Writing is a bit painful today. Why can’t I stop? Don’t want to teach tomorrow, but I will have a successful session. I’m determined. Stanford awaits. The city of New York, also invites. Feel like my words today are lazy, stale. Is it the nap, still crawling in my components? Grouchy now. Goddamnit. It’s only 7p, what does a figure of the pen do? Need time to ponder, and not compose prose. Sometimes thoughts need to be left alone as just that, in their home. One jingle I want to expel from this brain, a return to my master’s thesis, Apocalypse in Wonderland. This world, the Now, unraveling into such a landscape.
7:21p. Where did the day go? See? A Wonderland, this Now. Still need to get ahold of some muscular Bordeaux blends, some bottled bullies. Need a wallet for such. Generating revenue, that’s what the chapbooks will do. I don’t give a fuck what critics will say, do say, did say, about such an advancement. These words, keeping me alive. Need to keep poetry in mind, allow it not to be unsung, for it is what will keep you young. Some robotic salesman came to my door earlier today. Pushy, annoying, condescending. His kind, should be gassed. Do I have any red in house? Have that Opus One, but Alice would kill me if I touched it. Don’t want to, wouldn’t, anyway. It would better with her.
7:53p. Did I mention that I was only pulses away from starting, or enabling, a podcast? I selected a host, or whatever it’s called, input my credit card. But, then, soon after, aborted. It cost me about $10, my indecisiveness, for the creation of the space. I don’t know. I was lost. Again, I am a writer, not a phony sage, pompous personality with no personality, or character. I am a creator, a charismatic and tenacious character. Of that, certain. Watching a documentary on Leopards and Tigers, how man keeps hunting, poaching them. Angers me in ways that frighten me. People that hunt rare and beautiful animals for sport, as to gather trophies, are cowards, devils. They are the ones that deserve to be hunted, put to an unfair death, although I would see it as quite fair, warranted.
8:10p. Miss my Alice, as I sip what remains of her Mondavi Chard. Still can’t believe what I saw on that documentary, about the cats. Have to shift subjects, otherwise I’ll implode. St. Francis has this new Zin, in extremely limited quantity, the Sonoma Valley Montecillo Vineyard Kaarin’s Terrace, 2007, that is unbelievable. I don’t want to write an “official” review of it, as I feel any of my wording would only wrap it in disservice. Either way, it would receive an “A,” How do winemakers flex their alchemical mastery? My sister, need to interview. When I think further, my family is unbelievably intriguing. Mom, Dad, Sis, all novels, sagas.
8:41p. This day passed me, not past me, laughing. I’m more aged than I was at 5a, when I rose. Alice’s Chard, throwing notes of orange, or nectarine. Mystery, alluring genus. Should I attempt it, with my cop character? What makes me tango with this idea? “Basic Instinct,” I confess, no pun meant. Looking at the bowl that houses the Chard. The condensation reminds me of a fine fir. Feline? Certain areas have a direction, other portions contrast. What an image. Wish you could see, dear reader. These moist patterns are impressionist, imagist, abstract. Feeling odd. Definitely in the scribe’s stance.
9:05p. Over 1500, so why am I not calm? Why am I still quite frantic? This Craft, the life and death of me, I can promise. While here, I’ll keep scribing. Scribing what? Observations, reflections, moments. BOOK ONE, approaching. Running out of the integral impetus for my objective. You know, this existence is funny, to me. What can I do...I know what I went upstairs for now, the Pac doc(umentary). What would I do, if ever sent to cage? I want to say write, but that’s easier said. Now, irresponsible. I should be asleep. Fuck that. I’m on the watch mine. Would I be able to handle “fame?” What is fame, true fame?
10:22p. Ahead if sched, or behind? I’m writing, directionless. Chapbooks on my matter, in it. Van Gough, what would he say? Wish I was back in Paris, with the famiglia. Watching “The Departed” on cable. I hate anything censored. My quick-wittedness, stalled. Loving it. Have to be under covers at 11:30p, latest. The pain of this day’s session, still in the circuitry. Why am I so spiteful towards my words? Obsessively critical as I type. People say, “You’re your harshest of judges.” Yes, of this, abundantly aware. So why do I do this? Passion, its fucking price. Wonder what my brothers from the Room are doing right now?
10:39p. Last installment for the day’s shift. Hate censorship. So very much. Won’t ever censor Self again. Consequences, I hope they find me. I must be strong, for my family, wife. IF dignity is ever given up, what does the author truly hold? ANTI, 4ever. Me, a Leopard that can never be poached, hunted. Some of my pitches are fiction, but the umbrella, a total truth. I’m circling the Self with this session. Feel like it’s karaoke. At whoso, a fine quail dish. Would need to hire a militant, magical chef. Wish I could cook. Wish the time wasn’t so progressed. I’m older than I was when I woke this early a.m. Now what do I do, reader?
11p. When I leap, I get into trouble. Leaping, fun. Trouble, even more so. Living the role of the ANTI. Always in CAPS. The title deserves such. Over 2k. How did that happen? Truthfully, the propulsion Alice provides. Ten years behind, never would have foreseen this. A real rebel of the ink, married. Alice deserves better, something more stable, I infrequently think. Why do I say that? I’m decaying, with this day. So, should I clock out? Wish I could get your survey, reader. I need you.
Remembering San Ramon, that apartment. Nice, that water in the background, how I’d keep my window open, to aid in my descent into dreams.
11:18p. Actors, yes, possess “talent.” But what about us, writers? Actors are like paintings, something you observe. The level of interpretation is quick, reflexive. I sound like an envious viper. I’m not, just scribing a thought. The wine that I taste usually, needs to be recognized, what I sip from the winery at which I work. It’s amazing. Do I have a “house palate,” whatever the fuck that means? Maybe. But I resent that term, because it discredits my wherewithal, my ability to analyze, criticize. Everyone thinks the Self so sagacious. Back to the classroom tomorrow. A different room. A deplorable plume. Need to get Self a bottle of that Montecillo Zin. Did I spell that correctly? Don’t care. Miss Alice.
11:30p. Why can’t I clock out? Am I a workaholic? Sounds admirable, commendable, what have. But it’s sick. I should be leaning into these cushions, drinking my nightcap. But I can’t. Thinking of whoso, what it would look like, what it would be like to take little Alice on a date there. Just stumbled upon an episode of “Paranormal State” on A&E. What a fucking hoax. Am I supposed to be startled by this shit? Now, some girl is crying as she recalls an accounts. Unbelievable. Do people invest in these episodes? I’m sure there’s something out there we can’t explain with mortal deduction, but this depiction is quite comical. Fuck this show. Now, a “medium” is commenting on the “energy” in a room. Wow. Maybe my notes should convey more the energy in our Room, what the guests deliver to us behind the shinny marble.
The classroom, 2morrow. One day, I will speak of a classroom for the following day, at Stanford, I promise. Failure, not in this ANTI’s future. My log, hopefully helpful in some way. Fishing, with uncle Stevie, remember it vividly. He was a passionate character, I’ll give him that. Odd, but quite determined to find a fish. He always showed Katie and I a good time, be it on river or lake. One of the last times I saw him, he shared a short story about rock climbing. Wish I had that manuscript now. Surprised at 2/16/10’s progress. My oracle, Ms. Alice. Wish she sat in this seat with me.
Looking at the winery checks. My own income, from art, need to produce, now. BOOK ONE, soon, I promise. Why am I still typing. Clocking out, making Self.
2.5k. Mecca in my malaise.