I feel better, more ME. Not sure what it was about today, but it pummeled me up and down its block. Maybe I deserved it for a lack of connection to self. Spoken word in the vineyard today, as I’ve been meaning to do. One victory midday. But after that, I was surrounded. By challenges and demands, hands stretched toward me for another pour, and me only wanting my own glass. My own pours. My wine. My quiet. Finally had all a couple minutes ago, just watching sprinklers throw water wherever they wanted. Seated, safe, and finally composed, only at day’s end.
utterly invaluable introspection–
Who knows where the next stage leads me,
I’m following my age, read three
books in a week, looking for something but what..
Yeah, I’m a professor, but I’m without an answer,
affection of my object, but it’s offset–
I’m a tireless writer, fulfilling all stereotypes– you staying up way too pounding espresso and refusing to let go of the pen–
Wait, I’m in my own den of sharpened dedication, written meditation multitudinous..
No nay-sayer could ruin this.. True to bliss, go get it, hunt it down, now, not so much a know how as a know when..
I need somewhere to vent, and get paid from it, accuse significant currently,
Tomorrow, I promise more poetry. More. Wrote one today, that’s three in the last three days. I’ve had enough of expected’s— patterned mechanicals. How does that work, look at the gears, me sipping another glass, that’s what causes the last fault-jitter. But I do it again. What’s wrong with me, this writer— I’m a writer. And I’ll stop there. Be safe and quiet and under a professional bed, staple and file cabinet anesthesia. Blitzkrieg jumps and I cover my ears but I’m forced to talk, the stooped transaction. That’s fine, I invited. 4th, morrow, more marrow from the verser. How would that work, stretch where my suppressions lurk. Department chairs, my beloved bellow twerps—
At the precipice, don’t test my bliss–
Consciousness earthquake, onto the nerves wake–
Sole sober poet, I’m the controller’s eroder, noted–
4:13— late lunch at winery, so I’m in the office of the club manager, one I occasionally share with when having copywriting to do. Had a snack earlier, so no need for the writer to eat. I mean, I would have a snack if I had one, but since I don’t I’m fine with just doing some work for bottledaux, writing a bit, going through the pictures I took earlier. It’s clear to me, after pouring what I did today for whom I did, people from out-of-state, that I will always be here in CA, in Sonoma, and my ultimate of ultimate apexing aims is to own a vineyard, a winery, possibly even with a farm element to it (goats, sheep, horses, whatever). Think I have till 4:20-something for lunch, but I can’t remember, and it doesn’t matter as I came in earlier for writing-purposed proposed purposes.
Huh… Now I am starting to feel a form of famine, catching myself yawning, or rubbing my eyes, or my attention wandering, or too easily getting distracted by the conversation in the next room… I rub my eyes again, yawn… shit, I need something to eat. Think there’s some crackers left in the kitchen. Having pizza tonight to celebrate the end of Alice’s school year, and for the Warrior’s game tonight, not sure I can wait till then. Yes, the hunger is definitely influencing my concentration. Maybe I should have a sip of something to “numb the pain” as my an old friend said once, years ago when I worked with him at another winery, telling each other repeatedly how disgustingly hungry we both were. Think that was in ’09, or ’10. So, so, SO long ago. That too happens when I get hungry, dwelling and tangents, memories that lead to tangents that dwell on some random memory or conversation— think I see someone in the kitchen, eating something or having a snack. I may be saved! Hem said hunger’s great inspiration or motivation— NO, it was discipline. And it is, but it fucking hurts. And now I am definitely feeling that pain, or discomfort. Wine would only make it worse. What about water? Grandma once told me water numbs hunger, or makes you feel like you’re full, something like that. Maybe that’s what I should do— have a couple of those crackers and a shitload of water.
Need to market my freewriting course obnoxiously. Keep my pitches short, and lessons loose and not too constrictive. In other words, if lecture 8 is about dialogue, let the students know that we don’t only have to talk about dialogue. Yes, that will be the nucleus of the lecture, its epicenter, but the ONLY aspect of prose we discuss.
4:23… Yes, they have food. I need food. The wind outside distracts me, how it pushes the vines one way then another. Have so much to do tonight. Need to put myself to bed early, make coffee like I did last night, pour it into tumbler, be ready for early morrow.
More ideas about freewriting course. The hunger fades— Huh.