inoculated into

1:06am.  Still awake, writing.  Going for 2am.  Well, I’m justing letting anyone actually reading that I COULD write for another hour.  But, more than likely won’t.  And I shouldn’t, really.  Need to save some fluidity for the before-work-writing.  At the side of a coffee cup.  Made an ATM withdrawal today, put some into writing stash.  Wonder how much is in there, although it doesn’t really make a difference as I don’t plan on touching it anyway; not spending any money to have my art noticed; one reason I’m not funding/going forward with the chapbook, putting more blood into this “blog.”

Already nearing 1000 words.  How is that possible?  But, more crucially, 3 pieces.  For recital, reading, performance.  Can I perform prose?  If I want to.  If you’d listen.  Would you?  Could use another glass of that ’09 Cuvée I was sipping earlier.  It’d wake me up.  Or least tilt my mental, usefully, dutifully.  Sleep sounding tasty.

Hope I dream to Paris.  Or Belize, or somewhere else I’ve never.  I’ll let you know when back consciousness’ corner.

9:29am.  Wishing I would have tried for 2am.  Could that be qualified as “surrender?” Not letting my Self think that way.  Rocking little Jack’s bassinet with my right foot while typing.  Makes for an odd rhythm [finally spelled “rhythm” right for once on 1st try, there.]  In tasting Room in just over an hour, and I couldn’t be more ready to write absolutely every detail that greets me.  Notes, only.  Going to make an angry effort to avoid sentences.  Time, more than simply “precious” with my life’s current stage set.  Mr. Little Kerouac requires a daunting portion of my hours, so it’s difficult to write in extended sittings.  Which is fine, as I wanted to write shorter, more stream-of-consciousness adhering pieces anyway.  The standalone’s, saving me, getting me closer to the road.  Speaking of Kerouac and roads, travels, writings, intellectualism, poetry, much else, I’m going to bring Kerouac’s novel with me to work.  Not sure I’ll read any, have a chance to, but I’m making mySelf bring it.  Viewing the act of carrying it to the winery a victory.  Many warned that a child would disrupt my writing habits.  Constrict, cripple, confine them.  Not at all, trust me.  I’m more focused, strategic, confident with my pages.  I’m fine with not completing a novel anytime sure, with this poet/songwriter-like approach to my work; writing in the moment, riding the consciousness river, wherever it leads.  The not-knowing’s the boon for the material.  (9:45am)

6:02pm.  Back home from tasting Room.  Thick crowds, all ready for wine to keep them warm in rain’s return.  Outside, an swarm of police officers, helicopter combing skies overhead.  Makes me think of another genre.  But, don’t have time, now.  Maybe later, when I can afford the time.  Just called SRPD, they told me someone thieved a car, ran from squad cars.  Weak plot, can’t write that.  Want to write a murder mystery, something Basic Instinct-reminiscent.  Rain, still in swing.  So I write with little Kerouac being rocked in his little bed by my right foot again.

Tonight’s wine, the remainder of the ’09 Cuvée from last night.  And more spoken word.  More song, rhyme, cubist writing.  Should do something with the notes I took today in the wine Room, all the dialogue lines from guests, and a couple from mySelf–on I voiced about Cabernet Franc being the crotchety old man of Bordeaux varietals.  No profound, certainly.  But memorable, for me.  Time to revisit that ’09 cuvée.  Sips needed.

My days extended, in ways so blended; see strays ascended.

Precipitation in my station. [3/24/12]

3/26/12 – No typing on 3/25.  But, I did write yesterday, on the side of Chalk Hill Road, before AV shift.  Finally.  Had always wanted to do so, and in the painting-perfect AVA.  Wrote two short standalone’s in my car.  Will I post them here?  No plans, now.  And I hate that word, “post.” So digital, inartistic.  Looking in my phone, at all the pictures, makes me feel behind on writing, like I need to write following the captured stills.  And in the “blogosphere,” posts that don’t have at least 1 visual aid receive criticism quicker than entries bringing solely text.  But that’s not Literary, picture-depended writing, of any kind.  I don’t write for the photographs.  In fact, I want to reduce the presence to pictures in this “blog.”  I want more writing here, from me.  And there will be.  And if anyone thinks there’s too much, then stop reading.  I won’t be bothered, believe me.

Already over 500 words this morning, after writing a rec letter for one of my favorite students, Sarah H.  She, along with the Stanford Law student from Saturday, atop several other moments recently, have me redirecting towards the classRoom, studies, the Ph.D. notions.  Was thinking this morning, I really only want the doctorate for mySelf.  Not for “professional development,” really.  I don’t need it to teach.  Well, I do if I want to be at the University level.  But it doesn’t matter, all this entertainment, deconstruction.  I want to be a student again–reading, taking notes, studying.  Investigating a couple programs, including Stanford’s.  I know what you’re thinking, skeptic, “Mike, it’s very competitive, and very expensive.” Thank you, I know.  But that won’t stop me from thinking, applying, envisioning.  And who’s to say I won’t get in?  My writing, if anything, will get me in.  Revisiting all these ideas, the books on my desk, remembering my days at CSUEB (grad school), makes certain things seem so minor.  Notably, the wine industry’s inconsistencies, contradictions, laughable self-elevation.  Ending there.  Not worth characters on page.

In writing my letter for Sarah, I thought about all the interactions I had with her class, especially with 1984, Orwell’s message, predictions.  Want to return to that world.  That’s my true world–thought, writing, ideas exchange, nothing technology-centered.  Nothing chemically-woven, bottled.  All free.  This is me.

11:40am.  Wildly caffeinated, writing like the castle crumbles, listening to Amaru, struggling to emulate his pace, ethic.  Heard wind sneaking through a non-visible opening in the window’s encasing.  Want some air, atmosphere, characters.  Need to find my Lewis Carroll texts, for the writing sample.  Don’t want to rewrite my M.A. thesis.  Going to produce a new argument, but parallel to what I submitted before graduation.  Tired, probably from the wines tasted last night.  Mom made these delicatessen sliders, brought over an ’08 Syrah (can’t remember winery, but the AVA was Paso Robles) with Dad.  I brought some wines home for tasting, from Lancaster of course.  09 Merlot, 09 Pinot, 08 Blend, and an 08 Estate Cab.  Oh, and that 2010 S-Blanc.  This caffeine’s curing, partially.  Tonight, no grapes.

Track 4 — thinner

The other blog, shutting down.  With Sir Jack on stage with me, I can’t afford too many irons.  The chapbook, moving along.  Did some writing today at work.  Was interesting.  Like my cubeNOTES, but with a view, seeing the actual world (sky, clouds, ground, vines, trees pushed by atmospheric jolts) and more enjoyable characters around me.  11:17pm, and all I can think about is travel.  That writing session in the hotel Room, with whatever red they have on their menu.  Tonight, sipped an ’07 Estate Cab from AV.  The first chord that met my sense net: chocolate, coupled with a little black pepper.  Had a couple glasses, the whole time wondering what Katie’s and my wine does in its generously neutral barrel.  How could it be “neutral” when I can tell that oak’s working, massaging the sculpture of that juice?  Another thing to put on the list of Katie questions.  So much poetry accumulated now, I have to do something with these pieces.  Have 8 or 9 works, “songs” I guess, arranged almost like an EP.  Would love to see a crowd’s collective eye on me, listening to my expressions, reflections, entries.  No rain tonight.  Last night’s front, forceful.  Nearly angry.  Loved it.  Perfect for one of my suspenseful short stories, which I haven’t touched in well over two years.  Don’t have time, now.  And that’s fine.  Jack’s landing pushed me even further into this word-whirled waywardness.  Writing in moment.  Don’t want to say “stream of consciousness.” Used too much, by me, others.  The little character down the hall’s providing help in consolidating project effort, aim, time, Life, passion more than anyone or one event ever’s been able to.  I was a bizarre blend, not knowing what end I wanted envisioned.  Now, me a rhino of a Cabernet, driving undeviatingly at my endeared end.  Like Mr. Shakur, I’ve been logging 3 standalone pieces a day.  Length, presently, not crucial.  Just want to stay Creating.  And, thanks to Mr. Jack Patrick, such is much easier.  I’m alas the Cabernet character I aspired.  Leaping further into my newest, most fruitful ever of years.

2/29/2012, Wednesday

untitled ides

Keep seeing “Ides of March” referenced, on TV, in articles.  Not sure what it means, exactly.  Is this a sign of some sort?  Something telling me to steer a certain way?  Either way, day off.  Literary lunch-style.  Typing faster than fast over the next 60 minutes.  Rain, continuing, but not anywhere near yesterday’s vehemence.  Spoke word, this morning’s project.  In addition to reading 3 more pages of my book.  Not going to lie, I’m a bit behind on the editing.  Not as fun as the writing.  Have to get over that.  Now.  Sipping the mocha, listening to drops in the thin metal drain on the other side of the wall on my right.

Think I found a reading here in Sonoma County, closer to home.  But, again, time’s an issue, from my commute.  Frustrating.  How am I supposed to read if I can’t blend it into my routine of “responsibility”?  Don’t I deserve to have clock-in time for something I want to do, for one of my appointments?  The drive home last night, like driving through, into, a dozen fire hoses, all aiming at my little car.  Windows fogging, standing water on thinning tire tread.  Kept thinking to Self, “For what?” Still thinking that, here with my mocha, while pages 9-12 of the book crawl from this aging printer.  “Revolution solution,” says Thievery Corporation.

Looking through these pages as they settle on the plastic strip extending from beneath the paper bay.  Surprised with how much I write, a little I guess.  But more at peace with my voice, or “style”, as much as I avoid the term.  This stream of consciousness, throwing it to the page; unfettered, rapid reiteration of my trials, my steps as a writer.  And, wine’s the exact same, according to Professor Sis.  “Don’t second guess yourself,” she ordered.  And I don’t follow anyone, ever.  But, Miss Katie…  a soldier for her, her disciple.

“Ides of March.” I remember trying to rime a word with “tide” the other day in the café, and I remember the word “ides” slithered into my thinking.  “What on Earth is an ‘ide’?” I recall thinking, sipping mocha2.  Looked it up, and “Ides of March” resulted.  Refers to the 15th day of March on Roman calendars.  There are also ties to the assassination of Cesar.  From the Latin word “Idus,” translating into “half division.”

“The Ides of March have come,” Cesar spouted.

“Ay, but not gone,” the soothsayer said.

From Shakespeare’s masterwork.  A bit ominous, but more cognitively reviving.  Loved doing the research into the phrase, the lines.  Had no idea that such prophesy was attached to the Ides concept.  Sipping the morning mocha, I imagine again being back in the classRoom, my truest of elements.  Where I’m strong, sovereign, with purifying Pedagogical Freedom.  I will be back at the class’ head.  No spooky foreshadowing can stop me.  I’ve accumulated too much momentum.

[1/21/12 – Sa]