Tag: Music

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Catchup Call

Final post for day.  Finished 3 pages.  Ran 10 miles.  Complete numerical rundown:  1:22’49” total time; 8’14”/mi pace; 10.06 total distance; 1,146 calories.  Surprised I made it over 10 miles.  My right knee really started to smart, right at the end.  Sipping some sparkling water, watching a documentary on TV.  Feel like I’m repeating what the end of the 3 page stint.  In the tasting Room, not much adventure, not like what I’m seeing on this program, traveling all over the continent for certain sights.  All I need is the Road…  This consolidation, though, taking more time that I thought.

Capping book1 at 120 pp.  Next collection, much shorter.  Not sure how many pages, but less headache, less wait.  Watching this piece on Discovery, I feel like I haven’t seen a thing.  Nothing on this planet, much less this continent, this country, this state even.

Think I may have to stop the typing session.  This exhaustion’s too much at moment.  I’ll note the night’s remainder, in Comp Book.  I’ll be back to this fall in early morrow.  Yes, lovely reader.. with coffee.  Bon nuit.

10:45pm.  Curse this writer!  Decided to cut book in half.. 2 chapbooks.  First, 59 pages.  Second, 61.  It’s the right move, I think.  I can edit them quicker, sell them, have continuous profit.  There, I feel better.  So glad I decided against wine, tonight.  And quite happy my day’s quality improved, that last night’s rattles left.  Have to do a better job controlling my own inner seismology.  IT’ll be better for the writing, my eventual business.  IT’ll get me to my office, to the Road, quicker.  Almost time for 11 o’clock news.  Challenge 2Self:  finish a verse before 11:30pm.  Write how you think, not concerned about formalities, typos, errors any.. just write, musically, artfully.

11:07, done.  19 new lines written, added to a couple I wrote the other night.  Standalone done.

poetry4EVER–

(6/18/13)

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Orbit Goal

Home from Mom & Dad’s, Father’s Day dinner.  Had an incredible Filet Mignon paired with an ’09 Mt. Veeder Cab from Sbragia Winery.  Here in home office, with a FULL glass of the ’09 Lancaster Cab I opened last night.  First sip, yes.. better than last night; more open, exposed, eager for palate contact.  Writing movies tonight, paired with writing.  And wine, naturally.  All this debris on floor, that I this morning placed, not potting me tonight.  Going to enjoy the session, these pages.  And yes, or no, I won’t be reading the book.  Plan on saving that for morrow.  Tonight’s about writing, not editing, proofing, correcting.  Tonight is solely consumed in Creation.

Can’t understand how a Human being can make a wine so deliciously dizzying.  I don’t want to dumb this down to a descriptor dowry.  We’re both our own entities, evaluating each other, objectively.  I probably seem too self-qualifying to this wine.  But to me, she, what’s in glass, seems carnal, libidinous, stratified.  Want to take my time.. have everything off this desk–  Just notice I don’t have any music playing, no writing movie.. just the stillness, silence of Room.  Don’t think I’ve written in these conditions before.  Usually, I have something playing.  Something.

Put the printer on floor, just a second ago.  Love having this desk’s top completely desolate.  That’s what invited clear thinking, writing, composition.  Not clutter, that’s for sure.  Another sip of the LE…  Motivating, but it makes me want to just lean into this chair, that used to be in Dad’s office, in the San Carlos house.. be reflective.  But I want to be productive tonight, opposite of last night’s glop.

Tomorrow, my Friday.  On Saturday, or mine I mean, have to start making notable progress with Fall’s lectures.  Have to Literally write the entire term.  That’s the only way I’ll make it my strongest ever.  This’ll go to the blog, so after these types, notes in Comp Book.  Just remembered, I’m sticking to this particular bound page brick till 11/2013.  Need another glass.  So glad I finally opened this bottle last night.  Want to visit my wines tomorrow, but I don’t know if it’s safe, with the recent S02 addition.  Blair’ll be there tomorrow, so I’ll ask.  The winery’s wines, anymore, fail to accrue my attention.  Could be that I’m over-critical, over-confident?  Who knows, but I need to give them a second look, look for notes that I want in my productions.

= MM, with her creatively cynical deconstruction of a butterfly.. saving for book.. incredibly valuable

= annoying woman on MT tour, putting negative spin on everything, even her daughter calling her out, calling her “debbie downer” .. completely rebarbative

= strange noise in caves, causing me to sprint for exit/entrance

10:17pm.  Years passing, I only become more obsessed, more in LOVE with words, ways I can twist, rearrange them.. hence the recent resurgence with spoken word, poem.  Exhaustion from day, creeping a bit.  Was surprised how busy it was today, but here I am, typing for Life.  IS it writing.. yes.  If I convince mySelf it is.  Last two blank pages in Comp Book, need a spoken piece.  All rhymed complicatedly.  Something engaging, for ear soup sea.  Think about that often, actually, driving to work– reciting to crowds, people I’ve never known, having their first impression of me be one of a speaker, speeching rhyme accelerant.  Future, cursive in present…

(6/16/13)

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2CaredFull

Organization, that’s the whole embodiment of the path, as its metaphor.  Drive straight, no veering.  Pen2paper.  Song, poem, short crazily craft compositions [shorter].  Continuing later, at coffee hut…

Another thing I thought to Self on walk: Facebooking and Tweeting, any social media effort, won’t get me to best sellers list, to my office, the Road.  Writing’ll take me there– WRITING.  Even the blog need be reduced, in terms of clock allocation.

Waiting for Alice to return from her meeting.  Running tonight.. 3 out, 3 back.  No wine, either.  Okay, back to Comp Book.  Have already written well over 14 lines, rhymed.

1:30pm.  At coffee shop.  Debated working on campus, but I needed activity around me to keep session motioned.  Starting teaching/Literature blog tonight..  “Literature, Writing, Theory, Pedagogy…”, may be the secondary title, or tagline.  Eating blueberry scone, paired with day’s 2nd 3shotter.  My Life, My Choice..  All about me, Literary, simplistic.. stemming from words, diaries.. Not setting out to write novel, at least any time soon.

Working on Book later, I swear.  All I could think about, almost, on this morning’s walk, climb with Kerouac & Alice.  But what do I want from this sitting, here on 12 & Mission?  Music, verse.. poem, something to recite, perform.  With clouds still aloft above Sonoma County’s characters, I’m almost guaranteed a brilliant run.  Has to be over 6 miles.  Would love to hit 8, but I don’t know if that’s in my cards.

Rediscovered the old entries I typed on phone.  NEED to transfer them off that devil device, stuff them in one of these rushed books.  I wrote about waiting for Adrianna, on Arnold, to drive with me to that whorish box on Napa’s 1st & Main.  Definite thematic consistency with mentions of running, saving for business, and of course writing.

Quite a few characters in these walls, today.  Everyone on that long cushion, to right, against wall, on laptops.  One per small circular table, 4 total.  Me, over here, at one of the larger square tables, listening to French songs, taking me back to my city.  I think of it often when I run.

 

9:46pm.  No wine.  Writer enjoying sparkling lemon, more focused that focused.  Run totals:  1:12’26” complete run time; 8’18”/mi pace; 8.73 miles; calories [which again, I don’t really care about], 995.  Tired, yes, but not as much as the last long interval, the 7.14 mi run last week [Was it last week?].  This is the final note for 6/11/13, right before I continue this spoken word/poetry surge.  Going in early tomorrow morning to rack both barrels.  Trying to get excited about it.. know I will be when there on crush pad, but I’m indifferent now.  This must be the exhaustion talking.  Need to get off this keypad.  Done-

log

off

 

But before I do.. want night’s capping.  Something sweet.  Should I?  Know this makes stale writing, but it’s truthful, what I’m thinking.  Too thirsty to eat, 2lazy to get up.  So nevermind.

(6/11/13)

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poem letter

Already hot up here in office, home.  Need a coffee, as always.  Want just one day, ONE, where everything’s at speed ordered.

Past authors, how did they get to the Road?

Do I have time to study?

Turning on music, trying to distract mySelf.

Bringing homework with me.

What else can I do, work on lunchBREAK.

Sounds funny, doesn’t it.

Looks even funnier.

But I need to leave ground.

I have these wings,

and for what?

Hear traffic.  Are they all in roles mirroring?  Maybe I should write for them, not me anymore.  Definitely not some webbed house.

Not living like that.

Counting pennies, nickels, ones.

Almost there.

 

(6/8/13)

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Literary Love Letter

10:05pm.  Still hot.  All I can think about, Grandma, her leaving us.  Not sure how to address this, so I won’t for now.  Maybe I never will.  Sipping the ’07 Rhône blend I last night opened.  Only had glass’ half before leaving to see her for last time.

IMG_3230

Just took first sip.. more open, tenacious in palate approach, resonance.  Ran 4.99 miles today, according to device anyway.  Then walked up that hill, Woodview, with Jill.  Yes, a little tired, but ready to write.  I need to write this evening.  Like Grandma told me, “It’s your life, you have your choice.” While running, thought of some notes I want out in public, that I need heard, or read.  All about wine’s industry, how it always has a way of devaluing the consumer, its “employees.” Why do any of its elements have to be overcomplicated?  Not going to further into it drill, as it’s not worth my time.  What is…  Literature, my lectures, this new blog idea.  One subtitle: Literature, Thought, Reading, Writing.  But it’s only tentative.  And I need to find that Faulkner collection, somewhere upstairs.  Took quite a bit of notes today in Room, on everything from lecture ideas to writing prompts.  The direct aim of this coming term: to carry me to road; to be invited to speak at Conferences on everything from theory, to my favorite Authors (Plath, Poe, Capote..), to writing itSelf.

10:16pm.  Need another sip.  Spoke to Blair this morning, arranged to have both barrels racked on Wednesday, early morning.  Today in tasting Room, back on education’s varietal plate, a goofy Economics professor, with PhD, moving with his wife to an IA university.  Then, not much later, a dean from a NC college, who asked me questions, quite gently and enthusiastically, about everything from my syllabi to writing activities [in-class], textual selections to how many “formal” essays I assign in Comp sections.  Today’s theme: the classRoom, my lectures, Literature, my permanent return to campus.  This new blog, many solicitations for ideas exchange.  I want to see what other English Instructors have arranged for their matriculants.   

Hard for me to concentrate with news on.  I’ll turn it off in a minute.  Supposed to be hotter than scorched kettle in morrow.  I’ll try to record, I promise.  But Saturdays, especially this portion in season, proven to be extremely packed.  And I think I’m mountain’d, but I’m not sure– don’t want to talk about work.  Want to divulge and reiterate more dreams: the office, Road, travel, pen2paper, more new wines.  Living from entries on paper.. only poetry.  Fighting wine’s industry with Art, speech.  Grandma ordered me to follow my choices.. and mine, to fight, with words, entries, SPEECH.

Now, relaxing.  What I need after last night.  Glass, empty.  In a minute, fully full.  Tastes like Syrah charcoal.  Ghostly swirl samba, if that makes sense.  No?  Good.  Need some music, something that makes me more musical  This TV, ALL TV: poison.  OFF.

10:39pm.  Would love to just fall, or push Self into spoken word.. but I want 1,000 words for night.  Sorry, reader.. I know that’s much to read, from a wildly wined writer, after long day– for you, not me.  Want that glass NOW–  Much better.  Was getting a bit intemperate.  Writing movie on, thinking of Hemingway.  OH drat.. still haven’t read Jim’s short story.. Jim’s the gentleman who used to work at winery, one day coming in, leaving a copy of his piece in an envelope with my name exteriorly scribed.  Hopefully, getting up earlier, morrow.  We’ll see.  Ah, this blend tastes amazing, luminously with the air conditioning.  Travel, on mind– yes, there are dozens of spots on list to hit.  But I just want to see my city again, walk by the gardens, under the arc, by the tower, sip whatever wine I find, have a beer in Le Méridien Étoile lobby.. write for a couple hours, then be out gathering characters.  Need the road, badly, especially now.  Grandma’s disembark taught me, again, that life is what we want of it, how we shape it, and that it’s predatorily curt, not fair.  Fine.. if it wants scuffle, then I’ll hand-deliver, by letter’s way.

This wine, delightfully daunting.  Better tonight than last night.  Maybe as I know Grandma’s free from her pain.  Me, just beginning my greatest battle.  Autonomy.  All written, each stage, level, layer.  New blog, on mind, how wine’s skeletal sensuousness skips about my senses.  That’s what Literature does, especially from my preferred Authors.  Wish I had that Plath journal entry collection down here, well as the book’s draft.  Only have read first 5 pages.  Should be bloody done by now.

Night’s cap?  Yes.  Needed.  Was so odd leaving Grandma’s apartment complex, alone, as Mom & Dad went out the east exit, me the south.  I heard some music playing, in that unoccupied lobby.  I looked up, saw floor, floor, floor, floor.  Started to laugh, lightly, as I could just hear her saying I needed to get home, go to bed, “You have work tomorrow, Michael.”

Want to finish this entry before 11:30pm.  Writing against time, my greatest enemy.  It’s foolish if it thinks it’ll muffle or miff me.  I’m capping night with another glass of this blend, and I’m simply going to enjoy aimless types, enjoying how people fear me– a writer in their immediacy, afraid they’ll see their character on a page.  And they should.  ‘Cause as I said, I don’t fear a thing, NO ONE, in wine’s sloppy industry.  You affront me, you’ll see YOUR name, devil.  Know such.

Relaxed, with sitting’s final glassed cap.  Could sip this perpetual puddle all night.  “Perpetual puddle,” how simplistic, amateur a description, if I can critique Self, before Jim.  I’d be inclined to favor Mr. Jim, as I know he’s far more traveled than I.  Wishing mySelf back to Paris, Île Saint-Louis.  The nurse last night, asking if Grandma was named after Zelda Fitzgerald.  Interesting, especially since I just read Gatsby with the 100 section.  Miss those students, the discussions.  Have to dive into this new blog, the ideas rooted in theory, text, Live by Literature.. now I’m truly THINKING.  No devil industry looking over the writer’s shoulder.. snitch on me, see your name, devil.  Calming.  Sorry, reader.  Must be the Syrah in this blend.  Either way, I’m typing my Life, choice.

Thanks, Grandma … Love, mike

(6/7/13)

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Canned

Tracking speech.  Only to 2B led

into tunnel.  Surviving reporters, the questions.

Building backwards, from ruins of a commercial cone.

Opprobrious, outbreaking.  Eyelids, throwing themselves

at upper cheeks’ streets.

Traveling.  For measures, songs unseen.

Still tired from day, but I continue anyway.

(6/7/13)

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Change Exit

Divisions in my decisions, to my
Self hardly ever listen, let into a
Pester prison. Handle my matters with
Measured mittens, last meal for a fast
Deal. Steal my ocular away, for only a
Half-day.. why they have to be that way?
So many have comments, from introductory
Onsets, voicing their perception, useless
Pawn frets. Violence begets, whimsical
Speech, I’m not trying to teach, just be heard–
Liberated thought bird, placed first but caught
3rd– this sequence, all absurd. Television malignancy,
It’s somehow given me, even though I’m
Buried in books,
Avoid the adversaries with hooks, pitches–
Followed by corporate snitches, relocate
State, convenient rate.

(6/6/13)

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1:28pm

Still at home.  Jackie, asleep.  Haven’t had a chance to go out and write.  When I do, only bringing Comp Book.  And only writing verse, poetry.. three standalones in 2 hours.  My goal.

Tonight, opening something good, in wine’s way.  But what?  One of the championing Merlots.  I think the Duckhorn– no, the Trefethen.  Think it’s an ’09.

The 3 standalones today will go into book2, to be done before 7/20.  Topping that project, or I’m hoping to, at 101 pages.  Starting to feel the mocha’s scaffolding leave me.  Hard to continue writing with no momentum.  Have to remember to print pages at some point, today.  Should probably also do a backup of my work on this devilish laptop.  When out for coffee, will pretend I’m a tourist, traveling light, and can only speak in verse.  No sentences, no conventionality.. only written music.  Again, 3 pieces, standalones.. spoken word songs.

Hungry, but not in mood to eat.  How does that work itSelf out with any logic?  Bored…  Going to research travel targets.. Barcelona, Rome, Belgium, Thailand, Australia.  And on road, I’d only bring with me the Comp Book.  Or legal sheets.  But then I can’t post immediately.  And I think that’s why I find this blog so addictive– that I can record thoughts, instantly release, sent immediately to book/bottle.  No aging.

Thinking the next book SHOULD be 200+ pages.  And the next, next, the next…  Want to have ALL my writings in world when I’m gone.  Or at the horrible least: printed, bound, prepared.

The element of Travel in Literature.. possibly something to explore in Fall, especially with Capote.  And Faulkner.  Maybe wine, too, as an address.  Not as a beverage, but as a scene shifter.  Again, possibly.. just thinking about it.  Set on Fall being my best term to date.. especially after my conversation with the IL English Professor yesterday in tasting Room.

3:58pm.  Printing book.  All 120 pages.  Nervous, for some reason.  Well, no.. not “some.” It’s MY book.  Only doing 2 prints of this ms, or planning on it anyway.  This draft, and the final.  My assignment, 40 pages a night, read.  Keeping it as raw and rough as possible.  So you know: want to capture how I was feeling, precisely what I was thinking at the time.  Refuse to get frightened by this editing.  I’m looking forward it, really.  And when I get discouraged or exhausted.. I’m forcing Self to stay in that bloody chair.

This definitely calls for that bottle of Trefethen Merlot.  Radically warrants it.  Not leaving house, decided.  And three standlones… by night’s end.  Think that’s fair.  Yes, it’ll be spoken song.  Ready to start writing, now, soon as this printing’s done.

Maybe I should go get a mocha, then return.  Yes, that’d be okay.  Feeling alive, monstrously Literary, watching my book print.  Need to practice this more.  Know I sound silly, juvenile.  Book2.. can’t wait.  40 pages, 80 more…

Continuing in print.  Will get coffee downstairs after whole of book’s on paper.  Well, should really get fresh air.  Crazily stirred.. stirring in crazy.

And all this junk on my desk doesn’t help, tell you that.  Ugh, looks like ink fades already.  You know what, I’m only printing first 80 pages.  I’ll do the last 40 in two nights [again, as I’m setting on reading forty pages/night].  Yes, going to get a mocha.  May skip on the wine, so I can get through my 40 pages.  Or maybe I should do what I can tonight, then finish tomorrow– setting Self to go for long run AND edit.  What a V-Day that’d be.

5:09pm.  Back in home.  Edited first standalone in book, to get started.  Surprised how much I liked it.  Feeling unusually confident.  Will read another piece tonight, or two, so I can’t rush with the Trefethen.

IMG_32146:50pm.  Started sipping rest of ’08 Syrah I popped night before last.  Tastes a bit oxidized, but still with those darker notes I like, that I know pretty much all ’08 Sonoma Valley Syrahs to have.  Decided against opening the Trefethen, and rather elected unleashing the reverse GSM my immeasurably charming friend Sarah gifted me on the 29th, my birthday, at that Naked Wines & Tasting Lounge mixer.  Thinking of that event reminds me how disgustingly calescent it was, the weather in Sonoma’s homely valley.  If I were on vacation, at a resort with a pool nearby it wouldn’t have been so troubling.. but since I just clocked out, in familiar surroundings, it bothered me.  Anyway, back from tangent.. thanks to my sister Sarah, and I can’t wait to free this Rhône juice.  Oh, and to add even more specificity to this evening’s unfoldings: I’ll be pairing it with a Whole Foods burrito.  Humorous, or genius?

IMG_3215Revisiting Midnight in Paris tonight, for the first time in weeks.  Think its today’s printing of my book’s pages that has the writer so inclined to do so.  Thinking of Hemingway’s emphasis on truth, bravery.  That’s exactly what this book is, all 120 pages.  Disappointed I didn’t write even 1 of the standalones in Comp Book– no matter.. I’ll do so tonight.  One of my former students, texting how excited she is about Poe, for the 1A section come Fall.  I’ll again demonstrate honesty in this prose: Fall, 2B my strongest semester.  Ever.  For a number of reasons I’ll later disclose, when the term’s in tow, throw.

That Syrah, swirling my head a bit.  Looking at an old still I shot at the Dry Creek Winery, which I just learned is AGAIN for sale.  Serves them right, frankly.  But anyway, this picture of all the lined barrels, just after rain, makes me think of tasting in France.  Not where I did in ’09, but where I WILL taste, in futures near.

Little Kerouac, again asleep.  Complete quiet in condo.  But this music’s volume, barely breaking audible barrier, or “threshold” as winemakers love saying.  Finally in relaxed mode, mood.  No worries, I’m told.  Thankful.  Thinking of Grandma, what she must be thinking tonight.. what she today entertained.  Opening bottle.

Encouraged.

Held.

8:45pm.  First glass, small pour.  Earthy, herbal red fruit, pepper, wild.. gorgeous.  Just the kind of wine I need tonight.  Thinking about Grandma.  Hope she’s comfortable.  Need to go visit her, tomorrow, before my run.  Part of me’s afraid, the other viciously eager.  She’s done so much for me, throughout Life.  She recalled the days in the Bayview house, when I visited her in the hospital the other night, how she used to care for my sister and I– prepare our lunches, provide for us when sick.  This is difficult, the present platform with her, my sweet grandmother.  Pouring a glass for Her.

(6/4/13)

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11:07am

No matter what happens in my Life, I’ll still write.  Everything.  From my first assignment teaching, from the entries of grad school, and before, to this development with Grandma.  All will be written.

With mocha now.. should be recording moments and thoughts with ink, as to see writing speed.  I can’t convey that with these types.

Jack, distracted by music flying from phone.  MY favorite song from Guts.  Kerouac, bobbing his head, like he’s about to sing along, or dance.  Not running today, tempted as I am.  Tomorrow, though.  Would love to do a Wed A.M. sprint, or some intervals, but waking in excessive prematurity’s always been difficult for the writer.

Mocha, over by wine fridge.  Interesting to see it there.  Wine, coffee.. thoughts again of my little Parisian café.  But, that’d take from the writing, significantly.  Just thinking.  It’s my day off.  Eng 1A, Faulkner, Poe, and one other.  Reconsidering approaches again…

(6/4/13)

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codified growl

One month from today, the Kenwood Foot Race.  Feel up for it now, but I need to do the Lawndale run a few more times before I can be prepared fully for that stretch.  Only gray in sky.  Quiet outside.  Not that I’ve been out there.. it just looks quiet.  Little Kerouac, quite involved with his objects, stacking one atop the other, pushing it over, repeating, doing differently each time with order of stack, stacks.

So pleased I skipped wine altogether last night.  I’m quiet awake, but still quite drained from yesterday’s 5.9 mile run.  Under an hour.. that’s “good,” isn’t it?

Prose, not to be paired with coffee in its brew.  Throughout day, more verse.  And if I need fill any unexpected void in book’s page span, it’s to be done with verse, rhyme, poem.. something musical, always.  Don’t want to be seen as a ranter.

 

Lost track of where I was in my lap– off to

escape through meter.. don’t expect this scrivener

to come back, how much has elapsed, couldn’t disclose..

comatose from introspective overdose.  Syrupy sentences,

high fructose.. only scribble in true show, cowardly critics

looking to divot my digits, all ignored.. I’m in Medoza

sipping Malbec on hidden ridges.  Just

beginning my scene, beautiful day, pardon me but I’m

new to these ways, involuntarily imbued in

the daze.  Grazed by stray blades.. spend the weekend

on mend, the responses sent–  me, not a pawn with

pen, senselessly sentencing, rather muddled in

melodies, taking odd shapes on the wrong date.

Amalgamating pieces, I’m sprawled, debating

re-creeds.. Can’t take any more caffeine,

or I’ll be having a cracked spleen, all their traps seen.

***

Definitely don’t need any more caffeine.  And why can’t I bring Self to scribble in Comp Book?  Why am I so addicted to this device?  This isn’t writing…  And I’m in more a poetic mood anyway, this morning.  So what’s the halt about?  Just skimmed an article about writing simply enjoying language, toying with it when they hit blocks.  What I should do, true…  Jack looks out window.  Walking away from these keys, I do same.

(6/4/13)