Saturday November 28, 2009. Don’t want to go to work tomorrow. Having too much fun just writing, relaxing. Now, the night before returning to the world that is somewhat “real,” I’m cranky, restless. What should I do?
Sunday November 29, 2009. Back to the classroom tomorrow. A different room. Delivering much more disenchantment than the Room. This Thanksgiving break has provided a certain rebirth for me as a writer. I care less, I just write, release. I was recently offered stern advice as to how I should conduct myself, Self, as a writer. What type of material I should be composing and how I should be delivering it to the populace. Nothing angers me more. I am self-published. I reject governance, counsel, unless it I solicit. Anti. Remember that word, the condensed form of Antilegal. Always in CAPS. I am not interested in what non-artists see in my habits in terms of shortcomings, or strengths.
The tasting room today offered nothing of a substantial structure. I need characters. Unfamiliar ones. I remember when I used to vacation in Sunriver, Oregon as a teen. Wish I would have kept better entries then. The kids with which I associated had vastly different pasts than mine own. The specifics, lost. Wish I would have trapped them. Now, I am trapping everything. Great, but I need to organize.
The poetry I’m writing, surprising me. Need to perform. When? Next semester will allow more opportunity. Delighted that teaching and I are parting. Students of today, dying the worst of deaths. Their minds, captured. MTV, poison. Pop culture, poison. What is revered? Surrender. Individuality, strength, ideological independence, scolded. Rejected, shunned, chastised. I can’t deal with this, students that have no interest in learning, exchanging ideas. So, I’ll write. Put my lectures into books, into fiction, poetry, various flavors of prose.
Speaking of lectures, I came across one that I wrote for the summer term of this year. This first offering, Mr. Tupac Shakur. I need to write at his pace. Wait, is that possible? Either way, I’m writing. Am I writing the proper way, the most effective way? I don’t give a fuck. I’m writing. Spare me your counsel, counsel. Anti!
I’d like to return to the still student. Too many of this particular mold. Why would I want to continue as an educator, pouring my soul into a section and having my efforts dismissed. No thanks. Bliss bursting in my brain and character, now that teaching and I are separating. Other instructors would probably say that I’m giving up, hurting the students, that I should have more of an eagerness to serve the community, that I’m selfish in focusing on my life. Selfish? As in putting priority on my Self? What is wrong with that? Really? Just as I say to the non-artist advising me on my Craft, I don’t give a fuck.
Movies now, just fireworks. No substance, value. That stupid fucking Twilight sequel is the third highest selling movie of all time, from what I hear. What does that say about us, Humans, and what interests us? You’ll call me a cynic. I don’t give a fuck. Look at us, after special effects, not scripts containing literary merit. Zombie movies, the fantasy thing, all this vampire hypnosis, animation. Sick of it all.
Monday November 30, 2009. Never used to like Merlot. Always saw it as a co-dependent varietal, more or less gutless. But here I sit, sipping a glass. Today, the tasting room provided annoying roles, all belonging to the wine club. What is it about these people that endows them with such confidence, self-anointment? This one guy, command after command. Not a single ‘please’. I could never pour five days a week. I don’t have the patient, “professionalism.” My co-workers that do assume the full load have all my admiration, respect. I wish I could have told this man what a clown he was, standing there, on the other side of the bar like he owns half the valley.
Frankly, I don’t have the propulsion necessary to write tonight. Still, like my unmotivated students. One might say that I shouldn’t write such in this log. Censor my Self, in case students’ or co-workers’ collide with my Craft. If I choose to purge consternation, malice, and someone is targeted, then they will be attacked. Be this, though, the last of my haphazard entries. This log, a log of insight and transcendence.
In my circuitry, the desire to connect to my instrumentals, those curious sounds. But I have to stay here, in front of this screen, typing. I’m a writer, but can’t we scribes play music? Or would that be a scattered approach to life, too complicated?
I used to see the fence.
Now, I don’t think about it. Ever.
Fire in the ink. The stage, dimmed.
The reality of we, thinned.
I want to take the rest of the night to my Self, stop these stomping fingertips. But why is it so hard? Why can’t I just walk away, relax? Why do I distress my Self with these entries, this prose, poetry? The chapbook is near completion, the hesitation, shyness, erosion of confidence manifests. Why? Why can’t I just put the words into the worlds?
10:05pm. What I’m thinking of right now, sleep. As an adjunct, sleep is cherished. Adjunct. Done with that life. Creating my own reality with these chapbooks. The quick release, the pace of a poet. Watching “American Gangster” on HBO. One of the better movies I’ve seen in many years. Sometimes I ask my Self why this caliber movie can’t be made with more frequency. Truthfully, I’m elated it’s not. If it was, it’s just be another “Twilight.” What I take from this film, business. The way to achieve Equilibrium is to behave like one in business. In Paris, I remember thinking about living there for a year, to write. Forcing my Self to produce a 300+ page manuscript, perhaps 400+, or more, in that 365-day bracket. One day, a writing escape. How? This devilish adjunct cage. Need to travel to past entries. Jewels there, I’m certain. My temperament tonight, tumultuous, turbulent. How do I swing out of this stall? I’m a broken plane. Adjuncting is not a career.
The only way out, is by altercation, confrontation.
Further deliberation. Sit for too many a minute.
Me, never a zombie. Literary flips off cliffs.
Telephone another corner. Therapy with each entry.
Tuesday December 1, 2009. Swaths of literature in my head tonight. I again combat my reluctance to release my pages. Tonight, on this first day of the last month of this year, the hesitancy is euthanized. Wine and literature, so close they are, in my scope, an entity collective. When I sip wine, I think of my past and, because I am a creator, I want to trap these reflections. The bottles, their grapes, the process to produce what I sip entail scenes, characters, developments that I see in fiction, non-fiction, even poetry. My favorite character, the Zinfandel grape. It’s personality is bold, flirty, royal. I sometimes imagine myself as a winemaker, in my sister’s shoes. You know, I should interview her, follow her during the next harvest, see her at work with the fruit, the machines, sampling. The tasting room, the Room, my favorite stage currently. The classroom, my least liked. The Room, nothing but enjoyment. I’m a bit distracted presently, as I listen and watch President Obama give his speech on troop deployment to Afghanistan. His eloquence, passion, and conveyance are truly unbelievable, incomparable. He does not fear, or at least it doesn’t seem, releasing his thoughts. I must be equally courageous.
War, Mr. Obama addresses with this speech. As a writer, I am at war. With my Self, mostly. I must outline objectives in this war. Have an approach. I fight this campaign solitarily. My first battle, tonight, to update my “blog” with 1000-plus words. Also, to get to page 25 in my chapbook. I will bring in old entries for the latter. Those are the two objectives in tonight’s skirmish. War, with the Self. All at stake. Failure, not something to even be discussed. I can’t, and don’t, see myself as an adjunct for much longer. Today, I gave a lecture, “Writing Costs A Lot,” highlighting how demanding this life is. Made me feel that passion for instruction again. I will always teach, in some capacity. But this, now, no more. Suasion, by means of the literary, my life.
On a less weighted note, I’m getting a bit hungry. Chinese food sounds good. Broccoli Beef? Couple of egg roles? What do I pair it with? Pinot? Do I have a Pinot? Pairing is a facet of wine’s story that I find intriguing, mostly as result of the inherent mystery. Tonight, I read, about wine. Anything I can find. A play about a novice in wine’s web. All he does is read. He’s never been tasting. He’s scared for some reason. No. Not for “some reason.” He doesn’t want to look like a fool. Or, I could write a play about tasting room employees. I’ve done freewrites about that, in stageplay form. I should develop this. I do want to act someday, as you may or may not know. I could star in my own work. I don’t know how good of an actor I’d be. Probably decent. I have been told that I act like an actor. Interesting.
Poetry, tonight, surely. Verses in my veins continuously. Time for Chinese.
6:50pm. Didn’t get Chinese, didn’t look to see if I have any Pinot. Currently, reading my wine magazine. Need to start collecting seriously. Cotes Du Rhone, need to acquire much of this. Need to learn more. Turning pages, turning, turning…boutique wineries, I know there are a few dozen handfuls in Dry Creek, and I love Dry Creek. A day mission, perhaps. I could see myself owning a wine shop specializing in small production, boutique producers, maybe have a license to pour at the shop like my friend in Sebastopol. I will take small steps towards such by collecting.
Just opened a bottle of 2006 Valley of the Moon Sangiovese. An example of Wine is Literature: 1) Introduction (nose and front palate): 7. Not too pronounced with notes, nothing jumping out, demanding recognition. Some cherry, damp soil, oak. 2) Body (mouthfeel and mid-palate): 7. About the same. A bit of an improvement in terms of smoothness and the humble approach of the wine. What hurt the wine in the intro somehow complements it, raises its stock, in this part of the tasting and evaluative journey. 3) Conclusion (back of palate and finish): 5. Goes away, as if in a rush to get off the stage, afraid of critique. 4) Additional comments: Yes, I am drinking it. It’s not bad, by any means, by I wait for the reflection, for any impact that truly affects me. My evaluation of a wine is similar to the consideration and grading of an essay, but not the same. Simply because one is a wine, the other a piece of writing. But I do look for delivery, structure, concentration in both. Addition to my supplemental remarks: After the bottle being open for a significant time, I am greeted by a certain grassy/vegetable set of notes, varying in intensity. To be honest, I don’t like assigning a numerical, quantitative, value to wine. Wine is Lit, hence it is Art. Letter grades are more conducive and appropriate. So, I give the bottle a C.
I want to become more acquainted with Port. The bottle I’m looking at in this magazine was given a 95. And, wow, the bottle goes for $95. How will I collect when this interest costs so much? Not like writing carrying with it a high cost. There are actual dollar amounts to this passion. Came across a cool quote in this publication, from Duff Cooper: “Wine has lit up for me the pages of literature…has induced me to say silly things but not do them.” Wine and words are incapable of being separated. Think about it, the tasting notes on a menu when you approach the bar in a tasting room. Description, persuasion.
Tempranillo, Rioja, Gamay. There’s almost too much to explore in this world. What do I do? Somewhat daunted. Exciting, nonetheless. This wine is opening up quite agreeably. Perhaps I evaluated it too early. Perhaps, huh. I’ll continue to sip. See what happens. Gotta love wine & lit.
Wednesday December 2, 2009. The rest of this, I rest. My much-necessitated holiday. I’m not even going to write. No notes, no poetry. No prose, nothing. Laziness, idol. I deserve it. But how do I do this, this rest thing? I’m a writer. As I said in my lecture yesterday, this costs a lot.
Found a note in my wallet reading “Day after event in valley.” I’m tomorrow going to use this as my topic. It was if the area was recovering from a natural disaster, or war.