Fawn Not

Start then pause, what for a— new talk, or tick

Tock from a biased clock?  Poetry not coming to a writer

Easily this morning but that’s the game, I’m being toyed with,

same, annoyed my veins, so I avoid the train of pattern

And uniform, I assume no form, adorned in new theses from

A singular species, me, expediently…. I stop again, and send self

A new note, one a true cloak, invisible to bruise those that only

gawk, too afraid to roll down their window and ought— they

Say nothing and just keep driving, while I’m journalistically

thriving, further into the meditation, writhing.  Ten minutes,

My pen fidgets, ask, ‘When give it?’ How ‘bout now, recite

Proud and stand firm in the dirt, soldier trenchant in his senses.

Thinking about my next letter and how to make it better, not

Necessarily more clever but … with more measure, more un-

tethered.  My language, riddled in odd axiom and tone, from

the finest molecules of artist bones.

Sit in the forest and jot every sound, scene, color and beam—

Crawl into a ravine, finish the book there, no stares, no impaired

chair—  begin again with another attitude bend, pretend there is

No end, only a consistency of my orated fervency.


napkin wipe away everything the

rumors and the saysos, okay?  I use it

again and make sure its gone, the

evidence of the mistake, over my lip and cheek right

but I’m wrong and I have to use it, drag or brush or

tap, who knows, charge and electric– seismology of the

normal, make glimmer, a sun or nova, one so super!

I fold it, I’ve done enough damage, it was once so

angular and vocal and present, now it’s worn,

beat, toppled, lowered, and because of me, I’m the

storm, the sickly sorcerer why i dont know, apart fall

clean up soon or else therell be a fall

out, clock knows so, so i go

basket, get away, no other word left and i turn to distract myself


Right Arrow

Old entries, known entities..
Bestowed low amenities.. Seized..
No thank you please, all demanded,
Dignity remanded– manuscript
Mansion.. In the imagistic sands of a
Charlie Manson, sparse in the plans
And.. I hesitated, name faded.. But I
Produced more pages.. Heavily plated–
Critical crocodiles, slithering all miles..
Still I past, what I years ago said, almost
Put in trash.. But now a monetary stash.
Brash withy words.. I last through a third
Of the political con artistry.. Martyr seed.


journal, 7/23/13

Waiting for an episode of Sam’s and my podcast to “upload.” This is getting annoying, all these toils with technology.  After this entry, I’m onto paper, pen.  REAL writing.  Felt jurassic after run.  In a good way.  Like an artful monster, set in his sentence saunter.  Hoping for another in morrow.  45 minutes, again.  Typed 4pages in OFFblog log.  Pleased with day’s progress.  No wine, thankfully.  So no slowing.  Going to write till I’m 2tired to do so.  Feel I’m quickly there approaching, though.  Need to walk around, Self wake, Self SHAKE.

Thinking again of sweeping severance from technology.  There’s too much waiting, too much dependency.  It’s not Art.  Happy with the 4 pages/2,000+ words today settled.  Forgot I put sparkling water in freezer.  Letting it thaw on sink counter in kitchen.  Can’t help but see metaphor in that, somehow.  Like technology’s keeping me still, in some mental iceberg.  I Self thaw by only allowing Self to write.. or something to such effect.  Pictures, thrown into some photo bay, to be developed, so I can touch them, put them into an actual album.  De-virtualizing them.

10:38pm.  Not at all tired.  Would love a coffee right now, actually–  NO!  Espresso.  Oh that would be heavenly.  But, have to wait till office, where I’ll have it by desk.  Comp Book to be opened, for rhymed speech, song, verses to be performed, vended.  At a time in my life where my convictions should not be withheld, nor muffled.  I’m not staying silent.  Only Self-printed.. making this vision tangible.

Self, Self.. no more ‘self’.  I capitalize with intent, as I’m capitally intended.

Again, the video upload stalls.  I’m done.  Definitely quitting these things.  Why did I ever start?  Senseless to think about that.  Or these devices at all, anymore.  Off to tope in paginated rhyme tropes…  Don’t want to waste it here.

Am I running tomorrow morning, as I before planned?  Probably.  Not as tired as I was after today’s run.


7/24/13:  Rough morning for writer.  Not sure why everything has to be so difficult.  Maybe I[!!!] make it difficult.  Either way, headed to café to write for Fall.  Need to stay focused on those 2 classes, what I want to offer to students.  AND, the authors I’ve chosen.  Want to be a student again, this term.

Uploading another video, this time for work, on my day off.  Only blaming Self for this lull.  Back in tasting Room, I think, tomorrow.  But I’m not letting mySelf think about wine.  Not today.  Not at all.  Only sighting Capote [Engl 5] and Faulkner [Engl 1A], coupled with concepts I want to introduce that first day.  Emphasizing Comp, and Comp Theory, definitional clarity, for Engl 1A.  Then for 5, Critical Thinking, Literary Theory, deconstruction, Reader Response.  At least that’s what I have in head now.

And another road bump with technology, with my phone, sending a “text message.” Isn’t that phrase redundant, now that I think?  Don’t any written messages, or most messages [which directly imply communication] assume involved text?  Either way, I’m past annoyed.  Bringing Lectures Comp Book to café.  Need first full week for both classes DONE by sitting’s end.  Want a book from this term, one that’ll get me to Road, if I’m not already there by time it ends in December.

The clutter on this desk–or I should say BACK on this desk, as it was scattered around Room during retreat–not stressing me.  I’m from it drawing.  Not sure if I’d qualify it as “energy,” or “momentum.” But it’s something.  Something I can use.

Need to print some pages today.  No fail.  Hoping to get out 3.  Humble goal.  If I wind up with more, incredible.  But 3’s what I today need.  Need writing to sell.  Why don’t I print something now?  […]  Started proofing a 4-page piece.  Made my “goal,” I guess.  Have to keep printing, finish this book, SELL it.  Want to be seen as one always looking to sell his Art, spread his pages around.. ALWAYS writing.

Putting laptop in bag, preparing for café sitting.  Looking at the Lit Terms & Theory dictionary I bought for Prof Coleman’s class, back in ’99, my first SSU term.  Need to be as brilliant as Bob, or close, on day 1.. hook each student.  Emphasize the simplicity I’m infusing into our lectures, lessons.

12:21pm.  Closing session at café.  Nice, how quiet it is here today.  Not too fond of my mocha.  Only 2shots, probably why.  That, and the lid leaks, two or 3 drops at a time onto hand.  Have 5 pages ready to print, typed 1 pages for first day of English 5.  Agreeable progress.  Don’t think I’ll get to 3PAGES for day.  Not an issue, since getting 4 done yesterday, over 2,000 words.

Then, someone sits next to me.  Yes, two tables down, but that’s closer than I’d like.  Switching to Comp Book, spoken word–

7:19pm.  Jackie down.  Ran 2.4 miles, I think.  Only had 20-min time window to sprint.  And this run, I felt.  Still feel.  Was done over 2 hours ago.  Had one glass of ’12 SB from winery.  First glass here in home since retreat.  Not aiming for 3PAGES today.  And tomorrow, I’ll be lucky if I even get in an entry, with how I’ll be flying to SFW after estate shift.  Looking to taste multiple characters tomorrow, if you don’t mind.  Bottled characters that sway palate in unusual ways, like that ’11 Pinot St. Francis recently released.  Wine, wine.. all that’s pushing mind.  Thinking of what I might sip on Road.  Overlooking ocean, from Grecian Room.  Jot first words to head: rolling, musically, parted, still, me here…  Some would expect me to stamp some overtly articulate 300+ page piece, but that’s not how I write.  That’s not how poets like I[!!!] write.

Caring less, less, if people read this blog.  It’s my journal.  I just dare people in this synthetic industry to read it.  If they can tolerate the poly-affricate propensity.  More than free-spirited.  Compositionally careless, liberated.  Qualms with my content, then approach!

At unusual ease, this eve.  Please with progress in lecture writing for 5’s first day.  In a way, I’m finding, Literature is more mathematical than mathematics.. assuming more shapes than any geometric entertainment–  Perhaps I should save this the other blog, the pedagogy pages, but it’s been something on the writer’s mind, of late.  The concept of variable–  Need to read more.  Consulting Stanford’s online EOP [Encyclopedia of Philosophy], later.  Want various currents in my session, pushing students in their respective directions, giving way to collective grapple.  If that makes any sense at all, as I start to feel tired’s tussle.

Want to sit at a table.  By mySelf, Paris.  No notebook.  Just a glass of anything red, observing.  Then, back to hotel to write.  Need to do more living, I’m learning.  Writing ALL the time’s serving negatively.  Should do more capturing without device or notebook.  Makes me think of the walk Capote took before writing ‘Other Voices, Other Rooms’.  Now, on a couch, watching some cooking reality show, envious of their travels, competitions, confidences.  Need to be even more outspoken, audacious as one living by the pen.  I’ll print the five pages tomorrow, getting me closer to walking armed, with actualized manuscript.

This routine, boring me.  That’s all I’ll say.  If I had an actual book to hand someone, rather than some business card, with a web address, these scenes may be more animated.  From rough morning to eased evening, I’m seeing more.  Tomorrow morning, hopefully writing a little.  Time doesn’t allow much in AM’s harshest.  Ugh, then that event after work.  Have to get something out of it.  Material, photography, free wine.. something.

Ideas for cooking.  And I have to.  Talk about newness, me cooking…  Have to act out-of-character, much as able.  Onto sparkling berry water.  And I never have dessert, but guess what reader.. I’m about to.  This cough, angering me, generously.

Tomorrow, all logged, randomly, with unexpected–  No more promises, just know I’m thinking of how to change my theme shape.  From the morning mocha ordering, to the 17 minute commute, to entering my number then swiping finger to “clock in,” to tasting my first wine [and, oh yes, I’ll let Self taste a.. couple], to closing up routine, to driving off estate.

Print everyday, at least 1 piece.  And log a new observation…  Every.  Day.  Again wondering what I would have been, as a writer, had I experienced war.  Whether as warrior or reporter.  Just be in danger, composing Self to just live, or survive.  Then write, record Life later, after my scenes.


8:41am.  No time to write, at all.  Busy yesterday, with ResRoom & SFW event.  New characters, still photos, making me think about place, direction, where I’m going.. how to get to Road, then MY office.  On mountain today.  Need more characters.  Doing Yulupa run today then Lawndale tomorrow.  Slight headache from last night’s wine.  But I only had 2 glasses.. one at winery, other at home.  Odd.  None tonight.  Repeat:  NONE.

Almost done with 3shot mocha Alice bought me.  May need another.  And if they make some cute remark, oh well.  Did manage to scribble a bit of verse at work, yesterday.  That’s when the thoughts on direction, purpose, path really started to materialize.  And certain realities I’m now starting to realize.

Glad I sat to note something.  Felt horrible with thoughts of leaving condo without touching keys.  That’s what I mean by, what I was telling Brian yesterday about, OBSESSION.  Real Artists, especially extremists like me, OBSESS.

Eager for Fall term.  More introductory notes on Authors, for first day.. that’d be a beneficial approach, idea, especially for that first day.  Rumor vs reality, about them…


Garaging Plotting

10:09pm.  Put 1,000 words into book.  Well, over 1k, actually.  500 new, over 1k from 2010.  Just like winemaking, racking old efforts to bottle.  Now, SLOWLY sipping the ’10 Cab I was given to take home, tonight.  MY barrels, outside the cave, their ML rates accelerating, topped with the more active culture in the stainless Zin barrel.  Still reacting from this recent stomach bug, so I’m done after this glass.  Have one of the sparkling berry waters I bought early tonight, from Whole Foods, in the freezer.  Want it dangerously cold, for verse writing.. pen2paper.  Wrote a spoken word verse the other night, never “posted” it to this bloody blog.  Hate when I do that.. see?  It then would have been wasted, not having been TRULY written, but typed, on this robotic swamp of a laptop monster.


Other orators, all juvenile, new to trials..

my verses, absurd with the blurted, uncensored–

Go together like sensationalization and those predicting

weather.. let’s see who provides products better..

Imbibed on a tether, ride by a debtor, brag my autonomy..

these devils, never on to me.. crush grapes, get deified in your

despicable rise, while I, pounding pages till I’m out of

ages, struggle stride.  Censor yourself, step aside in

true innovative tenure’s actuality, no pause in my reality..

While you wait for time, your device’s functionality to climb.

Me, no dependency.. technology, my dependent enemy.

Tangential chemistry.. my own ambitions, all that blemish me.

I’m sent to sea, offended plenty creeds.. just my vocal

proclivity.. idea-spaced agility.  Poetry for me, solely.

May be ailing in my artistic fantasy flailings..  obviously ailing.

Watching me, hunt word matches like illegal whaling.


Not sure why I didn’t title it, but I don’t think I need to.  Why does everything need a title, category, simplification.. or genre, like I discussed with that jazz singer/songwriter from Chicago, today, my last guests, just before 5pm, she with her boyfriend [a photographer].  How is time flying so fast, already 10:16p.  Need to write faster.  Weather today, a painting.  for me.  My writing, my thoughts.  More for forward, with these poems– MY songs.  Letting Art invade all my perceptions.  The only way I’ll see the Road.

Getting sick of this wine.  Afraid to sip more.  So I’ll just spill it out.  Yes.. what I’ll do, now–  Opened the water.. so much better, pairing with these song motives, these rhymes, spoken word delivery.. competitive verse angle.

So much better, for me, touching actual paper, seeing my WRITING, the ink.  This: poetry, finally.  Class tomorrow, need the whole day to prepare.  Watching little Kerouac.  IF anything, my little Artist friend will motivate me, urge me to further in my grading/planning.  Looking forward to this semester’s end.  And if I don’t get classes for Fall, fine.  I’ll depend on selling these pages.  By Fall’s embarking, I’ll have 3 books, I’m hoping.  Or 2.  That’s 400-600 pages.  That’s what I need.  Need to catch my sister in Texas.  Or wherever she is on the road, with her projects.

This weekend, my writer’s retreat.  IF I go out Saturday night for friend’s birthday, I’m planning on going against character compulsion, to enjoy nice wine with friends.  Caffeine only, for the composition, taking notes.  I wrote in little pages today, “Imagine what I could capture.” I would virtually be in one of the most advantageous positions I’ve ever been in as a Writer, Artist.  Everything, everyone, in front of me, at my mercy.  And me, in COMPLETE control.

Tomorrow morning, starting with home brew.  Then, to mocha.  OR maybe, just home cups.  Save my money, devote it to Self-publishing, or my ’13 wine.  Money, always a subject, sensitive and other.  And it is, always, with MAKING wine.  Everything costs.  But with writing, all we need is pen, paper.  Was watching a new documentary on Tupac last night, how he started, with his writing.. humbled me, completely.  I do want to make wine, but not at any slice of writing’s expense.

Looking at the picture I took today, in cave, of the jug I filled with that topping ’12 Zin, for my barrels.  I think of that ‘picture’s worth a thousand words’ saying, if you could call it a “saying.” Being in that damp, humid, dark setting, for sake of my creative efforts [all which connects to these pages] has me wanting to be ALWAYS so focused, as I am here, seated with this sparkling berry water.  So glad I was as sick as I was a couple days ago.  It brought TRUE perspective.  And conviction.. drive, levels of which I haven’t felt since on CSUEB’s campus, fighting for my M.A.  Tonight, Mike has sight.  Ignite.


journal, quick

9:02pm.  To bed, quite early.  Woke this A.M. at 3-something with a bit of stomach unrest.  Fell asleep at 4-something to be woken by Kerouac at 6:05a.  Today, at winery, frenzy.  Stress.  Material difficult to gather as it was entirely scattered.  Unloaded 5 palettes this morning with coworkers, which I’m sure adds to this fatigue.  Current: I type in complete dark; encompassing visual void.  Only light provided by this device.

A lot of people from San Francisco, surprisingly.  Many of them working around my old neighborhood, on Peninsula.  After work, had 1 SB glass.  And that’s it.  Not in much mood for fermentation tonight.  Need to keep sipping this bubbly water, push this ‘whatever’ from my systems.

The walk I went on, at lunch, looking over the vineyards bordering 12, with slight overcast.. again making me think of travel, what I’ll see when on roads, especially those across oceans.  Wrote one poem today, while on walk actually, but haven’t “posted” it yet.  More than likely saving for book.  This is Poetry Month, so rhyme, random line, always breathing with this tired lion.  Was hoping for 300 words, but that seems so far from here, from this ending line.

Sunday, just hours away.  Should probably be quite busy, come morrow.  NEED to top both barrels with that Zin!  I’ll do that on lunch, hopefully.  Feel bad about not finish Mom’s dinner tonight, but honestly, I couldn’t.  This devilish mite has now truly aggravated the writer.  I feel sorry for it, frankly.  The book, not being ignored, just kept in place.  Like my wines in their barrels.  In that convincing cave.  Have to stop with my thoughts, wandering like this, about wines mine.  I’ll go far past marker.

Thought today about academic writings, how I need to throw that into its own motion; (1) Deconstruction, (2) page value to a reader, (3) trapping nature of journal…  All on plate.  Just a matter of days.  -9:15pm, 4/6/13


4/7/13.  Need a thousand words before Alice’s return from gym.  Jack, down for night.  “Night,” should have written, as light still itself shows. 7:09pm.. feel as I should– healthy, tempered, calm.  More reflective than normal, after this bout recent.  When health is compromised, different perspectives sprout.  Plan on introducing such to class come session next.  Today at winery, all frenzy.  One mountaintop tour.  While setting up, hours prior, took several photos, one short video.  As the buds break, new visions take.  2013, may finally be MY vintage.  And not just for wine.  Looking at vintage’s concept differently, now, this Poetry Month.  And on such note.. I’ve been scribbling a poem each day, for me, my manuscripts.. for Autonomy, oenobellion.

Been rather tempered with wine intake, of late.  Feels incredible, this new sight.  And with current silence in this Room, exception of just-ignited refrigerator hum, all more shaping, re-shaping.  Wine, not negative, in any respect.  But it does deliver heard steps.  So, I’m a bit more cautious following this last bug bout.  Still bothered from missing my Thursday classes, but I have to past move.  Adjustment, inevitable like a tax due.  Suddenly, I’m called by music, more poem.  Something delivering mood assistance.  My theme tonight, I hope, one of advance, resembling attack but not as affronting.  A stance, new conviction enlistment.

My two barrels, outside the caves, to boost ML’s pace.  Not sure I like seeing them out there, this morning, being drizzled on.  But what can I do?  I have NO idea how to operate one of those forklifts.

Dinner break.  Excuse me…  couple thin slices of pizza Alice prepared, and ONE [yes, only one] glass of Kunde’s 2010 Red Dirt Red, that I took home tonight.  Keep TV off, as I loath everything it represents.  This coming weekend, writer’s retreat.  First in some time.  Have dinner scheduled with Particular Palates on Friday, but I can come home and write after.. won’t make it a night late.  Saturday, have tentative plans to celebrate friend’s birthday downtown.  If I do, I’ll bring little pages, document everything, pretend I’m one of Hemingway’s characters in ‘Sun Also Rises’.  Everyone, and everything they say, will be trapped, possibly putting finishing touches on novel.  Bringing me that closer to Road.

Done with dinner.  Have 1 glass’ remainder at right.  Sitting on other couch.  Trying to remember any other moments worth recording, from day…  None at moment.  This morning’s mocha, though, strangely convincing.  Almost telling me to leave wine for coffee.  It’s pretty much what Kelly did.  She only has wine at some of her conferences and showings, and that’s it.  And yes, with me, occasionally.  But still, it’s entirely tempered.  I’ve learned from these past authors, how wine can push composition’s creator close to cliff.  But not me.  I need to keep in scribble’s swing.  For my little Kerouac.  Speaking of, I feel bad for the little Artist, as he too goes through a sniffle skirmish.. cough constant, rubbing eyes and face, visibly uncomfortable.  Wish I could take it away from him.

Honestly having trouble keeping up with all that I write.  Can I write about that, even though I all but promised I wouldn’t write about writing, anymore?  Well…  I need to finish this 206-page book, then instantly start collecting the next.  And then Next.  Next, next.  How else can I show I’m COMMITTED to page?  A blog, hardly page commitment.  Yes, the content can be Literary, but it’s not a page.  This morning, before clocking in, I scribbled in the Comp Book, some verse, rhyme.  That’s page.. that’s TRULY.  LITERARY.

That’s Art.  Artistic.  You study Art History, you don’t see web pages, internet channels.. you see artists in their studios, Picasso in his shorts, no shirt, arms folded, looking through his pieces.  Art entails simplicity.  IT doesn’t need layered tech ascension.  Feel like I should incorporate this in Tuesday’s lecture.  I want it, the “lecture,” to be nearly a comeback fight progression, delivery of Literary ideas.  Should open that doc, here on monster, start typing.  But then I again interrupt the drive at 1k.  OH well.  IT’ll be done before I fall asleep.  Promised.

The fridge again starts its hum.  I haven’t sipped in over 15 mins.  No need when I have this page–  I mean, screen.

9:24pm.  After screen, comes paper, ink for my sense of something serene.  Watching a writing movie.  Those knowing the writer know what my eyes enjoy.  Poured night’s cap of 2010 Red Dirt.  It’s in kitchen, as always, slowing my sips.  Then, sparkling water, lemon, like night last.  Quite looking forward to that clean consistency.  Almost want to chug the red to quicker get to my livelier water.  IS 1000 words a day an admirable artistic habit as a writer?  I more or less think so.  Why do I get so dumbed-down by definitions?  Society’s done that to me.  As has time.  Already need a break, I think.  Has to be the day, and yesterday.  Think 4/6 may have out-madness’d 4/7.  But today’s pace seemed more digestible.. more Literary, for me.

Riled in idle chatter, miles compile while

the isles lather..  chat with a mad hatter–

evade the clock, my ever-enemy, braced for

shock, raining fervor, my days are blocked…

Need to get on page quick, before these rhymes, odd lines, me leave.  Need to finish that glass.  Funny, I look at it as chore.  Think it may be raining outside…  Anyway, I almost don’t want to drink it, this red blend, what it me sends.  Don’t have palate for.  And I love this wine, strangely.  Must be the post-bug lull.

Kelly, sipping last of her espresso, 1:58am.  She looks at what she painted.  Not in like or dislike.  Not in anything slight, elevated, aflight.  She just stares, happy she did something with her evening.  She could have gone out with her friends from the restaurant, and she did, want to, but she knew she had to at least try to produce something she could sell.  Bluntly, she needed the money.  And she had to stop with the free-painting, just enjoying being a “successful painter,” self-employed, supposedly free.  She liked this piece.. grey clouds with blackish underbelly, contrasting potent green of budding vineyard blockettes.  She pushed the button again, for another shot.  More colors.  More creation.  More Art, her Art, to sell.  She’d re-sewn her hologram’d hand.


Nouvelle Scène

Not as electric as I usually am in A.M.  Not sure if I feel sick, or if I’m just tired.  Listening to Thievery with Jack.  He seems to really enjoy the station, Pandora, for my favorite group.  Sipping a Diet Coke, for the carbonation.  Know it’s a bit odd this early, but it’s where compulsion took me.  -8:43am

Definitely not well enough for class tonight.  Already called dept, emailed assignments for her to post [Loretta, that is].  Just an idea for deconstruction, for next “lecture,” that came to me just now, while playing with little Kerouac: sick vs. healthy, or well, how you perspective changes.  Want to start outside Literature, in Life, then redirect inwards.

Hate feeling like this.  Weak, pained joints, cramping stomach.  I did have my mocha earlier, 4 shots as I didn’t sleep well from the rain, but it didn’t help.  Took an hour nap when Alice left for her errands, down here on couch, with those awful uncomfortable pillows that have the artificial feather tip poking out of fabric, needling face, ear, forehead.  -2:54pm.

Missing tonight’ s income.  Need writing to sell.. sick of this dependency.  I’m stressing over this missed pay, as I should, but.. I don’t know.  Would rather have to worry about selling what I create rather than welled hours on some devilish clock.

4:16pm.  Alice off for walk with one of her “mommy friends.” From the “Mommy Mafia,” as I call it.  Need sleep, so I’m going upstairs, taking a nap.  I need it.  Can’t afford to miss days at winery.  If I do feel some of the residual notes from this bug, I’m ignoring it.  Drinking tons of water, and just focusing on tasks, the wine.  Speaking of, none for me tonight.  Maybe I should try again to start dry streak, see how it changes the writer’s character, how I view wine, its world, the tempered and over-consumer.

Stop typing, go to sleep, I’m saying to Self.  Yelling, internally.  But should I when on such a role?  You should see me, reader.. I type as if I had ANOTER 4-shotter.  But I need to rest.  This bug will be removed by morning.  Bon nuit…

4/5/13.  920pm:  And yes, it is gone, finally.  Woke this morning with a bit of exhaustion, some aches, slight tightness in stomach.  But today, talking with those French Canadians, Montreal, and how I tried to engage them in their language, them being so supportive, supplemented my mend, my slowness, remedial state aside.  And here, in house, I sit frustrated with certain layers.  I’ll save it for book, or journal.  Thought a lot about class, today.  Feel incredibly guilty about missing last night.  But I didn’t have any sort of choice.  Whatever that was, more than determined to keep me pinned in this house.

Notes I did take today, on little pages, definitely more appropriate for book.  Wrote a little verse while behind bar, but not much.  Shooting for a poem each day this month, being Poetry Month.  Missed 4/1 & 4/2, but I’ll land on remaining days with some verse, rhyme.  Having a little wine tonight, but not much.  The Zin I opened the other night.  And on Zin’s wind, sipping the bottle I opened the other night.  Still has stance.. losing a bit of its fruit, grip, but still tastefully interactive, engaging.

Not in the best of moods right now, for some reason.  Think I just need to write through it.  But about what?  I don’t want to write just to write.  Or maybe that’s just what I should do, to further detail my page addiction.  I could be out doing so much else, so many destructive, counterproductive activities to temp a Human, as so many humans do…  But I’m here.  At a table.  Writing.  Dying to finish my book.

Tasting Room re-entry in a matter of days.  And I have to say, I’m rather eager.  Saw the new counters, cabinets, shelves today.  Looks quite nice.  Would love a bar like that in my “dream house.” Hate that phrase, but I think it’s reasonably appropriate in this context.  And I’ll get to that house, that idealized structure, from my writings, nothing else, if this WRITER has a say.

My office, calling.  But it’s in distance, we’re separated by maze.  I see over the entangled channels, but once inside, I’m lost.  Why can’t I just fly over?  My frustration builds.  Not even attempting written address of my character.  Wouldn’t be Literary.  And she deserves better.  She’s probably on a plane, to some conference, scribble in a sketchbook.  Or she just landed, or checking into a hotel.  I see her in Southern California, for some reason, at a hotel bar, sipping a Chardonnay, randomly.  OF some kind.  Makes me think of a scene, a film; her there, at the bar, dark, legs crossed, she reads a magazine, the only one she can find.. pretends to read, so she won’t seem odd being alone, in a bar.  NO–  Kelly’s more made for stage; no editing, no convenient angles, makeup.. she’s that scenic.  She only needs her nowness; And ME, the writer, only needs her intrinsic glimpses.

My recovery, complete, with these new ideas.  Of her.  In that bar.  But other characters would I let by mine?  One Artistic, one independent, one unchained.  I’d have to have her in Paris, or Madrid, or Venice.  Or New York.  OR, San Francisco, my first city-love.  It’s so funny, this snap of her at a bar.  I literally can see her, right there, just enjoying quiet, not speaking to anyone.  But, for a scene to forward move, there’d have to be dialogue.  But with whom?

Last glass of night.  So pleased with my health’s return.  What was that, yesterday?  Had to have been that pizza, night before.  But it was a veggie.  Not giving any thoughts more.  I’m in a new scene.  Need to break this normality, finally one day only have a “blog” to promote my books.  Wait, couldn’t I do that now?  Uh, yes, Mikey…  Therapeutic merits of page, love you.  And maybe that’s why I write.. not just for the eventual self-sustaining possibility, but to cure Self, or expel something.  Yes, to latter.  Expel anchors all.  This, a certain dawn.  Need my final glass.  It’s in the kitchen, as always, making the pour last longer.  No more rain in forecast.  Enjoyed the descent recent, but now to deal with Spring’s landing.  Rebirth.  So here’s where it happens.


4/2/13.  After the morning’s thousand, now 958am, letting Self have a standalone here on blog, or log[noblog].  Tonight’s offerings, all surrounding Art.  There are some students who I know don’t connect to what I put in.  And that’s fine.  I don’t write for them, nor do I have them in mind when writing my session notes.  This book, taking an interesting shape.  Almost its own direction.  And it doesn’t remind me of anything, anyone else’s work, which is refreshing.

About to finish second verse of spoken word piece began yesterday.  This one, the first in a collection I’m going to TRY2gather for reading’s intent.  With little Kerouac asleep upstairs, I can put on something.. something on Pandora..  Imagining what music I’ll listen to when on Road.  Maybe nothing.  Maybe I’ll only need the measures of my thoughts’ sheets, keys.

Just noticed, approaching bottom of page 500 in this doc.  Started 1/1/12, when I was still at box.  Today, 4/2/13.  Interesting to measure, play with numbers involving my pace.  500 pages in 1 yr, 3 mos, 1 day, 12 hrs, 31 mins.  Think I have that right.  Anyway, less than 16 months to produce 500 pages.  And is there a story?  Yes.  Me.  I’M the story.  My passions, pursuits.  And I know not everyone’s a writer, English Instructor, reader, wine lover/maker.. but they can identify with and hopefully appreciate passion, my passion, passions.

Lot on my mind, now, looking at these numbers, realizing where I am in Life.  And again, I reserve FULL right to blend these “posts” into first 200+ page piece.  Otherwise, it’s just wasted and forgotten on this “blog.” Or in this device.  The words need to see paper.  Always.  41% left in laptop’s life.  Need for charge.  So annoying.  Like when people say I need to review wines on my blog.  Why would this writer want to do that?  Where’s the Art in that?  Yes, I could write about them Creatively, or whatever, as I did on mikeslognoblog.  But I’ve moved on.  There’s more Art here, how I’m writing now.  May be more work for readers, but too bad.

Still researching Mr. Picasso.. his habits, numerous periods.  Can’t believe how much he created, how many standalone’s he left us.  -12:41pm