Probably good that I’m inside, sipping and writing. The fifth of May can be a bit more lively that I’m able to handle, currently Went out to Sebastopol to do a reading, signups at 5p. Not the right venue for me, my spoken word/music. Need somewhere more vivacious, spontaneous, mobile. This spot, unfortunately, was not. Beautiful decor, ambience, but not what I’m looking for. Not many patrons/possible poets within. So I left, disappointed, sad.
Petit Verdot and Malbec, blend of the evening. A bit imbalanced, especially in the transition from nose to mouthfeel and mid. No matter, I advance into the dark sea before me, for the sake of this prose and poetry. Going to record a spoken piece tonight. No fail. And, sadly, I must convey the verisimilitude of BOOK ONE being temporarily shelved. Funds are needed, quick. Poetry, the spoken pieces, and quick releases, are able to do such. I don’t have the exorbitance of devoting a cluster of blinks to editing, at least not now, in this Now. When stability is reestablished, BOOK ONE and I shall breath the same air, of this Room.
Can hear the wind, whistling, through the barely visible break between wall and window. What is it trying to tell me? Perhaps it’s speaking to the vixen of a witch that be this bottle. Sip, sip. She, in this glass, a euphoric potion. She would turn anyone into a wine writer/journalist. Writing some rimes on little post-its. Did I write that right?
6:13p. Complexities in this pour, and the ones before, self-complicating, compiling. Hopefully too, this sitting. Yesterday while “centering” on the departmental exams, I reflected on my sister’s use of the ‘those who cannot do’ saying. If these “teachers” around me profess to be experts, or masters, of the written word, why aren’t they subsisting within their pages? I don’t want to do this, be this, any longer. In fact, a full-timer, in her smug, self-elevated sense of supple pseudo-superiority told me not to be such a philosopher. No, her words were: “When reading these [student essays, exams] you’re more like a doctor, not a philosopher.” She scolded me for thinking outside the ridiculous rubric, for acknowledging a small elemental knot in a student’s writing, which did disrupt the structure and argument, in my mind. The evaluation of this “departmental exam,” or any academic exercise of similar instance, or any, is subjective. I was scolded for embracing my right to response, to think outside their box. Going mad, with these bots. I want my checks to stem from my literary stretch. I was angry, at first, when the full-timer’s snout projected in my direction. But now, my vision is reinforced.
Thinking of instrumentals I could make, tonight. Just want to put the Self out into the world, for(ce) the populace to hear, read. Rime book to the left. This wine, still urging me to continue talking about her. Doesn’t she understand that I need to focus on other efforts? I’m not mad at her. She reminds me not for forget about my new character. “Turn her into a series,” she says, tsunami-ing towards my core.
That full-timer still in my thoughts. Can’t cut her out. She’s like a wine club member of academia: aloof, revolting, jocular. If she’s such a phenomenal scribe, scholar, why is she not published? Why isn’t she touring and traveling with her brilliance? I’ll never be like her. I’m not. The recollection of her words propels me to the potion. Next page...
8:11p. Tomorrow’s dedicated, hopefully, to a certain scholarly effort. Still infatuated with Deconstruction, Post-Modernism, its playful hops across centuries of opuses. The other day, in the Room, a coworker stated that theory “is all b.s.” How eloquent, insightful. It is only “b.s.” if you are unfamiliar with it, don’t know how to control its functions and constituents. You may be thinking, “How could you criticize one of your beloved characters from the Room?” Well, as you may recall, I refuse to self-censor. I will apply scathing appraisal, animadversion, where I feel warranted. This individual is obviously unhappy with many of their current facets. Hence, entitled dismissiveness. To label an avenue of mental exploration that spans centuries “b.s.” not only shows how uneducated you are with what you are criticizing, but also highlights your deteriorating social presence and ability to civilly exchange ideas, even listen. Shame, but funny, to me.
Watching TV. What’s on? You’re correct, nothing. So my eyes are back on the screen. One of my Room characters called a few hours ago, asking if I would cover, come morrow. Left a message, said I couldn’t because of grading, other work. Writing is “work,” right? My “career?” That’s my task for the 6th of Mayo. Mocha and manuscript(s). Tomorrow, to be mocha-motivated.
Still haven’t seated the Self in front of the instru equipment. I will though. Need some beats tonight, some crazy sounds. Also need a break from this sitting. Getting a cramp in the right leg, in back of the knee. Weird. Now I’m jittering with confidence, gusto, at the prospect of molding sounds, percussion. Voracious, my veins, desiring to devour sounds, mix what remains with rimes, lines. Sip, sip...
9:15p. Thinking about grad school, as I cruise through this Literary Terms dictionary. See, the character I addressed prior is so lazy and dismissive that they would never reference such a gem resource. So simplistic, that character. Deconstruction, “no guaranteed essential meaning.” I view this as a challenge to find one. Will be in those Stanford halls, one day close. Lit and Creative Writing, Fiction. Be their most prized professor. Wow, now I am dreaming. Nothing wrong with that, though, right?
Miss the rain, its sounds. Thankful for the present atmospheric conditions, climate, but I do miss the clouds’ tearing. This weather doesn’t concert with the pen, these sittings, the way that the inclement does. Seeking sovereignty, regardless of the sky’s setup. My fingers cease. In altitude, decreased.
Edited the session thus far. Hate finding typos. Why do I let them upset me so? I’m human. Why can’t I accept that? Must be typing too fast. Product of passion. Ms. Plath would be proud. Still low from my realization of the venue. Where does a poet go for a reading in this county? The book of rimes, to the side, tugging at my character. The blend tells me to disengage from this prose. I will. Deconstructing the Self, my Self. Forgive me, pig, if I’m too much of a “philosopher.” Whatever that means.
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