Tuesday 2February2010. Interesting way to write the date. Anyway, shooting for 2k today. Why haven’t they called me about my car? It’s not some futuristic carriage. What’s the deal? Been trapped in these walls the entire day. At least I’ve been writing. Reviewing a wine tonight. That’ll be 3 official reviews, literary, of wine. I in no way claim to know a lot about wine. But I do know criticism, I do know language, and I most assuredly am capable of deconstructing character. Waiting for the rain, the rain that these wanna-be wizard, crystal ball-gloating weather folk claim approaches. I’m waiting.
4:13p. Just called. The guy I spoke to said the service was done, and that the little XA of mine was being washed. The shuttle’s on the way, I guess. Need to go for a drive, or get a beer. Now, the cabin fever sets in. My journalistic productivity has been an advantageous distraction, but now its medicinal benefit almost entirely erodes.
8:31p. Have a rental. A hybrid car from Toyota. Would rather have this one than mine. Didn’t get around to reading that Capote short that I wanted to, but I did look at some menus of some Sonoma and Napa restaurants. Learning, for my little wine bar/cafe. Still no rain. The clouds tease, but deliver disappointment. Boredom in the form of dry streets, a quiet roof.
My poetry, still seething in my sternum. So many thoughts, verses. Not sure what I want to do now. Tired. Need a break. No I don’t. Instrumentals in my ears. Topic next, Hawaii. Went there only once, to Maui with Mom, Dad, and Katie. Have always wanted to go back. Speaking of the sis, winemaking. Maybe she and I could produce a wine. But I don’t know shit about production. I could sell it, perhaps, write the tasting notes, promotional lit.
In James Joyce mode, if you know what I mean. Pushing for 2k. I may be too lazy for such. Still not used to the feel of this laptop’s futuristic buttons. Fucking sci-fi pad. Wondering how far this technology will go, how lost in it we’ll get. We’re becoming robots ourselves. It’s part of a plan, I’m sure. What we think is our government, is really a collection of figures, meant for diversion. There is a governing body, some order ordering us. My solution to the problem, these words and thoughts. I’ll never be stopped. And if I am, people have read my words, they will share, so I’ll live forever, in this planet’s air.
2000 words in a day. I am a true writer, living the life literary. Mad. I should reside in Carroll’s neighborhood. The cat said “we’re all mad here.” That’s where I should be. My syllables are scattered, like my mind, mental arrangements. I persist in artistic derangements. I think about the coffee house characters that I see, what they say, how they interact with each other, with me.
9:43pm. Hate the 7:30a class. Not the students, necessarily. The time. Too fucking early. I know, I agreed to the assignment, but what choice did I have. Didn’t have so many other offerings, you know? Whatever. Today’s been a good day, a productive session. The entire collection of ticks, moving the pen, or typing. Hopefully exhibiting an ethic with a slight semblance of Mr. Shakur. As I journaled in Oregon over winter break, I aim to be the most successful and hard-working human in literature. The world outside these walls, here in Bennett Valley, frightens me, so I choose to recluse. I’ll stay hidden.
10:18p. In a little over 12 hrs. I’ll be back here, probably on this couch, recording Self. This word processor just acted funny, or “goofy,” as that lady said over her cell this morning at the dealership. So, now that I think about it, I’m already over 2k for the day. In the pages of my newest composition book, this a.m., I carved, easily, near 600 words. What’s the matter with me? I’m writing quite possibly more than I’m living. Maybe that’s admirable. Or sad. Reminding my Self of the Louisa May Alcott program I saw on PBS, while in Sunriver. I miss the snow so much, the honest air. So cold, harsh, refreshing. Miss the walks with Alice, by myself. Bennett Valley, too plain, boring, dirty.
Let’s discuss the approach the approach of the ANTI. We’re more than audacious. We’re ultimately autonomous. We embrace separatism for the sake of Self. Art, we savor. Start, re-slather. Do I want to better the state of affairs for other humans? Of course I do. I endorse mental vivacity, sovereignty. Still sipping this St. Francis blend. Some rimes. Actually, just a couplet.
Stuck. Notebook in the truck. No looks in the rut. No strut, my gut,
abrupt. Can’t trust a soul. They may be death to my goal.
A bit more of a sprint to my paradise, Heaven. Does it exist? Is there wine there? Find my Self getting a bit disgruntled. With what? Much. Fucking education budget of CA, department heads (even the ones I thought I respected), co-workers claiming to be my friends when they’re really just as snake-ish as females from my past.
Now, at 10:51, I’m realizing much about Self. I can do whatever I want. No one controls this ANTI, this rebel by pen. My 100k project, no matter what it’s titled, will wobble this world. My opus will trump Joyce’s most successful work, Updike’s, Woolf’s, even Mr. Capote’s. I write. What did Mr. Shakur do when behind metal? Write. Time ticking, tickling, stickling.
Another sip due. After this sip, I’ll pause, think about morrow. The students I’ll have to face, enter space. They work, or wail. Love this progress. When I clock out for the day, which I will in a second, I’ll lean into these cushions. 2k in a day. Wow. One say, done day. Fun, lay.
Now, I’m punching this clock. Well, there is no clock, actually. Need to get paid, I’m so glad that I stayed. Stalwart. Well over a 2k day. Success. Why can’t I clock out, relax? Forcing Self to forfeit, retire for 2/2/2010. Should be preparing for class 2morrow, but there’s a strong chance that NVC may let me go. Fucking budget cuts.
“I am large, I contain multitudes.” -Walt Whitman