Tuesday, December 27, 2011

6, pt. 2

50 minutes left in my Late Literary Lunch.  Now, in the mode I usually am, racing against time.  Typing against it.  No one in the coffee house.  Didn’t even notice their departure.  Easily over 1000 words for the day.  Have the post ready for WineBlogBiz.  Just going to call it “1Stop,” whenever I mention it in this blog’s few remaining days.  Not counting today, only 5 more entries.  How did time pass me in such haste?  Why is it so cruel, I have to ask.  Spoken word, tonight.  Only pen, paper.  Ink.  Capote even said, “That’s not writing, that’s typing.” There’s even a scene in “Capote” where Jack Dunphy is scribbling, furiously.  Almost angry in his focus, obsessed.  When a phone rings, he throws the door shut.  I need to write more in that Comp book.  Everyday.  
Mike looked outside, saw the parking lights on.  This was a first for him, night coffeehouse typing, writing.  He wasn’t sure is was exactly what readers would label significant, but it was new.  It was significant to Mike.  Probably only two sips left in his cup.  A Late Literary Lunch, ending.  Or was it?  Only 5:21p.  His condo, about a five minute drive.  Well, no.  It would be five minutes if he calculated walking to his little XA, starting it, maneuvering out of the chaotic Safeway lot, driving the two blocks.  But if he were stopped at that light it would definite weigh-in at 5 mins, maybe more.
Another reason why he needed more page contact, ACTUAL writing: distance from tech.  The wifi here, like a slow creeping side cramp.  Awful.  But then he asked himself, “Why do I need internet connection?  Or, much less, one speedy?  I’m supposed to be writing.” These distractions, self-fulfilled interruptions, he saw as manuscript death, deaths.  So they stopped.  Right then.  He scribbled on a piece of paper, found in his bag.
= Literary Theory; etymological ties ...
= Active reading; Deconstruction ...
-Text significance, Response significance.
Mike found himself, again, in professor mode.  It was no mode, he realized.  It’s who he was.  But how did that fit into his new Wine business push?  Did it have to “fit?” His thoughts, blending with each other.  Beautiful, he thought.  Especially with the current song.  Relaxed, ready for the next morning’s enviable commute.  Last sip.  Packing up.  
The man in the booth behind him left, quickly.  Mike couldn’t help but wonder if he was reading over his should, glancing at his exposed screen.  With a page on the table, he wouldn’t have such preoccupations.  
12/26/2011, Monday

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