Tuesday 4/13/10. Halfway through April. Possible how? 9:51a, on the day off I didn’t think I had off. Need a mocha, badly. Enjoying the music though, “Busenfreund” by Tosca. Maybe I should write offsite today. Where would I go? Still thinking about “Wicked.” What a production. Everything from the stage’s arrangements, to the acting, to the script. Worthy of more than this page’s characters and syllabic arrangements.
Need to get on some kind of schedule with the log. What, need to think of this, pragmatically. Need to balance the checkbook too, which I’m not pleasurably prophesying. Where is the treasure chest? Poetry, now a glowing tree beside me, one that abides me.
11:21a. How did it get so late, as Alice says. Mocha, venti, sends me. Today’s goal: Progress, Consolidation, Simplification. Found some Room notes on cell. Xfering: “Quiet Room, lovely. For me, not the winery. No revenue. For me, peace, collection, re-collection. Talking to coworkers about wine, and industry as whole. Lots of knowledge about and between my cohorts here. Learning a lot from Stan, Cara, Will, Allan.
-Three ladies Will told me about, that visited yesterday, did WFP. One of them was acting as the guide of her group. Will said she said something like “Oh, this is such a typical Cab Franc. Nothing here at all. How gutless!” She continued to boast her blind tasting skills. Will offered her a playful challenge, bringing out a Syrah, Cab, and Merlot. Will asked her to point out, or vocally label, each pour, after telling her what he poured, what varietals. She went 0 for 3. Would have loved to see that.
All notes off phone. Want to cover significant ground today, as my dad says. My plan, the three words/ideas/approaches/visions above. Checked the balance for checking, and it wasn’t worth checking. Hate struggles with funds. The adjunct life, and my faith in it, put me here. Topic next.
My schedule for the log: post whenever I want. I don’t like schedules. Never have. Content with that settlement. Onward, wondering when I should, or will be able to review that Coppola wine that I bought the other day. Looking forward to personifying it. Still want to scribe away from my reservation. Which spot? North Light? The Hilton? Tired of Starbucks, although I did just receive a free drink slip, thrown through the door’s mail slot by Mr. Postman.
Throwing poetic pops onto a piece of scratch paper to my left. No rain today. Yesterday, en route to Room from NVC, the drops nearly stopped me, made me pull over. Was like driving through a car wash, a blurred blanket on my windshield. So, a recess, pause, in precipitation is rather befitting.
Two Room characters from yesterday: couple in their 20s, from SoCal, up celebrating their 3-year anniversary. So pleasant, easy, enjoyable. Why can’t they all be like this? She, Jill, was a bartender/actress, and he, James, was a software sales rep. We talked about wine, life, work. The exchange with them, was Human and meaningful, sincere and not scripted, memorable not mechanical. They were easily the highlight of my shift, and not just for the page. Thanks, J&J!
12:08p. Why do I feel tired? I haven’t done anything today. Maybe yesterday took more of a tariff than I tallied. Should get out of this castle, off this couch. I should be writing in a foreign locale. Not going to print any pages, I wanted to let you know, from BOOK ONE. No more ink in the cartridge. And, stemming from the reality of fading funds, I’m not going to spring for a new. So, I’ll just edit here on the comp.
Was just reading about my admiration for those that can illustrate, in B1. Makes me think of Paris, Orsay and the Louvre, the artists displayed there, admired. Want to go back, I was telling Mom and Dad last night.
Think I’m ready for a break. Not sure why. Hungry for lunch? Not yet. Papers to grade, yeah right. Maybe the best thing for Mike Madigan is to remain here, write within familiar walls. No distractions, comfy, safe. Need to make proper use of today’s time. But what is time, actually? When does it start, stop? Faulkner said, “Clocks slay time...time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life” This is precisely the logic entailed in my hatred of schedules. Time is confinement, progressive strangulation.
Encroaching on the day’s thousand. This music, providing mental constructions of whoso, my wine bar. Peace, relaxation, enjoyment of life. Who wouldn’t a Human want to experience such? Jill and James, and characters of such fold, would be welcome. The rude, I’d rather you stay away. Almost 1p. Should probably get some lunch, go for a drive. Air. New air.
1:28p. Back from a lunch run. Tuna salad sandwich, sliced tomatoes. Sensibly simple, scrumptious. Haven’t used that last descriptor in a while. Sounds too commercial. My prose, becoming slow. The Self hereby thrown into the poem. Electric in my poetics. Riming without timing. Want to battle, so I gavel.
Interesting thought, I thought: story about a woman who quits waitressing to go back to school to become a teacher, at the elementary level. She becomes a teacher, excels, only to be pink-slipped. Of course, there is a personal link for me, but I can see readers empathizing and relating with this character, becoming angered by the unfair and harsh reality of reality. Of the “real world.”
Thinking of taking advantage of this free coffee coupon. Watching “Angels and Demons.” Fascinating so far. Re-ignites my passion for study, literature, history. Thought altogether. My thoughts now, encircling the epistemological stream of Our Experience. But I’m not sure how to channel or filter this mental activity.
Sitting here, watching the film. It’s losing me, a bit, in both mental stimulation and entertainment. Thinking about the rude characters from the past couple days. Can’t scold them for their innate demeanor. But I can confine them to the page, and expose their vile attributes.
6:56p. Back from walk/jog in forest. A renewing redolence. Streams, brooks, creeks whistling. Deer, wild turkeys. Time for dinner, Mom’s leftovers. Back in a while.
7:18p. Tired. More exercise needed for this author. Opened wine. Going to write the review within this very entry, this session. Can’t get Annadel out of my head. Actual quiet. Need something to read between these journalistic jabs. Up to the office...
A wine mag, Ms. Plath, another wine mag. Want to buy some Rieslings, and other whites. Still thinking, seriously in some moments, about a wine bar. Need to get out of education, only return when I teach what I want. Need to make progress on B1. Ms. Plath compares waking to rising from the grave; talks about preparing for class, reading Yeats, addressing Elliot (371). Developmental English sections, although mildly engaging, lack the reciprocal passion. I will not stop teaching, but I am hereby resigning as a developmental quant.
Still hungry. Eager to try the Coppola wine. Poetry sheet still on the left. Going to heat something up...already 8p (actually 8:03). Need to be speedy.
Francis Ford Coppola’s Director’s Cut, 2007 Cinema, Sonoma County. Beautiful color, cape-like. A blend of Cab, Zin, Cab Franc, and Petite Sirah. Love confident blends. Deep, dark dexterity. Flavorful and floral, perfume-like on nose. Dampness on nose and front-pal, this accents the dark fruit and thick notes of chewy cobbler. What a vibrant being, an ardent atmosphere. Mid-palate reveals a jolt of coffee and secularized caramel; this carries to the flirtatiously lingering, haunting, finish. Sip consistency, more concentration as minutes accumulate for the open bottle, pour. A multi-talented, impressively complex character; actor, writer, director, producer. This is an offer I wouldn’t dream of refusing. Still a Coppola fan, always will be.