journal, 4/15/15

Morning starting eventfully, Jackie calling for me and we going to his appointment, to look at some dimensions of his dialogue, Alice and I feeling quite confirmed in hat we already knew.. no problems, in fact Heather, the Speech Therapist or whatever, said he was impressively astute in language and communication, and familiarity with words and descriptions.  Alice and I left him at school, she driving me back to the condo and here I am intent on composition, one standalone piece of short fiction before I leave.  Time 8:58 and I need jazz, coffee nearly done, the run I did this morning for Alice and I– and by ‘run’ I intend coffee, not an actual run as knee left is still quite irritable.. thinking tomorrow after class I’ll head straight to the gym and swim for a bit, then the bike.. diversify my fitness forwards.

9AM, day in front of me.  Paid today but haven’t checked balance, not yet.. don’t want this morning contaminated by money or tech or anything.. just the words, if you please, the sorcery of syllables and notes from me, the educator this morning– yes I love wine but I see myself lecturing on words and literature, writing and education, not wine.  At all.  I love wine, don’t ever mistake, but it’s not my career.  Again, it’s an additive–

Bathroom break, and into the fiction piece, about two winemakers tasting through barrels and interacting with the wine differently.. see?  I don’t hate wine, I don’t eve hate the industry, I just know my path and the career I envision and no one can give that to me but ME.

Still plenty of time but that will backfire on me if I take for any kind of granted or dismiss the clock.  Not having jazz playing, the usual Hutcherson station seems to be helping, actually.  Just the construction sounds outside– and there’s that metaphor again, of building something, erecting an ambitious edifice of publication, SELF-publication.  That doesn’t need to be hyphenated, really as I see it.

Short story edited and ready for posting.  Time, 9:35.. really should go but I have the 1,000 word bug-slash-goal this morning and I need to sell material and get booked as a blogger/writer/journalist/copy editor.. anything to bring money into the house, the new house and improve Life for my family.. love the pressure, this stress, a drug making me work harder and with more precise franticness.. oh lovely, no one can catch me.. I’m the only adjunct of this shape, this Literary STOMP!

Think I will need another cup, though.. AND, bring papers to work in case it’s slow.  Glad I’m done with the Hem/Plath papers so I can write tomorrow morning early when I get to the adjunct cell– I mean office.  I love the harshness of that hour and how when I go to the office to grade or write it’s gothic on the wall’s outer layer.  But when I return to the atmosphere, walking to the 1A group, it’s lit, welcoming for my chapter– only love and passion I feel today!  I’m among the Kerouac, the Hemingway, the Joyce and Dostoevsky!  Or that’s how I feel!  And how dare any proprietor claim they can “give” me a career?  Laughable…..  I’m above them all now, and quite delighted with me view.

Richly adorned Namaste.

fate, a wined warrant [act 2]

10:22pm.  Want to be done with night writing by 11p.  Is that wrong, that I eventually want to stop writing, just relax?  Have the Comp Book next to author, in case the urge surfaces.  Wine 2 for night, another Cab, more eased, transitional, scenic than pour 1.  Need another glass, now I’m in thought.  But what would that do?  What would Kelly say?  I have to work in morrow’s early marrow.  So, when in doubt…  Another pour of the ’07.  Whoops, wasn’t supposed to disclose.  Reading over this morning’s verses.  Inspired to be on stage.  Collecting pieces for Self, my new mission.  Not for a publisher, not for a book-length project.  Just for me.  My Self.  I AM the material, the manuscript.  Don’t have to spend the biz stash on a chapbook of poems.  I walk in rhyme, I find…  Have always.

Tiring, I won’t lie.  Need that last glass of wine, here at 10:29[pm].  Still incensed by the character, poking at Artists.  How is someone like Mike Madigan just supposed to sit still, stay silent?  I can’t.  That’s not how I was raised.  I know the wine industry would love for my to stretch invisible mind tape over my chatterbox.  But, Dad always told me, “If you don’t think for yourself, others will think for you…others are dying to think for you.” Others want to talk about others, how they write…  I just want to write.  Why are some so hungry to judge?  Do their lives lack so palpably?  Shameful.  When I’m his age, I hope I’m either beyond, or comfortably fluid in self-publication.

Just poured the final glass.  Clocking out at 11p, definitively.  This 2nd Cab, evolving into a ballet-like stretch.  What does it want me to think?  Again I think, what is my first vintage doing, right now, in the St. Francis Winery production area?  You know what sounds good now?  A beer.  Racer 5, in fridge…  No.  Need to settle.  And to be frank, I need this page poised.  The Comp Book, at side.  Will make sure my songs continue in revolution.  Want another sip, just like Hemingway, London, Poe, Plath in her  atmospherically ambrosial disclosures, journaled.  What do I do, but pour another glass, adore my druthers’ mast.  My character, waiting on a mezzanine, somewhere in verve.  But where?  Getting my next glass…  From bottle 3.  Feel like I haven’t been taught as much as I’d hoped in this tasting.  True, I’m not at all familiar with chemical intricacies as others, but like Dad told me, I have a palate.  Actually, he said, when I revealed my insecurity of not having the background Katie did, DOES, “You have THE palate.” This should, I hope, be read by those slighting Artists, what we do.  We’re more than merely valid…  Perhaps more so than YOU.

11pm.  Late submission.  Good thing I’m Self-employed with blog, answering only to Self; Dependent upon no corporation, its evil lean, suited troops.  Find distraction so appealing.  This means I need to clock out, now [at 11:04pm].

 

Memory:  In 1997, I think, I was let go early on my last day at a job, for challenging a “supervisor.” She said, “Is this your last day?” I told, confirmed, affirmed, it was.  She threw, “You can go, then.  You’re done.” So funny, I thought.  And I still do, in this “industry.” Wine’s robots, just jesters, for writer amusement.