Cared, Full

New rule:  No photos on blog, anymore.  Just spent ten minutes waiting for phone to “sync” with this stupid laptop, so I could attach a small picture to last night’s entry.  Waiting for pictures to “upload” or “sync” or “post” is NOT writing.  So.. bx is only a writing spot, 4ever.  On walk with Alice & Kerouac, thought about Grandma, her closing words with me.  “It’s Your Life, You have Your Choice.” I capitalize for emphasis, respect to her insight.  On the path, walking back to domicile after defeating the Woodview hill, I thought about simplicity, the bluntness of that paved path I was on.  Yes there were some slight bends, curves, but it’s straightforward, leading to ONE place.  More pen2paper, I thought.. which I have been doing.  More short posts to bx; finish books, that’s what makes you a writer– the blog doesn’t, no matter how “Literary” it is.  It’s a blog, a web log, dependent upon the internet, its functionality, the device for access.  A Comp Book merely needs me, the ink, ideas.  Pretty soon, I won’t even use Comp Books.. want to go back to legal pads, like I started using in late ’08.

Kerouac, so fast now with his walking.  He sits over there, by the little sofa chair we bought him for xmas, talking to me in his own perplexing pidgin.  He looks out the window now, seeing only this lingering grayness.

Going to café in a couple hours, when Alice returns from meeting, to begin formal work on Fall Semester.  So much I want to get done in these 2 days off.  Car wash, haircut, order books, pickup SRJC check.. so much.  I’ll place book orders next week, or email them– No, would rather order in person.  So maybe I should just do it today, then.  NO, don’t rush.  Just start with the lectures.  1A, Poe..  5, Capote, his Portraits, Observations.  Don’t want to do too many short stories, as they too are structurally traditional, or can be, like the novel.  And I want students to appreciate the shorter, more unorthodox works disseminated by a penner.



8:37am.  Giving Self till :41 to type.  Want to leave a bit early, do some roadside writing in Comp Book, then later rack into chapbook.  This racking approach with my writing, the formation of projects, seems like it may work.  And it has to.  I’m SO tired of restarting with book projects.  The one thing this blog has made me appreciate: the standalone piece.  Then collecting those.. the collection of writings from an Author.

Instincts, telling me to leave now.  Go to coffee house, don’t put yourSelf in a position to feel rushed be there a long line.  Just what I’m going to do.  Good day, reader.  We’ll connect at day’s close.  Maybe over a bottle of…

9:10pm.  Home.  A day so trying, I barely have push to further push.  And the bottle I’m set to open, a ’12 SB from the winery.  Not going to inject–I mean rack–3 pieces into book tonight.  Set on 1, just one.  The one I wrote today, on my lunch break, walking the Merlot block, left side of driveway.

Had another reminder tonight that I need finish my projects, get to Road.  Not walking you to specifics, reader, and I’ll probably forget eventually what I’m passively referencing, however just know I was motivated to faster move with these pages.. even with this infernal “blog.” Warm today, the few times I was able to get outside.

In the mood to relax, not work, write.  Just want to scroll through channels, watch anything.  Truly know what it’s like to be a potato.  Almost spelled it with an “e,” like that mindless noodle Quayle, only as I’m tired.  Wish I had another writer movie down here with me.. tired of the one I still have in this laptop, distracting me.  Need to be like Crystal, only write pen2paper at night, so I can’t be distracted by tech, anything it provides, or CAN provide.  That new writing movie I recently screen, with the main character keeping a journal throughout the film, actually taking a class on how to keep a journal– what a personal expository log’s supposed to do.  Think she, my new blogging/writing friend, has more discipline than me in certain arches.

No characters really stand out from today, unfortunately.  Trying to toggle through memory, but can’t find a thing, a single figure to record.  And because of.. my mood falls.  Maybe I wasn’t paying close enough attention.  NO, I understand, pulled from lull.  I was busy, almost more than I could handle, at one time handling a group of 4, 4, and 8 concertedly.  Can’t write between such pours.

Even more inspired, after tonight, to get to my office.. my Creative Think tank.  Has to be at least a half-hour from home, so to mentally be advantageously removed, for prose.. poem, song, CREATivitY.

Thinking of my character.. but she deserves more than my current state.  I’m the invalid writer, writing while listening to the news.  How serious does that make me?  Ridiculous, humorous, really.  Time for book.  “Logging off…” Sipping ’12 SB, finally.


Rocky Race

And how much grading did the writer/professor get done today?  None.  Not a single paper.  Couldn’t believe how hot it was.  Had a VIP tour this morning, with some people from SoCal.  Had a great time, was beyond impressed with their familiarity with wine.  Tonight, sipping a Sauv Blanc I bought over two months ago, I think, for a night Mom and Dad came over for dinner.  2010, really rooted in grapefruit, pine, grassiness, earth.  Not quite my SB type, but I’m sipping it.  Hot, downstairs.  Feeling summer, already.

Finding out tomorrow, late afternoon [5:50p], if I get any classes for Fall ’13.  Not sure what position to take.  Part of me says take whatever they offer.  Other, nothing below 1A.  Can’t entrench now, have to act based on what I feel in moment.  Going to take my papers again tomorrow.  Hopefully I’m not on any groups, and can get through some of these 302 & 100 submissions.  Can’t wait for the day when I don’t have to grade, when all I have to do is write, for me.  And if I want to read, it would be on break from chipping away at a book, while on Road.  What I want, closer, more than I before saw.  Almost done with this SB glass.. need that last Racer in fridge.

They keep playing that Boston bombing footage on TV.  Why is the media so shameless.. I honestly don’t understand it.  Just looked at clock, 10:32pm.  Why can’t I just do nothing on this couch, not write?  Guess ‘cause I’m a writer.  My own improbity, riotous.  But tomorrow, its 5:50p, can’t stop thinking about.  How should I react if I get nothing?  Should I say something, or stay silent, react in writing?  Latter, of course.  Uncomfortable in this heat.  If I were on an overnight, in Dallas say, like my sister, I’d sit on my balcony, with a glass of SB, stare into city lights, and just write.  There’d be more material than I could handle, I’m sure.

The grading, haunting, taunting me.  Watching news, weather portion.. says its 60 in Santa Rosa.  Hogwash.  Feels like 70-something in this condo.  Pour little Kerouac, upstairs.  Hope he’s comfortable in his cosy nest.  Think I’m going to open the sparkling berry water I put in fridge.. that’s against compulsion, what’s better for character, session.  Again, I need as much difference, CONTRAST, as possible.

I’m in rebellious pitch.  And I need to be.  Today’s tip, right to separatist fund.  This morning’s drive, to work, juggling everything from thoughts of my office, to day I let all know I’m into Autonomy’s skate, to what poem I’ll next put to page, to wines mine [which I didn’t have to taste either, today]. to Ms. Plath’s journal entries.  MY wine retaliation, consisting of only thought.. independent construction, reconstructions.  I don’t have any mind for what They conveniently sculpt.

Can see where I use to park my car, right now [1st & Main, Napa], if I stare at something long enough.. I prefer not close eyes.  Need that berry water–  Still hot in this Room.  This devil phone says 61.  Not paying mind, but rather thinking of morrow’s morning mocha.  Or maybe I should brew in-house, save funds for book.  Have to keep reminding Self: I want to sell BOOKS.  This blog, much a distraction, running downfield then again back.  Dizzied.


journal, 2/3/13 [con’d]

Tasted my Merlot today.  And now, just on couch, sipping night’s cap, thinking of sister’s birthday.. How is she 32?  Time, scoring another.  But I write, it can’t contest my might.  Morrow, watching little Kerouac.  Then, to classRoom.  Having everything journal-based.  Want students to be comfortable, confident with their own voices.  Not in any mood for prose, so, to verse.  And from here onward, not going to announce…

Am I “professional?” Hard to tell, stood before I crawled, fell.  Re-tell,

the breeze quell.

Can’t write poetry, either.  Must be the indie Ale.  Sleep, what the writer really needs.  Tomorrow, challenged by my little Artist.  Haven’t seen him in days3.  How will it change me?  I’m hoping I wake early, am forced to write in hours wee.  Remember when JAck was newborn, would feed early, I’d skip back to our room, scribble what notes I’d be allowed, then continue with eve.  Forcing Self to go into sleep’s street by 11:30p.  Time, :25.  Can’t wait for my A.M. installation.  Motivated by coffee– I mean, ESPRESSO.  Am I writing, or just venting.  I don’t know anymore.  Would love another one of these Lagunitas deposits, but what would that do?

Remembered a guy that I worked with at the Marin outfit, in 2004/2005.  He eventually left, starting his own ad business.  Another character on my Self-employed’s roster.  Again, why am I not there, NOW?  Just have to keep writing, dare the writer say.. POSTING.  Continue with Creative release.  And this writer tires.  Lovely.  Hoping I dream of my 1st tour, from whimsical/unorthodox/Self-published BOOK.  Writing way to Autonomy, fractionalized, maybe.  But how can I project?  This isn’t a marketing conference room.. THIS, a true journal.  A reflective realm.  Only waiting, while writing.  Then writing while I wait.  Mess, yes.

“You know what, gimme two more to make it six,”

the Texas man, John said, exited to up the order of shipped ’08 Syrah.  These two days off, though, all verse.  Not in Fiction mood.  And, don’t have time for lengthy compositions.  Well, I shouldn’t say that.  Not during the day, I meant.  Still want to address the Lit Theory piece I wanted to write on Jack London’s ‘Eden’ & Kerouac’s ‘Road’.  In my little notes, I the other day wrote, “Knowing when you begin is when you begin.” Was on the Stanford site, earlier, fantasizing.  With my little Kerouac up early [was in his Room at 6:34am], I’m writing early.  Oh, and am I printing today, for book’s and poetry collection’s sake?  Assuredly.  -7:12am


A little chilly outside, perfect mocha weather.  So many notes from the little pages to transfer.  Finally sat down with Dad, asked him some aviation questions.  Started at preflight walk around plane to some taxiing procedures and cruising altitude.  One interesting thing he cited, of which he informed me was “Coffin Corner.” Not sure I fully understand it, but it deals with a compromised control of the aircraft.  Another topic addressed, with Mom and Dad, was the circumstantial randomness, unexpected connectedness of Katie’s rise to winemaker.  All possible stories.  And if not, more propulsion for the Writer.

Looking through these little pages almost exhausts me, with how much I write, how I’m utterly unable to put down a pen.  All these in-the-moment captures.  Like this piece of dialogue yesterday, from a man visiting with his wife, from Florida, saying “Get the dozer out, start pushin’…” Originally, he’s from Oklahoma, he told me, accent as thick as humid southern air.  He said this after his remarking on how difficult it must have been to carve and pave the road up to the winery’s mountaintop [and yes, “Mountain Top” is one word].  I thought it was a little humorous, as he was basically talking to himself.  Not knowing I was recording.  Actually, that’s the only note I took yesterday, shamefully, surprisingly.  Well, no, there was one more.  The about voicing, from the Texas gentleman in love with the Syrah.

Test4Self, today: print 15 pages of poem.  Know I have more than enough to satisfy this.  The printing, strictly for collection.  I will print, or try, a few pages for.. something.  Not a novel.  Not yet.  Thinking I want legal sheets for that, like Richard in “Crashing.” Mom and Dad said it best the other night, “Write your experience.” They suggested I document something I went through years ago.  But, I have to write what I want to.  Just don’t know what that is yet, in way of fiction.  The tasting Room?  Winemaking?  Aviation [although I don’t have the time, I don’t think, to address this]?  Well, with Aviation, I could write about someone wanting to write about it, just being fascinated with planes, what it takes to navigate one.  But that might appear escapist, evasive.  Need a mocha to think about it.

8:46am.  Drizzling outside.  Can’t believe it, especially when I think of how bastardly screaming in temp it was just days ago.  Had some rhymes in my head while carrying from the coffee brothel.  Forgot most of them.  All that’s in memory left, “bone brittle, shown little, a lone riddle, wait for drones’ fizzle, stick to ink like ice cream cone drizzle…” Just transferred to poetry/song doc, here on laptop monster.  Thinking of what I journaled about Gillian the other day, how Mom liked the entry.  Tells me I DO need to excavate past days.  And maybe that’s where this “novel” is.

Slow Rowing

Tasted a 2010 Cab, from barrel.  Couldn’t believe the charm it already had.

Taking notes now, next to Jackie.  All I have time for.  He’s speaking to me in his dialect.

Right now, sipping an ’07 Sauv Blanc from AV.  I’ve tasted a few ’07 SB’s of late, one of the a white with SB base.

Need to revisit the BOOK document on desktop.  Do something with those weeks of sessions, instead of just having them rot in this machine’s bile trench.

Eye, left: want to itch, scratch, snatch it out of my head.  These allergies, making the day, and this session more struggled.

10:02pm.  Failed again this morning with waking early.  Problem, giving Self the option of waking when I wish.  What I’m doing is still having the alarm set for regular time, 7:20am, and hoping rise at 5-something.  And, for information’s purposes, I’m still in debate with Self on the purchase of the SB fruit.  Don’t want to aggravate these allergies further, so on I’m moved…


Kelly, I’m sure, doesn’t let allergies bother her.  IF she has them.  Not sure she does.  She’s never told me.  Thinking her painting pace has been increased.  That’s what I’m seeing for my character.  But then again, only she knows.  On the couch now with TV on, not a rich time for mental illustration for, with, in, about my character.  My goodness am I a mess.  Wish I had more of that ’07 Sauv Blanc left.  AV Winery produced it, and it’s still holding up championingly.  Makes me think of that ton, or half-ton, I might buy.  Such a mess be this writer.  Exactly why I need poetry, SONG, more than prose in this day.  She agrees, tells me to abandon the project envisioned to keep consistent with expectations.  Shoot for written radicalism, she urges, in less words.

She recently started making herself margaritas, only when she paints.  It was still warm, almost on 11pm.  She thought about making herself one more.  But she couldn’t.  She had to finish her project.  Or did she?  For whom?  That gallery?  They couldn’t guarantee it’d be sold.  So she stopped.  Sipped.  Went to the kitchen to make herself another.  Looking out the window, she saw a little red car.  She couldn’t tell what type, model, make or whatever, it was.  She just saw it.  Stopped.  At red.  She thought about what the person at its wheel was thinking, waiting for the “clover color,” she called it in her head.  Pouring the slushed voice into her glass, she looked right, at her progress.  It was dim, both in prospect and tint, shade, shape.


Mike saw no progress.  He felt bad for her.  So, DELETE.  He wished he hadn’t done that.  He selected SAVE, from the File drop-down, or whatever it was called.  So he couldn’t “Undo Typing.” He hated his laptop, wanted to close it.  Keep it closed.  Only work on paper.  It would pair better with the SB, he thought.  He thought of the Cab barrel sample from work.  He should just buy the fruit, that Sauvignon Blanc, with his seasoned winemaker buddy.  He could only lose.  He could only, maybe, wine, or WIN.  Both could be bad, good.  But how bad could it be, losing on his first completely Autonomous winemaking operation?  And how good could it be?  What would it really do for him?  He needed another glass, one obnoxiously generous.  So did she.