounter in the Room.  Glad I did, as my winemaking intent is ONLY amplified, elevated, multiplied.  This rain, telling me to let mind wonder far.  Be free, as that’s sure to hook more candor.  Fangs on my syllables’ strings.

Reading through the pages of this book, I remember the class I took at SSU, undergrad, the Personal Essay section with Sherril Jaffe.  Where, I feel, I began to appreciate narrative, one’s OWN story.  And the story I’m telling, right now, one of a writer, just hoping to soon hook Equilibrium.  This, what’s sure to drive me down to Stanford, one of those classRooms.  Speaking of, need to start preparing for these pre-1A classes next term.  Won’t put on disingenuous bravado, I’m a bit nervous.  Tangibly timid, really.  Just need to log thoughts whenever they buzz idea’s tipping tower.  Hoping this rain sprints through eve’s overconfident hours.  I need it, always writing more engagingly with fronts passing over Yulupa’s Avenue.  Or wherever I stand, sleep.  Like–and I’ll say it again, again–Paris, 2009, looking down at those streets while Alice sleeps after reading her day’s book.  Need to mimic her reading habits.  Truth from a writer? … I need to finish this Kerouac book, already.  Been much too long, 2many excuses.  Just FINISH IT, already.

My friend Alicia, with her own business, settling into a new office, ordering new supplies, celebrating…  More charge for this writer.  This day, as optimal as any.

11/29/12, Thursday

Beer in the 1Stop Office … ALWAYS!

So, do we drink beer at the 1Stop office?  Simple: YES!  This IPA was incredible from start to finish.  Hoppy, yes, but not overtly.  Crisp, sippable, strong song in bottle.  Had it on a visit to my parents’ house, where my father told me his neighbor Mark, who works for a beer distributor, gave him a couple bottles.  This is the type of IPA that’ll convert those saying, “No, I don’t like IPA’s, can’t take the hops.” They’ll sing a different tune after sipping this gem from the New Belgium flavor arsenal.  Oh, and why weren’t we sipping wine when we popped this new brew?  Weren’t in the mood.  And sometimes you just need to have a great beer for sakes of appreciating nice wine.  Salut’ …

Scribbled Serf

1 tour today.  3 girls from Hawaii.  Oahu, I think.  But I don’t want this entry to be like my others.  I want to focus on the symbolic significance and gravity of barrels, and bud break.  Both entail promise.  Found I have $300 in stash, with an extra $100 for petty cash.  Or, “pc” as I noted in Comp Book.  The barrels, housing the winemaker’s creativity, creations.  Eventually, it need be bottled.  Like with my countless notebooks, journals.  Their bottle, for being time–this log.  The blog.  Ox, finally to be bottled.  I have a couple extra dollars to self publish now.  But, I can’t release large mss.  And if I did aim for something heavier, I couldn’t have a large copy run.  So, all to blog.  This is the bottle.  The case.  An eventual library.  And the buds breaking off East Shiloh, in Windsor, telling me I need to break.  It’s time to produce fruit.  And that’s what I’m doing.  My timing, I believe, even after all the vacillation: enviable.  Perfect, practically.  This is ART, Literature, expression; wine-influenced cubist composition, continuously.

Now, sipping ’07 Estate Cab from a winery with which I’m rather familiar.  But before the wine, came one of my preferred brews, Pliny the Elder from Russian River Brewery.  Been stalking the Whole Foods down the street, for their next shipment.  Their Pliny palette arrived two days ago, and tonight I enjoyed my first ever Pliny here in the writer’s cave–  Their palette, showing for my palate, incredibly.  Lovely.  Not convinced I agree with its shape as much as a Racer 5, but it’s close.  Weather in AV, making me want to make up some excuse to leave before 5:30p, write on some road’s side in car, with Wine Bar tunes urging my progress, assuring I did the right thing.

Was picture-happy today, again, in caves.  Love the feel of that structure, built into the hill.  Today, I looked for a reason to stroll up there, into its palms.  Thought of something “productive” to do in there, so I could secure some stills for the blog.  Can’t get over the barrels, how they situate in those excavated walls.  I just took picture atop picture of the French Oak wood, their towering collective character over the ajar writer.  Thought the candles had some indicatory purport, but don’t see them with much awe.  They’re there for effect, an ambience additive.  Not much to do with me, the writing.  I suppose if I looker further, I could force my perception to unveil some token.  But I’m stopping with barrels, breaking buds.  Now is my Now.  May have stated that before–in fact I’m sure I have.  But this morning’s commute, today’s shift, confirmed.  This ’07, opened last night.  It’s throwing the same orders as the wood and Shiloh’s enlivening vines.  More even, in and with this sitting.  Telling me not to even halt for a nanobreath.

Listening to the Wine Bar station.  No, the $300 stash isn’t going toward any collateral.  This writer, never a slave to anyone, much less some demonic sludge plop of a bank.  My brand, ME.  Product: Art; the Writing.  How much overhead does that demand?  Kelly, as a painter, has far more consistent, substantial, expenses than this wandering scribbler.  Another sip…  Realizing, I have cameras, and I only use pics when I’m in the mood to do so.  No need to spend money on another one of those buttoned things.  A mere device.  I buy wholesale, build inventor from brain.  And it’s bottomless.

All, quite set.  Runway clear.  Takeoff.  Write more, with wine at side.  Typing till I touch Maui’s sands, the other islands’.

[4/5/12, Thursday]