Tuesday, April 20, 2010


Her prose emboldened his pen with curious fury.

Kelly’s character in my chambers, echoing like strange but seductive calls. Sipping a Carneros Pinot. In Joyce mode again, with a Hemingway sprinkle. Tomorrow, my only goal, write. Type like there’s no day, night.
Left my little flip-pad at Mom and Dad’s. As I drove back to this meek fortress, my cell jolted the leg right. Mom’s message was so molded: “U left your little note pad here..I’ll bring it to U on wed. Xoxo”. This is not acceptable, leaving a record anywhere, even if the stage is safe. Did I drink too much there? Don’t think I did. Had Mom’s artisan cheeseburgers with carmelized onions. Unbelievably savory. How does she do that?
Just checked the word count. 115, like Bayview, the street on which I resided in San Carlos. Interesting to me, all the inexplicable connections, coincidences, correlations. What am I to do? Right now, I’m determined to do something. More than just writing. On the tip of tongue, but unable to articulate.

Kelly stopped, looked at her sketchpad. She wanted to bring it with her to Biology, but decided it was safer at the apartment, no chance of her leaving it in the classroom, like the incident of last semester.

Can’t get this character out of my head. Who the hell is this gem? She’s stretched and entangled my shell and spirit. Sipping this Pinot, in hope of sense, or some semblance of spirit, sanity. Another sip, strong. Mephitic and baneful. Why do I get like this in some sessions?
Wanted to discuss my Room notes tonight, but I forgot the little pages at Mom and Dad’s. Interesting people, for a Monday. Many from the South. One group of four, all in their 60s, were bugging me about the price of placemats. Forgot where they were from, and I don’t care. One of the men, was trying to lecture me on wine, how the ’04 RR Cab smelled. Such a moron. I mean, what did he want me to say? Getting tired of the Room, all its dynamics, districts, dimensions.

11:01p. Feeling rebellious, confrontational. Why does this always happen during sessions? Love this solitude, peace, still. Is it this Carneros Pinot? Said I was in Joyce mode, laced with Ernest. They weren’t like this, were they? Not much poetry about me lately. Worried. Don’t believe in Astrology, at all, but I think my inner-Gemini is bending unhealthily. So, again, what do I do? The Room, still on the brain. Shouldn’t be writing, not now. Too tired, too affected by this Burgundy bomb. Hating Facebook, Facecrook. I’m looking at people’s pictures and profiles like a mindless puppet, a noodle, an outline of cognition, no substance. Hate myself when I do that. Need a break, already. What is my plan for dealing with this inner-infection? Intrigued, disgusted. How can I fight back, or even lace these entries with useful or healthy logic? Is this imbalance what causes the forgetfulness that put the log on the counter at my parents’ house, that pushed me out the front door without it? This Pinot may not be helping. Me, sipping Pinot? Why did I pull this from the little fridge?
Think it’s starting to rain. Yesterday was beautiful, no clouds, drops. Just a famed day of CA sun in wine country. The drops..muting the TV. More musical than any instrumental I could tie upstairs with the equipment. Tomorrow, I’m planning on returning to the editing of BOOK ONE. Looking forward to the morning mocha, as much as I delight and fly with this Pinot.
Would I make a reliable politician, a respectable one? One loved, even? Do they work days as long as this semester’s Mondays? I’ve been up since 5:26a. I know because I sharply recall, can, those numbers on the Weather Channel when my lids lifted. Now, the Self slowing. My poetry for the evening:
This life, a fist fight. Keep the list light. Simplification
before unnecessary complication.
I bleed, before eyes see my seed. Accounts in drought.
No concern in clout. This story, what about? Three bouts...

11:29p. Sipping again. So who am I, Hemingway, or Mr. Joyce? What, am I Joyce because I’m Irish? No I’m Joyce because I’m joyfully imbibing this wine. Need a break, truthfully. Need to read something, someone, come morrow, the new Now. When in doubt, Mr. Capote.
Not worried about critics, anymore. And why should I? Like my sister said about wine critics, or “professional” wine judges, “Those that can’t make wine judge those who make it.” Many of the guests in the Room act like they’re “professional” wine critics, or judges. Need to keep typing.
Writing to awake stay. Gamboling with phrases and arrangements. Language, my opiate. BOOK ONE, need to arrange, speaking of arrangements. Why is it so hard to execute productiveness? Van Gough, would he stop sipping? How about Mr. Shakur, or Mr. Poe? Shouldn’t matter. Need to listen for the drops outside. Can’t hear any, now. So excited to have the day to me tomorrow. Need to turn the heater off. One breath...

11:42p. My structure, in this Carrollesque prose, not at all foreseeable. My character, Kelly, probably is annoyed by these alignments, provisions. I see her writing in a journal, drawing. Thinking about her days, her Now. She’s a perfectionist, to fault. It keeps her awake. She battles with Self to sleep. Her papers, the toll of the English major, hover like starved beaks. Even I, as the author, don’t know what bounces in her log/s. This Literary Life, a sedative and stimulant. Don’t want to be like that guest that came into the Room to return corks he wanted to use for some artistic arrangement, sculpture, something. He told me he was returning them because “it’s way too late, I missed my chance.” More than sad, depressing. That sunk my entire shift. I won’t be in that reality. I’d rather die never, create 4ever, preferably.

The curious fury, still trampling about my inner streets and streams. Journalistic warrior. 1k reached, but I’m still sprinting like a startled stallion. (4/19/10)

4/20/10, Tuesday. Finally back from my three errands. Wine club letter at winery, picking-up of little notepad, and PG&E bill. The PG&E base, on the west side, quite stimulating in terms of creative sparks. There was this impressively hyper child, who kept jumping, then crawling, then jumping again so his jean-covered knees would slap his palms. Can still hear the sound. Was in line for a good twenty minutes before I saw the auto-pay kiosk, or “self-serve quick-pay” station. Discretely stepped out of line, to the little machine, but this gray-haired older male character took forever. From what I saw, his balance was $20, and he inserted a $100 bill, then having trouble receiving his owed change. I went back to the main line. Just as the gray-coiffured fellow resolved his disparity, another character from the front door rushed to the screen, a tall, huge, bald, angry male, walking with a limp or injury of some kind, breathing heavy, laboriously. Other characters, most of them, were arguing tirelessly with the Customer Service Reps. Most had outstanding balances, or turned-off comfort and necessities. I became annoyed, quick, with these roles.
I pulled out my little flip-pad, scribbled. “-people watching me write..hard to be mentally alive in here, and contain my Self..out come the little pages..eclectic cast in here..slow lines, so painful, sterile..odd scent in here; oddly sweet, floral, musty, nauseated..Get this poet out of here!” Glad to be back in the castle, on the couch, punching the little black blocks. Want a beautifully bold Bordeaux for the wine “cellar.”
While driving, I thought of everything literary in my days as something connected to, or relating to the wine world. My box of old writings upstairs, like a winery’s library, or like a collector’s cellar. If I went into the winery’s library, many of the bottles, as confirmed by a “manager” the other day, would be bad, undrinkable because of the synthetic cork. Hopefully my writings aren’t dead like those poor bottles. Each entry from me, like a winemaker’s finagling and trials in the lab. This sofa is part of my lab. This little laptop, my chemistry set, or whatever they call their tubes, measuring tools, strangely tinted liquids, etc.

Raining off, on. Waiting for the thunder foreshadowed by the hackish Weather Channel. Kelly would hear the rain, then scribble in her sketchbook, and journal. She would watch the drops compete with each other, who would cause the most explosive of splashes on the concrete. When her papers were done, she would take a short nap. Not like an ordinary cat, like a resting, solitary, graceful feline.

This venti four shot mocha is wearing off. Hate this feeling. Have an idea for something printed, self-published, something outside “the blog.” Just looked at the news online, learned that Guru died, of cancer. Cancer is something that must be stopped. What a reminder of how short life is. Need to continue living each day as if it were the ultimate. Empyrean from now on, with all leaps.
Raining again outside. Makes me want to take a nap. But I’m not going to do that. I will be a hurricane couch potato, writing for my life. Forgot to tell you that the power went out last night, right before I went to bed. Made me uneasy. Turned on some trip-hop, passed out.
Should I go for a drive? Getting stir crazy in here, claustrophobia shaking my mind. Can’t concentrate. Just a few more words left for my midday goal. Just turned the TV off, listening to the rain. Charged again. Just viewed a Youtube clip of Mos and Black Thought, “75 Bars.” Feeling poetic. Inspired, no longer tired. See? How do I channel this artistry? Where’s my notebook? In the rain, running to the XA, to go look...
Grabbed some scratch sheets from the office. They rest to my left. Can’t stop riming. Feel like getting air, not sure it’ll be fresh. Should dive into my writing cellar, the journalistic catacombs later. See what treasures, or pollutants, I encounter.
And the laziness returns. Air, need air. Raining slightly. Let’s see what’s beyond this castle’s entrance door.

3:59p. Having a snack, Diet Coke. Don’t think I’ll be drinking any wine or beer tonight. Just don’t want to. Need to focus on business. You’re probably thinking “What about writing?” Self-publishing, finally generating revenue from these long, heartfelt sessions. My time, here. Pretending I’m in my MADIGAN PUBLISHING office. That’s why I’m sipping the Diet. Frankly, I’m tired of depending on employers that don’t have my existence in mind, ever. I’m also tired of these thin amounts on my checks.
vinoLit will be a reality. It is. Tonight, my first day/night on the job. My current employers are being targeted, by my determination. The objective of this battle, freedom, vocational and occupational sovereignty. It rains outside my office. I smile, with this new direction. Think I may have just heard thunder.

MADIGAN PUBLISHING, vinoLit, the Madigan Pamphlets. Easy, simple, but bold. Owning and running my own business is something I’ve always seen for the Self. I hate how lunch breaks at the winery are only 30 minutes, and how I have to sit at some table with a pile of junk atop. And, the break has to be 30 minutes. So, if I finish lunch before, which I always do, I wind up counting down minutes, going back and forth from the outside punchclock, looking at the time, which is a really delightful pattern when it’s pouring.
Going back and forth between this log and Madigan Pamphlets’ first issue. Trying to decide upon a page length and price point. Dinnertime. Going to take a break in a sec. As long as I want, or as short. No counting of clock tics.
Back from lunch break. Drained, depleted, squandered. Clocking out. What did I accomplish this first day on the job? An established direction, and some progress on the first issue of Madigan Pamphlets.

7:37p. Sipping the remainder of the Pinot, with a very tempered prelation. Had too, was feeling jittery. Glad to be writing again. Maybe that was the prob, I hit 1k too early. Watching “Top Gun,” again. Pilots are interesting characters. An exiting path. The adjunct’s, not so. Literature, namely Joyce, London, and Plath, singing similar songs to me. I hear oppression, and then remedy through epiphany, being able to finally see truth of the Now. People always ramble about comparative literature, but provide loose and illogical, essentially incoherent, comparisons. Creative Writing and Lit, me. Repeating Self, I know. It’s beautiful. Reiteration, not redundancy. A beautiful bane, Lit and Writing, and Wine.
The 7:30a section, killing me. What’s a good excuse for a sick call, and original one? How about “My car was stolen and sold to Somali pirates!”? Can’t call in. Need to go, get students ready for the approaching departmental exam. That “exam” is the most ridiculous item i the 90 course outline, in any course outline I’ve ever seen. Getting tired. May clock out, for real this time. 12 hours from now, I’ll be in front of the indifferent eyes. Was on Stanford’s website a little while ago. See the Self there. I will be there...

1 comment:

  1. Every time I sign onto here I become more envious of you. I don't know how you find the time to write. I can barely scrape together enough energy to life a pen in the few moments I have to rest between shooting out papers while the ink of the previous one is still drying.
    Don't working your poetry, I'm sure your "gemini" is not conspiring with the universe to suck the rhythms straight out of you, because you clearly are never on a shortage of words. Poetry is more than just the confinements of "the poem" - your prose fits the spirit of poetry regardless of it missing organization by meter or character of rhyme - not to get all Wordswothian on you, haha!
    And, just in case you need something outside your acts of self-confirmation, you will be there, and I'm sure, very soon.