Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Lazy, as the Stage be Hazy

Tuesday 2/16/2010. Spoke to a close family friend last nite, Kathleen, and she persuaded me to join Facebook. and twitter. Yes, persuaded. It can only help with readership, having more eyes connect with my entries, the log/blog. Need to remain simple, with vision tunnelesque. When you inform me that readers will swarm, I act.
11:19a. Okay, so I have everything set up, I think. Back to the fundamentals, the log itself. Only connecting with these two fads for the sake of the writing. No need to continue on about that. Not so enthused about returning to the classroom on the morrow. Or should I be? Had some interesting ideas for the lecture, need to examine a bit more. Woke up before 5a. Never fell back asleep. Had to go out to NVC to fill out a letter of rec for one of my stronger students. Shouldn’t have let it slip to the last.
1k, my goal for today. 3k is unrealistic, maniacal, unhealthy. In fact, nothing over 1k. A couple extra words is permitted. But that’s it. Alice, the funny little critter, called me at 11-something-p.m. last night to inform me that she had finished reading my blog. I’ve been giggling all day. I want to impress and startle readers that I don’t know personally, but making family proud is an incomparable bonus. Need a break. Feel my prose is pour.
4:28p. Back from nap. Thankful I’m not groggy. Anyway, I’m on Facebook and Twitter (is Twitter capitalized?). Never thought that would happen. Not aiming to have a large number of “friends,” be some social digi-butterfly. Simply trying to expand reader base. Nice outside. Miss the crew in the Room. Jack moved in down the street, which is a good thing. Went to the Gnarly Thorn last night for a beer with him and Stan. Can’t believe I called in sick Sunday. Quite at peace with that decision, I’ll state in this log with credible crystalization.
Should I be worried, with this new level of log broadcasting, about coworkers from the Room or students surveying the occasional virulency, surprising honesty, in the entries? Am I to be preoccupied with consequences, fallout? Simply, no. Not at all, never. First, and this is all I will elaborate and expand on such a stream, this is my log, my literary lair. I am ultimately and undeniably free. I will not self-censor again, ever. If someone is addressed, be it with venom or veneration, it is my election. I rule these pages. Anything can happen, and I will not explain beyond these lines, and I definitely won’t ever apologize. I’m not running for office. I’m already seated in throne. ANTI!
Tonight, I hope to get around to unearthing some old entries in this plastic tub under my desk, the one housing retired scribbles. I’m afraid of this box. Why? I view it like a composition’s crypt, a manuscript mausoleum of sorts, a journalistic jail. Can’t be frightful. I will dive in, armed with ink and line.
Went to Stanford’s site again. One day, I tell myself. Didn’t take many Room notes over the last two shifts, especially not on Saturday (which I tagged “asshole day,” on account of the amount of animalistic visitors). But there a couple jots in the little flip pad. Need to review those. Saturday, as harsh and horrible as it was, was one of my biggest tips days in months. Love irony, even when it tires my core. Going for a drive. Praise the Craft.
6:03p. Went to deposit the winery checks. My balance, emaciated. Hate depending on others for income. Exposure and readers are wonderful, but my goal is to live, subsist, by the pen, by these lines, entries. Reminded that time is an element worthy of concern, when I saw an elderly man in Safeway, the same one housing my bank’s branch, who could barely move, even with the assistance of the four-legged device. Felt sorry him, felt sorry for Self. Speedily. It’s good to be delicate, meticulous, but not to excess.
Saturday, in the Room, many on vacation, Valentines Day. One gentleman who came in with his other significant reminded me of something, someone, from a 1990s music video. Cheesiest character I’ve seen in some time. His cologne was suffocating me like I stepped on scared stones, left scars. His shirt’s buttons were unhinged to the middle of his chest, revealing a gold chain of medium girth. His arms were all around, over and about his exotic acquaintance, who must have been fifteen years his junior. Another character that day, with his wife, was quite patient as I jumped from guest to guest, group to group. He tipped me ten dollars. I didn’t charge for his tasting. Maybe I should have, but I’ve been told I can be generous using my judgement and discretion. The first guest I mentioned, the 90s character, was attired in a white shirt with a sparkly design on the back, up around the shoulder area, stretching from left to right. I told him about the bell in the tower, how it goes off every hour on, and how one shouldn’t be in the tour unless they want a taste of brief deafness. He said, “So the bell rings your bell, huh?” Ugh, annoyed me even more. Couldn’t wait to get him out of our Room. Worked with the best of crews on the Day of the Asshole. Will, Stan, Augustus, Joey, Lonny, Dan, Cameron. I think that’s it. If it wasn’t for Auggie pouring me intermittent doses of Sauv Blanc, and my vixenish Viogner, I would have surrendered. There were times during the day where I just wanted to leave, go home sick, but I didn’t want to abandon my brothers. Interesting cast in the Room. Invaluable.
My place, whoso, still under consideration, thawing in thought. I think it should have a revolving menu of starters paired with wines. Still want to investigate champagne/sparkling wine pairings. Lights, lazy. Seating, seductive, sexy. Music, perfect. It would be a place at which I would go, take Alice for an outing. Miss little Alice, her smile, jokes, funny voices. Thinking about her call last night, that woke me. If I’m to be pulled from slumber, that way is lovely. Not just because it contained praise for the log. My wife’s joyous octave was in my ear, laughing, complementary.
Don’t think I’m going to get around to excavating the tomb of tablets. I’ll concede, I’m afraid. Hate reading my past work. Why is that?

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