sat.1-16-2010: Running out of ideas for ways the date can look. Lazy day. Needed. Especially when you consider it’s back to teaching next week. Must say, I am a little eager to be back in that room. Have some ideas this time w/English 90. Going to season my lectures in a very engaging and unique, creative way. Still need to get some stuff off my old computer. No need to stress, I’m telling my Self. Slow, steady. Can’t rush with this leviathan that is technology.
Just transferred one of the bigger documents, one of most crucial. Didn’t write at all yesterday, which was good. I needed the day off. Tonight, finishing a poem I started today. Planning on circulating it to mags, contests even.
Lots of rain expected for the coming week, and even beyond. Sent out short story #3, “Rush to Resolution,” today. Have about ten submissions out in the literary world. No rejections yet. See how long that lasts. Back in the Room for the morrow. Most of my short story collection will be centered around the Room, and the other room, the classroom. Not sure what to expect this semester. English 90. It can be rewarding, right? Of course. Need to change my attitude. Roger was right, that is my biggest problem. I can hear cars outside, the wheels whisking through soaked streets, the drops in the gutter, or drain, on the other side of this wall in front of me.
Was thinking again of my restaurant, or wine bar. I would offer a champagne menu, or pairing options. Was reading today about a world-famous chef. He was interviewed, and the way he spoke of cuisine, and menu composition, wine, apps. All fascinating. The passion was humbling. Writing for a wine magazine, a wine & food publication of any kind, hmmmm....
11:21pm. Have a bit of a goal for the Self. Taste a different wine everyday, and write a detailed review. Has to produce a ripple or two, three. We’ll see, dearest reader. I will review a different bottle, from a different winery each day. Have to be as inclusive and comprehensive as I’m able. Already have a couple candidates in my scope. Napa, Sonoma, Monterey, Paso Robles, Santa Barbara, Lodi. I will spread where ever the budget me releases.
11:29pm. If 31 is what I will be, then what can I do? I’ll simply continue carelessly, and artistically as me, Mikey. Mike. I’m Mike. You know, the Mikey thing never was agreeably till Alice entered my days. Now, don’t mind so much. Students, though, not welcomed to call me by such. What should be my first bottle for this organized and systematic review? How about that 2001 Barbaresco that my buddy Mike bought me some time ago? Sounds lovely. That is what is scheduled for the Monday that this way sails.
Just checked my voicemail. A message from a student, disappointed that he has not received his paper in the mail with my comments. He also stated that he’s been in contact with other students from class, concerned that I haven’t responded to their emails. This student is from SCC. I don’t teach there anymore. Hence, I don’t check that email any longer. The student who actually had the gall to call, received an A. Why is there a problem that he hasn’t received his paper? I said that last semester was my last. This one approaching, Spring 2010, truly my final.
Sunday Jan. 17th, ’10 - Today in the Room, insane, to be modest, not entirely honest. So busy I only took two Room notes. One young lady was scouting locations for her wedding. Tired, almost too much exhaustion about me to write.
The wine I’m reviewing tonight, 2005 Malbec, from St. Francis, McCoy Vineyard. Overall, I’m rating it a B. The nose and front of the palate are something of note, but the mouthfeel and mid-palate, and back-palate/finish seem lackluster in presence. Is it drinkable? Yes, quite. But it is not of excellent or remarkable quality. I would expand in this review, I’m just too tired to do so. My goal, to review three different wines a week. They can be of the same varietal, AVA, vintage, anything else, just not from the same winery. That is my beginning requisite.
Last night I had a Sonoma County Zin from Sebastiani. 2006, I think. It was great. Not going to assign it a grade, but it remains in my thoughts. Might take a trip out to Seb on Tuesday, assuming my syllabi are done. Want to prepare a few lectures, additionally. Hoping this term is more agreeable than last. I’m giving teaching one last mission. That final mission, is Spring 2010.
Today, the first of 5 storms hit, is still hitting. I’m excited about this impending precipitation. Rain is music, therapy. Each day of rainfall is its own lecture. You know, I used to view rain as a bother. I’ve grown out of narrow mindedness. Thinking I should jump back to that Sebastiani Zinfandel. Tired of this malady Malbec.
Okay, sipping the Seb. Tasted better last night. Might dump this. Listening to some trip-hop I downloaded before winter break. I effortlessly imagine this playing at my wine bar. Lights low, red, purple. The goal of my spot, relaxation. Responsible retreat. Not sure I would serve hard alcohol. Yes, I have a certain prejudice with liquor. Wine, beer, no objection. When you serve liquid of 40% or more, even slightly less, you could have a different stage, perhaps an unpleasant one. Wine and beer, some port, that’s it. Just thought of an interesting name, “whoso.” I take this from Emerson’s line “Whoso be a man must be a nonconformist,” from his landmark essay “Self-Reliance.” Think I’m clocking out. Nothing in this author left. Peace and thought. -Mike
Monday January 18, 2010. Only fifteen minutes to write. I’m off to the Room. Outside, another round of tempest pounds Yulupa Avenue, Santa Rosa, much of the Bay. Hopefully, it won’t be too busy. Tonight, I must finish my syllabi. Planning on having a test run tomorrow, in terms of when I wake up. Mondays and Wednesdays I have a section that starts at 7:30a. The rain is really coming down now. I’m actually a little spooked. So loud, forcefully, vengeful. Ugh, if only I could just stay inside and write all day. Anyway, yes. Tomorrow I will act as though it is a M or W, waking at 5:40a. I will drive out to NVC, to make copies of my required documents. Also, need to write lectures for the first day, week. You should hear this rain. Mother Nature is pissed, about something. I can feel my adrenaline tumble in all my channels. Nine minutes till departure.
California is a funny state. It’s like a gameboard. Depending on where you land, you have a certain existence, certain encounters, periods of development. I don’t know if I see my Self ever living in another state. I would like to one day have either an apartment or condo in Manhattan (I know, dream on Mikey...) I don’t think I’ve seen anything, in terms of the world. Yes, I went to Paris last year, but that’s not what I mean. What I’m addressing is just venturing, pen and pad, and a bag of curiosity. No plans.
Five minutes. The mocha is wearing off. Only have to put in five hours. I think the first lecture will address intention, what the student wants, a certain promotion of sovereignty. I still will maintain my defiant nature in the classroom, at whichever institution I instruct. Giving this ONE MORE TRY. Also want to preview, in lecture 1, Vonnegut’s “How to Write with Style,” showing students there is only one YOU. And that ‘YOU’ must develop its own style, voice. Write from your heart. Cheesy as it sounds, that’s the best way to establish your Self. Time for departure.
8:34p. Been home for a couple hours. Will upload my second wine review tomorrow. Drinking the review bottle right now. Can’t divulge any more than that. Today in the Room, took more notes that I ever have, I think. All I can share right now, I work with an incomparable crew of colleagues. If I had a set of co-workers even slightly resembling past workplaces of mine, I wouldn’t even give fucking notice, I would walk out. I wonder how many work at wineries with a deplorable cast.
Need to finish everything tomorrow. Syllabi, manuscript objectives, organization of the workplace here in my domicile. What if this semester is triumphant, restores my confidence in education, today’s matriculants? What if reveals the joys of the other room, the classroom of the community college. What if that room coaxes me to award it a capital, becoming a Room, no longer a room? The second Room?
Really realizing the reality that resonates in the Room. There is a book, maybe more, in there. Perhaps I shouldn’t shoot for a short story collection now. Quite plausible that now is the most advantageous artery to the novel. Don’t want, or I should say wouldn’t want, it to be obnoxiously long. To start, Mike Madigan isn’t enough interesting a character to write some Harry Potter-stretched opus. I estimate me to be deserving of about 140-150 pages, max.
Reading over this “blog.” Noticing typo over typo. Angry with Self. But why? I’m Human.
Thought I erased a huge portion of this log, but I didn’t save, thankfully. Fucking devilish technology. Anyway, the typos. This is a log, a journal, something I’m choosing to share. Critics that want to critique, speak your cynicism in the street, devil. Need to diffuse my disdain. I sprint to subsist as a poised person of the pen. So calm down, Mikey.
Not sure how much more I can type. Won’t fabricate, I’m completely depleted. Going to fetch another pour.
The last of spills for this p.m. before me. Someone else told me that I should consider writing a vampire novel. Are you fucking joking me? I should write this, that. I should market my writing this way, that. Everyone, shut your fucking bill. My extremism with this Craft can never be commanded. This latest glass, complimenting my vigor, I think. But what do I know? What if I have the same despicable entitlement as my students? Put a stake in my ticker, please, if that is so. Be 2010 the year of my venom, the ANTILEGAL’s annexation.
The TV on. I should turn it off. All the pop culture programing, poison. Keep typing, with a turmoil of tenacity. Antithesis of idol, me. My entries, hopefully, like a flirtatious viticultural concoction. Struggling to 1k. You know what, I shouldn’t have to hold my Self to a word amount. Quality over...nevermind. I’m beginning to see wine as more of a aesthetic contortion than a beverage. What does that mean? Fuck if I know. Forgive me for being too Human. Are the pours catching up with me? Maybe. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not to be acknowledged, read. I dare critics to accost me.
Just turned to A&E. Watching some ghost hunter show. Wow, this is comical. Usually this subject matter frightens me. But this, this program, humorous in a way that I have never known. This episode deals with a poltergeist. Is that what you call it? Anyway, someone reports seeing weird spectacles , shadows. Inflammatory descriptions, odd music and effects. Give me a break. I’m still watching, internally debunking such shows. Now they’re ripping up a wall, searching for what?
This topic tires me. Might go tasting tomorrow, after finalizing my syllabi, of course. I’m not trying to be a Robert Parker, anything like him. He’s a pretentious boner. I just want to link wine and writing in a manner that is both educating as well as enriching (yes, the two are not always synonymous).
Where’s the rest of this menacing torment that the forecast prognosticated? Hear nothing outside. Bored. Over 1k, in this doc, I’m certain. I should stop, but I don’t want to. Want to eviscerate certain wine club members in this entry, but I won’t. Watching the news sensationalizing the weather patterns now hitting CA. These news channels, so transparent with their intentions. Me, obvious as well, no better. Do I have intentions? Ummm....
The news, using the word “storm” in a callous and cavalier manner. Storms 1 through 5. Give me a break. These aren’t storms, they’re cells, at best. The jet stream is 250 mph. Please. That’s right, get your ratings, shameless goons.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
typos
Friday December 25, 2009. Christmas here, but then tomorrow away. Time, so harsh on us, especially us writers. The moments past us soar faster than we can scribe. I have decided to devote my Self entirely to the short story. The novel will later come, and it will. Just put together a rough, rough, rough draft of short. Not sure how good it is, presently, but that’s why I say it is rough(x3). Sunriver, so still, so full of peace here. Much more agreeable in terms of pace than my home of Santa Rosa.
Still find my Self having an entrepreneurial itch for hospitality, for restaurateurism, for the pairing of wine and cuisine. Where this will take me, not sure. Well, I have an idea, a hope actually. I want more shorts connected to the industry, so I’m not always writing about writing. Get so bored of composing on the life of composition. My wonderful parents purchased Alice and I a gift certificate for an outstanding Sonoma County dining experience, a restaurant by the name of “Farmhouse.” They were quite generous with the amount, but more so with how the gift was packaged. They included a menu, which reminds me and reiterates the immeasurable genius behind a strong chef. This menu includes dishes that I have never in my days tried, but am now entirely indecisive as to which I would select if seated there now.
A restaurant, like a baby, one’s offspring. Starts off one way, a year down the road hopefully stronger, established. I need a chef character. Derrick. His restaurant, the Quail. Yes, he serves a special Quail recipe, but is also recognized for his expertise with certain light pastas and his extensive wine selection and background. See where this goes.
I looked up, last night, a recipe for stuffed mushrooms. I will start with this arrangement, and then experiment to make it my own. I must attempt cooking a little in order to provide readers a believable culinary character.
Saturday December 26, 2009. Over 1k for the day. Working on my sixth short story, that’s where all of this day’s thousand went. Now, I connect with this lazy log. A new routine? I can only hope. I wrote one of my favorite writers yesterday. My aim to get some advice, some magic words that would put me on a fucking path, already. Well, I did. I titled my email to this nameless noble “In need of Impetus…Idea drought!” Essentially I asked C, that’s what I’ll call the author, how I can stay on one project, and not always be distracted. C responded by saying: “Being all over the place is a great way to never finish anything!” What brutal, and much needed, candor. I am rejuvenated. Thank you, C. After receiving the email, I finished short #5. Short stories are my practice, my Craft now. Again, a novel will come, but not now. Probably not soon. Selling the little tales will propel me, I hope, through and out of the staleness of reality.
Not looking forward to leaving this beautiful Sunriver stage. Wait, I have six more full days here (six?), why am I writing about leaving. Went for a jog this morning, with a crisp, unfamiliar 19 degree atmosphere. The altitude took a terrible toll on my lungs, and legs. Just glad I made my Self exercise.
Still thinking about restaurants, the world thereof, wine, dinning, fine dinning that is, and hospitality. Why, I don’t know. Am I being immature? Am I fantasizing? Teaching has disappointed me in ways that I never envisioned, when I was working on my little M.A. at CSUEB. Restaurants, wine, the menus, the patrons. Fascinating. There has to be a better word than that. Wait…beguiling. Getting a little loony, as I’ve been writing most of the day. Time for rest, reading. (4:19pm)
Wednesday December 30, 2009. Two days left in this 2009 chapter. Yesterday, snow fell, as if some belated gift, as if some benevolent giver wanted to over-give. Out the window, all I see is white, gentle, but still forceful with temperature and texture. Last night, I wouldn’t let myself rest until I reached achieved a 1000 word installment in short #6. Thinking of the snow shoeing mission the other day, in the territory of Mt. Bachelor. That’s what I mean by getting “out there,” doing something different, out of character.
For 2010, my short stories, and perhaps a few essays. This, even more solidified following the program I saw on PBS on Louisa May Alcott. Her tireless execution, project after project, making time only for sleep and runs in the woods. Distracted by the outside blusters pushing snow from branches. Going to miss Sunriver, when I depart in three days. But, dearest reader, I am ready to return to SoCo, ready to enact this new practice, become known as the most dedicated and successful penman of the short story. Audacious, I know. But, my true aim has hereby been disclosed.
Should I go for a walk? The sun is pushing the clouds aside, like a water buffalo (or whatever) annoyed by attacking predators.
5:29pm. Back from another session of snow shoeing, down by the lodge. Had a glass of Ranch Zabacco afterwards. Love the bar at the lodge, “Owl’s Nest.” Stopped at just beyond 2500 words in short #6. The reason I halted there is because I don’t want to force the story, rush it. Which I think is somewhat pragmatic. I’m not sure what to make of Sunriver. Of course, it’s lovely, paradisiacal I would offer. But, is it somewhat blinding, or distracting. I may be looking too much into this thought. Vacation is wonderful, it is altogether necessary.
Feel my prose pulsating in my very matter. Whatever that means. Tired from the walking, and the snow shoveling this a.m. Break.
Tuesday January 12, 2010. Finally, typing again. Curse this abominable technology, what it does to us. Just had this little monstrous laptop returned to my possession last night. Had an acquaintance of mine, Patrick, work on it since Thursday, to remove the most venomous of viruses. Today, I will be purchasing an Apple computer. Done with Windows.
Raining outside, been up since 5a. Hate it when I wake up so early, but not on days off. It’s lovely. This entire day belongs to me. Feels odd typing again. Get over it, Mike. Anyway, the semester begins next Wednesday. Am I excited? What do you think. Today, what else should I do with the next twelve or so hours?
Wine, on the brain. It wouldn’t be so bad to take a drive up to Dry Creek. Never done it before, at least not on my own. Also, need to finish short 6. Not much of a day off. Fingers of fog slithering through the trees, over the green hills outside. Boring, boring, boring, what I’m writing presently. Not going to delete it. Give me a minute…
Noticing some lingering oddities with this fucking laptop. So glad I have that significant stash of specie. Currently, I have $1500. I remember calling it my fun fund. Well, this new computer will be fun, but it will also be productive. It is more than necessary. So glad I’ve held onto those envelopes. All of them, bursting with the currency that will relieve this stress of mine.
9:37p. On the new laptop. Lovely, animated, a certain technological bliss, relief. Strange. Different, still getting used to the new world in which I type. My fingers are weary with these keys. Enough. To business. Tomorrow, I plan to relax and write. A reader actually accosted me recently, concerning an entry in this “blog,” and asked me why I can’t relax. She said “Just because it [writing] is your passion doesn’t make it everything.” Typical fucking remark of a non-artist. Readers, I thank you for your feedback, but don’t expect me to ever sit silent if I don’t concur with your remarks. Proud of my venom, and I will make that known.
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a complete day, meaning from rise to slumber, to my Self, for the Craft. Tomorrow will be the first. Wait, have I ever? If I had my own winery, what would I name it? Chateau Mike? Madigan Winery & Vineyard? Why the fuck am I thinking about that? How do I do a Word Count on a Mac? Just heard thunder outside. Wow, California’s actually delivering some formidable weather.
Racer 5, on a “stormy” eve. FOR SOME REASON...sorry about the caps...I’m thinking about a script, for a play. Three characters, one scene, thirty minutes, all dialogue. Seriously, the Room is a play, everyday, each shift. Speaking of shifts, I need to snatch some. Money, material for these pages. Can’t get over the reality that I’m on a new little monster. How the fuck do I do a word count?
Found it. This computer is turning me into a groupie. Change the subject, quick. To anything. What can I talk about? Fishing. Have you ever noticed how passionate they are? I’m envious of their fervor. I’ll be 31 this year, but I feel ageless, tireless, venomous. Old supervisors, wonder what they are thinking right now, when the last time I passed through their thoughts. That’s vein. Topic next: politics, and those who think they know everything about issues political. My offering to such characters, FUCK YOU! Artistic, articulate, huh? I’m not trying to be. I’m human, whereas you are simply a puppet, reciting statistics you read on dikipedia. Not impressed.
Loving this rain. Haven’t heard another roar of thunder. Disappointed. Gave CA a credit of formidable climate. Regretting it now. Ooo, a storm tracker. What a dizzying and provocative trail that would be. How can I get into such?
Wednesday 1/13/10. Thought I’d write the date a little different today. Mocha1 to my right, on an end table a good distance from this gorgeous new little laptop. Going to a couple wineries today. Imagery, Mayo, and VJB. Not sure about VJB, but I’ll see. Had a great dinner last night with Mom and Dad. How does she cook so well, so amazing actually, every time? Mystery. Need to get back on the ball with my shorts, stop playing in this silly log. Need to get this laptop upstairs. Been down here since yesterday. My hard drive, keyboard, papers. Need to consolidate. That’s really what this new New Year is about, simplicity, consolidation, victory of sorts.
The other day, a lady came into the Room with teeth as purple as Barney’s balls. And she kept asking for more and more pours. She requested that I pour the same wine twice, so she could be sure she wanted to buy it. She didn’t.
Enjoying myself, just sitting here on the couch. Ah, the lazy livelihood of the literary. I was stressing yesterday while re-reading this log, finding typos. Not today, not anymore. Typos are human. Writers are human. I am a writer, I am a human. So critics, keep your beak buttoned, devil!
Thursday 1.14.10. A thousands words, done. An independent piece, actually. One that will stand on its own. Watching “Basic Instinct” on HBO. Not a bad movie, at all. The writing element of the film. Forgot about it. Tonight’s pleasure, 2007 Old Vine Zin, St. Francis. Went out with my buddy James last night, told him I had been thinking about making my own wine. And, truthfully, I have. A Bordeaux blend of some kind. Could I do what my sister does?
I think that the rain is something magical. I hate that word. How about wondrous? It is. Sound, sight, smell, sensations delivered with its delivery.
At the point of the film where Douglas’ character, Nick, says to Sharon Stone’s, Catherine, something to the effect of ‘guess you don’t know your character that well’. I have to admire how passionate Nick is about his work as a police officer, and how Catherine is with hers as a woman of the pen. Should take a walk tomorrow, somewhere different. See, Nick has been put on leave, but is still observing Catherine’s movements, mannerisms, statements. These characters are so irresistible, with everything they say, do. This film is altogether enveloping. These characters are believable, rich, almost tantalizing. Me, as an author, I see things different. I’m sure most watch this film for its erotic scenes. Me, I’m at work right now. Michael D. just walked into a club, where Stone’s character is doing coke in a restroom with her lover and some guy. The music playing now is of a high BPM, and ambient textures and notes, sounds. Thinking I need to create a killer, as a writer. One who has a unique diabolical essence.
I get it, they’re using each other. Brilliant. Nick is making love to her, but is still on the case, I can tell. And she’s doing certain things to see how he’d react. Oh characters, characters. With this Craft, I feel like I’m my own bartender. I’ve already reached 1k for the day. Need to cut my Self off. My Self is my patron. No more, Self. You’re done for tonight. Wine is like a glass that is unbreakable. An entity undefinable. What do I do, or rather, what should I do when in contact with it? Some characters can’t control themselves. I can. Now, tackling the OVZ, 15.5, no match for my artist’s conduct, practice and discipline. I feel sorry for alcoholics, other addicts. If only they could before find some form of crafty and creative expression...
Need to look over the notes I have in my flip-pad 2morrow. My notes on the Room are what will catapult me to the other side, I’m convinced. Research, that’s what I need to do, want to do, am forced to do. This character that Douglas is playing, pushing me to a certain obsessiveness, with ideas for my pieces. Need to cut my Self off. Whenever I go too far over 1k, I become cranky, depressed the next day. Stop writing Mikey! Need to go tasting myself. New wineries, maybe in Dry Creek. Was going to go there the other day, as you may know, but got distracted by some mundane obligation, responsibility.
Ending this session. If I inscribe beyond this line, it will be with concise comments. For example:
-Went to the Gnarly Thorn last night with James. Karaoke night. Interesting crowd, to be brief within illustration.
-Cops, these homicide detectives, more passionate and dedicated than anything, anyone I can put on this page. Even off duty they’re in their case, cases, chasing suspects. A novel, for Mike?
-A female character, one with whom a reader, and I, fall in love. Female characters are far more engaging and entertaining than men. For whatever reason. Well actually, there are many.
-If I could go back to Paris tomorrow, I would. Le Petite Journal, by the hotel, splendid escargot. First time I ever had snails, was at that little restaurant. Mom, Dad, Alice, me.
-Why am I still writing? I know I’m going to be heavy in the morning, probably the entire day. Stop, Mikey.
-OVZ and me. Lovely amalgamation. Reviving. This domicile of mine, optimal for the union. Serene, safe, a secure sanctuary.
Today is truly one of my most productive days of creativity ever. It must be. Before me, my little compact computer, and a candle. Life of an authoritative author, authority over Self. You know what, I think I’m finally going to clock out for the night. Could never be under the rule of another. Must be my own chief.
Why do I keep checking the word count? Love this new little monster. Not missing the old. Not at all. But, still realizing how dependent I am on technology. We all are. Depressing, frightening. Am I a hero or villain? That’s interesting. Maybe something inside of me is the character I am pondering. I find it difficult to write about a monster because I find monstrous behavior so abhorrent. What do I do?
Was just thinking about the time I got lost on the bike paths of Sunriver. Think I was about 13. 14? I did get emotional, but I calmed my Self. Found my way to calm. Sunriver. Missing it. The snow. Now I’m saddening. I’m a wreck, missing Sunriver and Paris. Not missing the Gnarly Thorn. Why did I go there last night? In my fiction, I call it the Cobby Thorn.
Loving this computer. It’s so friendly, and, like my student Jackie said the other day when I met her at the Petaluma campus, to pick up my cookies that I bought her for a charity, for the cheerleading squad she coaches, pretty. I told her, “It is pretty!” When I said that, though, it was hours before my actual purchase. But I knew it was going to be lovely. I’m in love. With my laptop. Pathetic, right?
Encroaching 1k here in the log. “Stunner, yes often, like Hunter S. Thompson.” A rhyme I thought of earlier, when I was at NVC, in my shared office printing rosters. Poetry, in my shell’s fibers and channels.
11:31p. In my zone own. But, I’m exiting. Thinking of Ms. Plath’s entries. Should read through some tomorrow. Going to remember 1/14/10. So persistent, so plentiful. Plentiful, no. I could have written much more. Starting to become annoyed with me word choice. Here it is, the depression, the self-loathing. Need to speedily leave. Bona sera. Hopefully there aren’t too many typos.
Still find my Self having an entrepreneurial itch for hospitality, for restaurateurism, for the pairing of wine and cuisine. Where this will take me, not sure. Well, I have an idea, a hope actually. I want more shorts connected to the industry, so I’m not always writing about writing. Get so bored of composing on the life of composition. My wonderful parents purchased Alice and I a gift certificate for an outstanding Sonoma County dining experience, a restaurant by the name of “Farmhouse.” They were quite generous with the amount, but more so with how the gift was packaged. They included a menu, which reminds me and reiterates the immeasurable genius behind a strong chef. This menu includes dishes that I have never in my days tried, but am now entirely indecisive as to which I would select if seated there now.
A restaurant, like a baby, one’s offspring. Starts off one way, a year down the road hopefully stronger, established. I need a chef character. Derrick. His restaurant, the Quail. Yes, he serves a special Quail recipe, but is also recognized for his expertise with certain light pastas and his extensive wine selection and background. See where this goes.
I looked up, last night, a recipe for stuffed mushrooms. I will start with this arrangement, and then experiment to make it my own. I must attempt cooking a little in order to provide readers a believable culinary character.
Saturday December 26, 2009. Over 1k for the day. Working on my sixth short story, that’s where all of this day’s thousand went. Now, I connect with this lazy log. A new routine? I can only hope. I wrote one of my favorite writers yesterday. My aim to get some advice, some magic words that would put me on a fucking path, already. Well, I did. I titled my email to this nameless noble “In need of Impetus…Idea drought!” Essentially I asked C, that’s what I’ll call the author, how I can stay on one project, and not always be distracted. C responded by saying: “Being all over the place is a great way to never finish anything!” What brutal, and much needed, candor. I am rejuvenated. Thank you, C. After receiving the email, I finished short #5. Short stories are my practice, my Craft now. Again, a novel will come, but not now. Probably not soon. Selling the little tales will propel me, I hope, through and out of the staleness of reality.
Not looking forward to leaving this beautiful Sunriver stage. Wait, I have six more full days here (six?), why am I writing about leaving. Went for a jog this morning, with a crisp, unfamiliar 19 degree atmosphere. The altitude took a terrible toll on my lungs, and legs. Just glad I made my Self exercise.
Still thinking about restaurants, the world thereof, wine, dinning, fine dinning that is, and hospitality. Why, I don’t know. Am I being immature? Am I fantasizing? Teaching has disappointed me in ways that I never envisioned, when I was working on my little M.A. at CSUEB. Restaurants, wine, the menus, the patrons. Fascinating. There has to be a better word than that. Wait…beguiling. Getting a little loony, as I’ve been writing most of the day. Time for rest, reading. (4:19pm)
Wednesday December 30, 2009. Two days left in this 2009 chapter. Yesterday, snow fell, as if some belated gift, as if some benevolent giver wanted to over-give. Out the window, all I see is white, gentle, but still forceful with temperature and texture. Last night, I wouldn’t let myself rest until I reached achieved a 1000 word installment in short #6. Thinking of the snow shoeing mission the other day, in the territory of Mt. Bachelor. That’s what I mean by getting “out there,” doing something different, out of character.
For 2010, my short stories, and perhaps a few essays. This, even more solidified following the program I saw on PBS on Louisa May Alcott. Her tireless execution, project after project, making time only for sleep and runs in the woods. Distracted by the outside blusters pushing snow from branches. Going to miss Sunriver, when I depart in three days. But, dearest reader, I am ready to return to SoCo, ready to enact this new practice, become known as the most dedicated and successful penman of the short story. Audacious, I know. But, my true aim has hereby been disclosed.
Should I go for a walk? The sun is pushing the clouds aside, like a water buffalo (or whatever) annoyed by attacking predators.
5:29pm. Back from another session of snow shoeing, down by the lodge. Had a glass of Ranch Zabacco afterwards. Love the bar at the lodge, “Owl’s Nest.” Stopped at just beyond 2500 words in short #6. The reason I halted there is because I don’t want to force the story, rush it. Which I think is somewhat pragmatic. I’m not sure what to make of Sunriver. Of course, it’s lovely, paradisiacal I would offer. But, is it somewhat blinding, or distracting. I may be looking too much into this thought. Vacation is wonderful, it is altogether necessary.
Feel my prose pulsating in my very matter. Whatever that means. Tired from the walking, and the snow shoveling this a.m. Break.
Tuesday January 12, 2010. Finally, typing again. Curse this abominable technology, what it does to us. Just had this little monstrous laptop returned to my possession last night. Had an acquaintance of mine, Patrick, work on it since Thursday, to remove the most venomous of viruses. Today, I will be purchasing an Apple computer. Done with Windows.
Raining outside, been up since 5a. Hate it when I wake up so early, but not on days off. It’s lovely. This entire day belongs to me. Feels odd typing again. Get over it, Mike. Anyway, the semester begins next Wednesday. Am I excited? What do you think. Today, what else should I do with the next twelve or so hours?
Wine, on the brain. It wouldn’t be so bad to take a drive up to Dry Creek. Never done it before, at least not on my own. Also, need to finish short 6. Not much of a day off. Fingers of fog slithering through the trees, over the green hills outside. Boring, boring, boring, what I’m writing presently. Not going to delete it. Give me a minute…
Noticing some lingering oddities with this fucking laptop. So glad I have that significant stash of specie. Currently, I have $1500. I remember calling it my fun fund. Well, this new computer will be fun, but it will also be productive. It is more than necessary. So glad I’ve held onto those envelopes. All of them, bursting with the currency that will relieve this stress of mine.
9:37p. On the new laptop. Lovely, animated, a certain technological bliss, relief. Strange. Different, still getting used to the new world in which I type. My fingers are weary with these keys. Enough. To business. Tomorrow, I plan to relax and write. A reader actually accosted me recently, concerning an entry in this “blog,” and asked me why I can’t relax. She said “Just because it [writing] is your passion doesn’t make it everything.” Typical fucking remark of a non-artist. Readers, I thank you for your feedback, but don’t expect me to ever sit silent if I don’t concur with your remarks. Proud of my venom, and I will make that known.
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a complete day, meaning from rise to slumber, to my Self, for the Craft. Tomorrow will be the first. Wait, have I ever? If I had my own winery, what would I name it? Chateau Mike? Madigan Winery & Vineyard? Why the fuck am I thinking about that? How do I do a Word Count on a Mac? Just heard thunder outside. Wow, California’s actually delivering some formidable weather.
Racer 5, on a “stormy” eve. FOR SOME REASON...sorry about the caps...I’m thinking about a script, for a play. Three characters, one scene, thirty minutes, all dialogue. Seriously, the Room is a play, everyday, each shift. Speaking of shifts, I need to snatch some. Money, material for these pages. Can’t get over the reality that I’m on a new little monster. How the fuck do I do a word count?
Found it. This computer is turning me into a groupie. Change the subject, quick. To anything. What can I talk about? Fishing. Have you ever noticed how passionate they are? I’m envious of their fervor. I’ll be 31 this year, but I feel ageless, tireless, venomous. Old supervisors, wonder what they are thinking right now, when the last time I passed through their thoughts. That’s vein. Topic next: politics, and those who think they know everything about issues political. My offering to such characters, FUCK YOU! Artistic, articulate, huh? I’m not trying to be. I’m human, whereas you are simply a puppet, reciting statistics you read on dikipedia. Not impressed.
Loving this rain. Haven’t heard another roar of thunder. Disappointed. Gave CA a credit of formidable climate. Regretting it now. Ooo, a storm tracker. What a dizzying and provocative trail that would be. How can I get into such?
Wednesday 1/13/10. Thought I’d write the date a little different today. Mocha1 to my right, on an end table a good distance from this gorgeous new little laptop. Going to a couple wineries today. Imagery, Mayo, and VJB. Not sure about VJB, but I’ll see. Had a great dinner last night with Mom and Dad. How does she cook so well, so amazing actually, every time? Mystery. Need to get back on the ball with my shorts, stop playing in this silly log. Need to get this laptop upstairs. Been down here since yesterday. My hard drive, keyboard, papers. Need to consolidate. That’s really what this new New Year is about, simplicity, consolidation, victory of sorts.
The other day, a lady came into the Room with teeth as purple as Barney’s balls. And she kept asking for more and more pours. She requested that I pour the same wine twice, so she could be sure she wanted to buy it. She didn’t.
Enjoying myself, just sitting here on the couch. Ah, the lazy livelihood of the literary. I was stressing yesterday while re-reading this log, finding typos. Not today, not anymore. Typos are human. Writers are human. I am a writer, I am a human. So critics, keep your beak buttoned, devil!
Thursday 1.14.10. A thousands words, done. An independent piece, actually. One that will stand on its own. Watching “Basic Instinct” on HBO. Not a bad movie, at all. The writing element of the film. Forgot about it. Tonight’s pleasure, 2007 Old Vine Zin, St. Francis. Went out with my buddy James last night, told him I had been thinking about making my own wine. And, truthfully, I have. A Bordeaux blend of some kind. Could I do what my sister does?
I think that the rain is something magical. I hate that word. How about wondrous? It is. Sound, sight, smell, sensations delivered with its delivery.
At the point of the film where Douglas’ character, Nick, says to Sharon Stone’s, Catherine, something to the effect of ‘guess you don’t know your character that well’. I have to admire how passionate Nick is about his work as a police officer, and how Catherine is with hers as a woman of the pen. Should take a walk tomorrow, somewhere different. See, Nick has been put on leave, but is still observing Catherine’s movements, mannerisms, statements. These characters are so irresistible, with everything they say, do. This film is altogether enveloping. These characters are believable, rich, almost tantalizing. Me, as an author, I see things different. I’m sure most watch this film for its erotic scenes. Me, I’m at work right now. Michael D. just walked into a club, where Stone’s character is doing coke in a restroom with her lover and some guy. The music playing now is of a high BPM, and ambient textures and notes, sounds. Thinking I need to create a killer, as a writer. One who has a unique diabolical essence.
I get it, they’re using each other. Brilliant. Nick is making love to her, but is still on the case, I can tell. And she’s doing certain things to see how he’d react. Oh characters, characters. With this Craft, I feel like I’m my own bartender. I’ve already reached 1k for the day. Need to cut my Self off. My Self is my patron. No more, Self. You’re done for tonight. Wine is like a glass that is unbreakable. An entity undefinable. What do I do, or rather, what should I do when in contact with it? Some characters can’t control themselves. I can. Now, tackling the OVZ, 15.5, no match for my artist’s conduct, practice and discipline. I feel sorry for alcoholics, other addicts. If only they could before find some form of crafty and creative expression...
Need to look over the notes I have in my flip-pad 2morrow. My notes on the Room are what will catapult me to the other side, I’m convinced. Research, that’s what I need to do, want to do, am forced to do. This character that Douglas is playing, pushing me to a certain obsessiveness, with ideas for my pieces. Need to cut my Self off. Whenever I go too far over 1k, I become cranky, depressed the next day. Stop writing Mikey! Need to go tasting myself. New wineries, maybe in Dry Creek. Was going to go there the other day, as you may know, but got distracted by some mundane obligation, responsibility.
Ending this session. If I inscribe beyond this line, it will be with concise comments. For example:
-Went to the Gnarly Thorn last night with James. Karaoke night. Interesting crowd, to be brief within illustration.
-Cops, these homicide detectives, more passionate and dedicated than anything, anyone I can put on this page. Even off duty they’re in their case, cases, chasing suspects. A novel, for Mike?
-A female character, one with whom a reader, and I, fall in love. Female characters are far more engaging and entertaining than men. For whatever reason. Well actually, there are many.
-If I could go back to Paris tomorrow, I would. Le Petite Journal, by the hotel, splendid escargot. First time I ever had snails, was at that little restaurant. Mom, Dad, Alice, me.
-Why am I still writing? I know I’m going to be heavy in the morning, probably the entire day. Stop, Mikey.
-OVZ and me. Lovely amalgamation. Reviving. This domicile of mine, optimal for the union. Serene, safe, a secure sanctuary.
Today is truly one of my most productive days of creativity ever. It must be. Before me, my little compact computer, and a candle. Life of an authoritative author, authority over Self. You know what, I think I’m finally going to clock out for the night. Could never be under the rule of another. Must be my own chief.
Why do I keep checking the word count? Love this new little monster. Not missing the old. Not at all. But, still realizing how dependent I am on technology. We all are. Depressing, frightening. Am I a hero or villain? That’s interesting. Maybe something inside of me is the character I am pondering. I find it difficult to write about a monster because I find monstrous behavior so abhorrent. What do I do?
Was just thinking about the time I got lost on the bike paths of Sunriver. Think I was about 13. 14? I did get emotional, but I calmed my Self. Found my way to calm. Sunriver. Missing it. The snow. Now I’m saddening. I’m a wreck, missing Sunriver and Paris. Not missing the Gnarly Thorn. Why did I go there last night? In my fiction, I call it the Cobby Thorn.
Loving this computer. It’s so friendly, and, like my student Jackie said the other day when I met her at the Petaluma campus, to pick up my cookies that I bought her for a charity, for the cheerleading squad she coaches, pretty. I told her, “It is pretty!” When I said that, though, it was hours before my actual purchase. But I knew it was going to be lovely. I’m in love. With my laptop. Pathetic, right?
Encroaching 1k here in the log. “Stunner, yes often, like Hunter S. Thompson.” A rhyme I thought of earlier, when I was at NVC, in my shared office printing rosters. Poetry, in my shell’s fibers and channels.
11:31p. In my zone own. But, I’m exiting. Thinking of Ms. Plath’s entries. Should read through some tomorrow. Going to remember 1/14/10. So persistent, so plentiful. Plentiful, no. I could have written much more. Starting to become annoyed with me word choice. Here it is, the depression, the self-loathing. Need to speedily leave. Bona sera. Hopefully there aren’t too many typos.
Friday, December 18, 2009
More Entries...
Saturday December 12, 2009. Regular instruction, past, passed. Today, I begin the direction for which I have so long longed. I hate malls around this time, but there are more characters than I can count and quantify. I’ll trap as many as I can. For what, why do I need to know that now?
My process today, entailing the student’s role. Let me explain. I want to teach Creative Writing, and Fiction(!) at the university level, some day. So, I’ve been cooking up some exercises, routines. Today, I use my Self as the testing suspect for one such set of creative calisthenics.
Prompt: capture three characters, then compose a descriptive and insightful paragraph, or more, on each. Please give each character a name. What do they do for a living? What’s their favorite food, movie? Do they have any phobias? Travel as far into your characters as the Craft allows.
12:22pm. Three characters. 1) Bald, twenty something guy, early twenties, looking at cheap, flashy jewelry. Shaved head, big tattoo on neck. That had to hurt, right? 2) Creepy guy, 40s, resting elbows on railing, looking down at shoppers on first floor, all the traffic. He’s wearing and old camouflage hat, and a checkered, red and black, long sleeve shirt over a hooded sweater. His sideburns extend to the middle of his cheek, then out towards his mouth, and widen gradually. 3) A guy working in a video game store, late 20s. Asked for his opinion on a game, to get some dialogue. Smart character. In front of me, he and his colleague, a younger male, compared and contrasted a few pairs of games. The character of focus dissected and analyzed each element of each game. He presented himself as a credible critic, with limitless expertise.
What will I do with these roles? Which one do I like the best? Still need to do the assignment, as I have it outlined. I hate seeing book stores take books that aren’t selling off the shelves. Saddest thing, to me. How I hope I’m never one of those books. The rain is falling like it never wants to leave. Just now am I having my first mocha, 3:55p. A deli, with a wine bar within. I could see myself running such, as owner of course. Still quite Zen with the reality that approaches with the coming year. Not going to miss Solano or SRJC. Some of the students will stay in my thoughts, and I’m determined to keep our interactions there. Others, I will be even more diligent in attempts to scrape them from memory. More time to write, sell my art, permitting there are actually people out there that would read my work. Still want to start that critically reading log that I mentioned a while ago.
The character with the sideburns, I am giving him the name Ted. Just watching him look down at the consumer traffic chilled me. His face was without any conspicuous expression. The others, not sure what to do with them. I know what you’re thinking. “Mike, you’re not doing your own homework.” You’re right. Looking through my P&W issue, looking for a lit mag. Found two. I must be published, beyond by myself. It’s just something I want. Or do I? Fuck, I’m a mess. I bet some of my students, present/past, are reading this and thinking “Wow he’s fucked up.” You’re right.
Just thought about Martin Eden, how I first taught it in Fall ’07, in the SRJC 1A section I had on MW, 11a-12:50p. That book, amazing. The character, more so. Hoping I rise like Mr. Eden. Back to the Room tomorrow. Always eager to see what I’ll encounter, what questions. I just hope I don’t have to deal with too many fucking wine club members, the kind that are royalty in their own eyes. Can’t stand those pigs.
10:42pm. Spilled 800+ words out into a doc on this little laptop today, for a short. Going to start submitting again, I’ve decided. I will self-publish, still, only in moderation. It will be my secondary focus. I want these piggish lit mags to recognize me. I’m waging a new war, against the pig mags. They will not be able to resist this prose. Short stories, in the practice of these concise heavens.
I’m thinking that I need to finish my homework, but I can’t right now. I’m too relaxed. I’m freewriting, writing freely. But why can’t I stop writing, just relax on this couch, watch the news. JUST RELAX? I need to write. Every second of all days that net my existence.
What would James Joyce do? I want to put my Self in a random, unexpected setting, see what I would write. Sipping some powerful Dry Creek Zin. Lovely. You know, once I was thinking about writing a novel about a stripper who was writing a novel about being a stripper. The story would be set in SF.
Monday December 14, 2009. Sent away two shorts to three lit mags. I’m back in the game. And, I finished a 1950-word short story. My approach has yet again been revamped. I want something to look forward to, even if it’s a rejection letter. A rejection letter is a response, an acknowledgement that I exist as a writer.
10:37pm. Just found a few typos in my blog. This infuriates me to a bad fucking place! My readers, meaning you, probably think I’m an imbecile. Please accept my apologies. Actually, I digress. I won’t ask for pardon. This is a log, a log written by a Human. Hence, there will be a couple, a few, many, errors. Just wanted to let you know that I noticed I was Human.
Passed 1000 tonight. Received my first official confirmation that this log is being read. I’m beyond pleased. I’m giddy, silly, obnoxious. I’ve been read! Do you know what this feels like? Thank you, Serah! Just thought about New York, and if this penmanship takes me there. WHEN it takes me there. Can’t even imagine how my being would respond to the stage. Manhattan. The streets, the sounds, the characters. Oh characters, characters. Literature is nothing, truly bland without them.
My process today, entailing the student’s role. Let me explain. I want to teach Creative Writing, and Fiction(!) at the university level, some day. So, I’ve been cooking up some exercises, routines. Today, I use my Self as the testing suspect for one such set of creative calisthenics.
Prompt: capture three characters, then compose a descriptive and insightful paragraph, or more, on each. Please give each character a name. What do they do for a living? What’s their favorite food, movie? Do they have any phobias? Travel as far into your characters as the Craft allows.
12:22pm. Three characters. 1) Bald, twenty something guy, early twenties, looking at cheap, flashy jewelry. Shaved head, big tattoo on neck. That had to hurt, right? 2) Creepy guy, 40s, resting elbows on railing, looking down at shoppers on first floor, all the traffic. He’s wearing and old camouflage hat, and a checkered, red and black, long sleeve shirt over a hooded sweater. His sideburns extend to the middle of his cheek, then out towards his mouth, and widen gradually. 3) A guy working in a video game store, late 20s. Asked for his opinion on a game, to get some dialogue. Smart character. In front of me, he and his colleague, a younger male, compared and contrasted a few pairs of games. The character of focus dissected and analyzed each element of each game. He presented himself as a credible critic, with limitless expertise.
What will I do with these roles? Which one do I like the best? Still need to do the assignment, as I have it outlined. I hate seeing book stores take books that aren’t selling off the shelves. Saddest thing, to me. How I hope I’m never one of those books. The rain is falling like it never wants to leave. Just now am I having my first mocha, 3:55p. A deli, with a wine bar within. I could see myself running such, as owner of course. Still quite Zen with the reality that approaches with the coming year. Not going to miss Solano or SRJC. Some of the students will stay in my thoughts, and I’m determined to keep our interactions there. Others, I will be even more diligent in attempts to scrape them from memory. More time to write, sell my art, permitting there are actually people out there that would read my work. Still want to start that critically reading log that I mentioned a while ago.
The character with the sideburns, I am giving him the name Ted. Just watching him look down at the consumer traffic chilled me. His face was without any conspicuous expression. The others, not sure what to do with them. I know what you’re thinking. “Mike, you’re not doing your own homework.” You’re right. Looking through my P&W issue, looking for a lit mag. Found two. I must be published, beyond by myself. It’s just something I want. Or do I? Fuck, I’m a mess. I bet some of my students, present/past, are reading this and thinking “Wow he’s fucked up.” You’re right.
Just thought about Martin Eden, how I first taught it in Fall ’07, in the SRJC 1A section I had on MW, 11a-12:50p. That book, amazing. The character, more so. Hoping I rise like Mr. Eden. Back to the Room tomorrow. Always eager to see what I’ll encounter, what questions. I just hope I don’t have to deal with too many fucking wine club members, the kind that are royalty in their own eyes. Can’t stand those pigs.
10:42pm. Spilled 800+ words out into a doc on this little laptop today, for a short. Going to start submitting again, I’ve decided. I will self-publish, still, only in moderation. It will be my secondary focus. I want these piggish lit mags to recognize me. I’m waging a new war, against the pig mags. They will not be able to resist this prose. Short stories, in the practice of these concise heavens.
I’m thinking that I need to finish my homework, but I can’t right now. I’m too relaxed. I’m freewriting, writing freely. But why can’t I stop writing, just relax on this couch, watch the news. JUST RELAX? I need to write. Every second of all days that net my existence.
What would James Joyce do? I want to put my Self in a random, unexpected setting, see what I would write. Sipping some powerful Dry Creek Zin. Lovely. You know, once I was thinking about writing a novel about a stripper who was writing a novel about being a stripper. The story would be set in SF.
Monday December 14, 2009. Sent away two shorts to three lit mags. I’m back in the game. And, I finished a 1950-word short story. My approach has yet again been revamped. I want something to look forward to, even if it’s a rejection letter. A rejection letter is a response, an acknowledgement that I exist as a writer.
10:37pm. Just found a few typos in my blog. This infuriates me to a bad fucking place! My readers, meaning you, probably think I’m an imbecile. Please accept my apologies. Actually, I digress. I won’t ask for pardon. This is a log, a log written by a Human. Hence, there will be a couple, a few, many, errors. Just wanted to let you know that I noticed I was Human.
Passed 1000 tonight. Received my first official confirmation that this log is being read. I’m beyond pleased. I’m giddy, silly, obnoxious. I’ve been read! Do you know what this feels like? Thank you, Serah! Just thought about New York, and if this penmanship takes me there. WHEN it takes me there. Can’t even imagine how my being would respond to the stage. Manhattan. The streets, the sounds, the characters. Oh characters, characters. Literature is nothing, truly bland without them.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Wednesday December 9, 2009
Tonight I don’t feel like writing. Don’t fee like doing much of anything. Less of a creator than usual. A duck with one wing, if that makes any sense. Two more days in this final week of instruction. The Claret I was sipping last night, still in the thoughts. Then, I imagine myself owning my own business in the industry, again. Why don’t I just go for it, you know? Now I’m rolling, writing. Let the pages come. I was reading some blogs today while in between classes at Solano, in the library. The library at SCC is like a zoo. Quiet, where? Anyway, I saw “writer” after “writer” contributing to their nonsensical blogs with a caliber of authorship hardly worth the time an illiterate. Many of them continued tirelessly about entertainment, celebrities, alcohol. Substance, where?
Not saying I’m the best of scribes on this Earth, but I am mentally alive enough to journal on topics beyond the bland and brainless ballet of Hollywood. What is wrong with us? Why are people so obsessed with these puppets? So many see movie stars as heroes, sages, activists. Why can’t the agenda of these clones be more visible to some? Don’t mind me, I’m grumpy, and logging the irritability. Really mature.
Topic next. Should make an instrumental or two tonight, write some spoken word. Want to entertain with my writing, as well as educate. I’m a wasp towards the critics, anyone analyzing my work with the premeditation of attack. You ever notice that so many human beings would rather utter the negative than encouragement. Why can’t they simply ask you to explain in the event of a misunderstanding? They always want to criticize, hurl barbs. Not wasting anymore time on them.
Want to take a trip across the country. Don’t care if it’s for writing, leisure, or the sake of spontaneity. I just need to see more, so much more. Tired of my box, cage, fucking cell, choking chamber.
Not saying I’m the best of scribes on this Earth, but I am mentally alive enough to journal on topics beyond the bland and brainless ballet of Hollywood. What is wrong with us? Why are people so obsessed with these puppets? So many see movie stars as heroes, sages, activists. Why can’t the agenda of these clones be more visible to some? Don’t mind me, I’m grumpy, and logging the irritability. Really mature.
Topic next. Should make an instrumental or two tonight, write some spoken word. Want to entertain with my writing, as well as educate. I’m a wasp towards the critics, anyone analyzing my work with the premeditation of attack. You ever notice that so many human beings would rather utter the negative than encouragement. Why can’t they simply ask you to explain in the event of a misunderstanding? They always want to criticize, hurl barbs. Not wasting anymore time on them.
Want to take a trip across the country. Don’t care if it’s for writing, leisure, or the sake of spontaneity. I just need to see more, so much more. Tired of my box, cage, fucking cell, choking chamber.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Some Entries...
Saturday November 28, 2009. Don’t want to go to work tomorrow. Having too much fun just writing, relaxing. Now, the night before returning to the world that is somewhat “real,” I’m cranky, restless. What should I do?
Sunday November 29, 2009. Back to the classroom tomorrow. A different room. Delivering much more disenchantment than the Room. This Thanksgiving break has provided a certain rebirth for me as a writer. I care less, I just write, release. I was recently offered stern advice as to how I should conduct myself, Self, as a writer. What type of material I should be composing and how I should be delivering it to the populace. Nothing angers me more. I am self-published. I reject governance, counsel, unless it I solicit. Anti. Remember that word, the condensed form of Antilegal. Always in CAPS. I am not interested in what non-artists see in my habits in terms of shortcomings, or strengths.
The tasting room today offered nothing of a substantial structure. I need characters. Unfamiliar ones. I remember when I used to vacation in Sunriver, Oregon as a teen. Wish I would have kept better entries then. The kids with which I associated had vastly different pasts than mine own. The specifics, lost. Wish I would have trapped them. Now, I am trapping everything. Great, but I need to organize.
The poetry I’m writing, surprising me. Need to perform. When? Next semester will allow more opportunity. Delighted that teaching and I are parting. Students of today, dying the worst of deaths. Their minds, captured. MTV, poison. Pop culture, poison. What is revered? Surrender. Individuality, strength, ideological independence, scolded. Rejected, shunned, chastised. I can’t deal with this, students that have no interest in learning, exchanging ideas. So, I’ll write. Put my lectures into books, into fiction, poetry, various flavors of prose.
Speaking of lectures, I came across one that I wrote for the summer term of this year. This first offering, Mr. Tupac Shakur. I need to write at his pace. Wait, is that possible? Either way, I’m writing. Am I writing the proper way, the most effective way? I don’t give a fuck. I’m writing. Spare me your counsel, counsel. Anti!
I’d like to return to the still student. Too many of this particular mold. Why would I want to continue as an educator, pouring my soul into a section and having my efforts dismissed. No thanks. Bliss bursting in my brain and character, now that teaching and I are separating. Other instructors would probably say that I’m giving up, hurting the students, that I should have more of an eagerness to serve the community, that I’m selfish in focusing on my life. Selfish? As in putting priority on my Self? What is wrong with that? Really? Just as I say to the non-artist advising me on my Craft, I don’t give a fuck.
Movies now, just fireworks. No substance, value. That stupid fucking Twilight sequel is the third highest selling movie of all time, from what I hear. What does that say about us, Humans, and what interests us? You’ll call me a cynic. I don’t give a fuck. Look at us, after special effects, not scripts containing literary merit. Zombie movies, the fantasy thing, all this vampire hypnosis, animation. Sick of it all.
Monday November 30, 2009. Never used to like Merlot. Always saw it as a co-dependent varietal, more or less gutless. But here I sit, sipping a glass. Today, the tasting room provided annoying roles, all belonging to the wine club. What is it about these people that endows them with such confidence, self-anointment? This one guy, command after command. Not a single ‘please’. I could never pour five days a week. I don’t have the patient, “professionalism.” My co-workers that do assume the full load have all my admiration, respect. I wish I could have told this man what a clown he was, standing there, on the other side of the bar like he owns half the valley.
Frankly, I don’t have the propulsion necessary to write tonight. Still, like my unmotivated students. One might say that I shouldn’t write such in this log. Censor my Self, in case students’ or co-workers’ collide with my Craft. If I choose to purge consternation, malice, and someone is targeted, then they will be attacked. Be this, though, the last of my haphazard entries. This log, a log of insight and transcendence.
In my circuitry, the desire to connect to my instrumentals, those curious sounds. But I have to stay here, in front of this screen, typing. I’m a writer, but can’t we scribes play music? Or would that be a scattered approach to life, too complicated?
I used to see the fence.
Now, I don’t think about it. Ever.
Fire in the ink. The stage, dimmed.
The reality of we, thinned.
I want to take the rest of the night to my Self, stop these stomping fingertips. But why is it so hard? Why can’t I just walk away, relax? Why do I distress my Self with these entries, this prose, poetry? The chapbook is near completion, the hesitation, shyness, erosion of confidence manifests. Why? Why can’t I just put the words into the worlds?
10:05pm. What I’m thinking of right now, sleep. As an adjunct, sleep is cherished. Adjunct. Done with that life. Creating my own reality with these chapbooks. The quick release, the pace of a poet. Watching “American Gangster” on HBO. One of the better movies I’ve seen in many years. Sometimes I ask my Self why this caliber movie can’t be made with more frequency. Truthfully, I’m elated it’s not. If it was, it’s just be another “Twilight.” What I take from this film, business. The way to achieve Equilibrium is to behave like one in business. In Paris, I remember thinking about living there for a year, to write. Forcing my Self to produce a 300+ page manuscript, perhaps 400+, or more, in that 365-day bracket. One day, a writing escape. How? This devilish adjunct cage. Need to travel to past entries. Jewels there, I’m certain. My temperament tonight, tumultuous, turbulent. How do I swing out of this stall? I’m a broken plane. Adjuncting is not a career.
The only way out, is by altercation, confrontation.
Further deliberation. Sit for too many a minute.
Me, never a zombie. Literary flips off cliffs.
Telephone another corner. Therapy with each entry.
Tuesday December 1, 2009. Swaths of literature in my head tonight. I again combat my reluctance to release my pages. Tonight, on this first day of the last month of this year, the hesitancy is euthanized. Wine and literature, so close they are, in my scope, an entity collective. When I sip wine, I think of my past and, because I am a creator, I want to trap these reflections. The bottles, their grapes, the process to produce what I sip entail scenes, characters, developments that I see in fiction, non-fiction, even poetry. My favorite character, the Zinfandel grape. It’s personality is bold, flirty, royal. I sometimes imagine myself as a winemaker, in my sister’s shoes. You know, I should interview her, follow her during the next harvest, see her at work with the fruit, the machines, sampling. The tasting room, the Room, my favorite stage currently. The classroom, my least liked. The Room, nothing but enjoyment. I’m a bit distracted presently, as I listen and watch President Obama give his speech on troop deployment to Afghanistan. His eloquence, passion, and conveyance are truly unbelievable, incomparable. He does not fear, or at least it doesn’t seem, releasing his thoughts. I must be equally courageous.
War, Mr. Obama addresses with this speech. As a writer, I am at war. With my Self, mostly. I must outline objectives in this war. Have an approach. I fight this campaign solitarily. My first battle, tonight, to update my “blog” with 1000-plus words. Also, to get to page 25 in my chapbook. I will bring in old entries for the latter. Those are the two objectives in tonight’s skirmish. War, with the Self. All at stake. Failure, not something to even be discussed. I can’t, and don’t, see myself as an adjunct for much longer. Today, I gave a lecture, “Writing Costs A Lot,” highlighting how demanding this life is. Made me feel that passion for instruction again. I will always teach, in some capacity. But this, now, no more. Suasion, by means of the literary, my life.
On a less weighted note, I’m getting a bit hungry. Chinese food sounds good. Broccoli Beef? Couple of egg roles? What do I pair it with? Pinot? Do I have a Pinot? Pairing is a facet of wine’s story that I find intriguing, mostly as result of the inherent mystery. Tonight, I read, about wine. Anything I can find. A play about a novice in wine’s web. All he does is read. He’s never been tasting. He’s scared for some reason. No. Not for “some reason.” He doesn’t want to look like a fool. Or, I could write a play about tasting room employees. I’ve done freewrites about that, in stageplay form. I should develop this. I do want to act someday, as you may or may not know. I could star in my own work. I don’t know how good of an actor I’d be. Probably decent. I have been told that I act like an actor. Interesting.
Poetry, tonight, surely. Verses in my veins continuously. Time for Chinese.
6:50pm. Didn’t get Chinese, didn’t look to see if I have any Pinot. Currently, reading my wine magazine. Need to start collecting seriously. Cotes Du Rhone, need to acquire much of this. Need to learn more. Turning pages, turning, turning…boutique wineries, I know there are a few dozen handfuls in Dry Creek, and I love Dry Creek. A day mission, perhaps. I could see myself owning a wine shop specializing in small production, boutique producers, maybe have a license to pour at the shop like my friend in Sebastopol. I will take small steps towards such by collecting.
Just opened a bottle of 2006 Valley of the Moon Sangiovese. An example of Wine is Literature: 1) Introduction (nose and front palate): 7. Not too pronounced with notes, nothing jumping out, demanding recognition. Some cherry, damp soil, oak. 2) Body (mouthfeel and mid-palate): 7. About the same. A bit of an improvement in terms of smoothness and the humble approach of the wine. What hurt the wine in the intro somehow complements it, raises its stock, in this part of the tasting and evaluative journey. 3) Conclusion (back of palate and finish): 5. Goes away, as if in a rush to get off the stage, afraid of critique. 4) Additional comments: Yes, I am drinking it. It’s not bad, by any means, by I wait for the reflection, for any impact that truly affects me. My evaluation of a wine is similar to the consideration and grading of an essay, but not the same. Simply because one is a wine, the other a piece of writing. But I do look for delivery, structure, concentration in both. Addition to my supplemental remarks: After the bottle being open for a significant time, I am greeted by a certain grassy/vegetable set of notes, varying in intensity. To be honest, I don’t like assigning a numerical, quantitative, value to wine. Wine is Lit, hence it is Art. Letter grades are more conducive and appropriate. So, I give the bottle a C.
I want to become more acquainted with Port. The bottle I’m looking at in this magazine was given a 95. And, wow, the bottle goes for $95. How will I collect when this interest costs so much? Not like writing carrying with it a high cost. There are actual dollar amounts to this passion. Came across a cool quote in this publication, from Duff Cooper: “Wine has lit up for me the pages of literature…has induced me to say silly things but not do them.” Wine and words are incapable of being separated. Think about it, the tasting notes on a menu when you approach the bar in a tasting room. Description, persuasion.
Tempranillo, Rioja, Gamay. There’s almost too much to explore in this world. What do I do? Somewhat daunted. Exciting, nonetheless. This wine is opening up quite agreeably. Perhaps I evaluated it too early. Perhaps, huh. I’ll continue to sip. See what happens. Gotta love wine & lit.
Wednesday December 2, 2009. The rest of this, I rest. My much-necessitated holiday. I’m not even going to write. No notes, no poetry. No prose, nothing. Laziness, idol. I deserve it. But how do I do this, this rest thing? I’m a writer. As I said in my lecture yesterday, this costs a lot.
Found a note in my wallet reading “Day after event in valley.” I’m tomorrow going to use this as my topic. It was if the area was recovering from a natural disaster, or war.
Sunday November 29, 2009. Back to the classroom tomorrow. A different room. Delivering much more disenchantment than the Room. This Thanksgiving break has provided a certain rebirth for me as a writer. I care less, I just write, release. I was recently offered stern advice as to how I should conduct myself, Self, as a writer. What type of material I should be composing and how I should be delivering it to the populace. Nothing angers me more. I am self-published. I reject governance, counsel, unless it I solicit. Anti. Remember that word, the condensed form of Antilegal. Always in CAPS. I am not interested in what non-artists see in my habits in terms of shortcomings, or strengths.
The tasting room today offered nothing of a substantial structure. I need characters. Unfamiliar ones. I remember when I used to vacation in Sunriver, Oregon as a teen. Wish I would have kept better entries then. The kids with which I associated had vastly different pasts than mine own. The specifics, lost. Wish I would have trapped them. Now, I am trapping everything. Great, but I need to organize.
The poetry I’m writing, surprising me. Need to perform. When? Next semester will allow more opportunity. Delighted that teaching and I are parting. Students of today, dying the worst of deaths. Their minds, captured. MTV, poison. Pop culture, poison. What is revered? Surrender. Individuality, strength, ideological independence, scolded. Rejected, shunned, chastised. I can’t deal with this, students that have no interest in learning, exchanging ideas. So, I’ll write. Put my lectures into books, into fiction, poetry, various flavors of prose.
Speaking of lectures, I came across one that I wrote for the summer term of this year. This first offering, Mr. Tupac Shakur. I need to write at his pace. Wait, is that possible? Either way, I’m writing. Am I writing the proper way, the most effective way? I don’t give a fuck. I’m writing. Spare me your counsel, counsel. Anti!
I’d like to return to the still student. Too many of this particular mold. Why would I want to continue as an educator, pouring my soul into a section and having my efforts dismissed. No thanks. Bliss bursting in my brain and character, now that teaching and I are separating. Other instructors would probably say that I’m giving up, hurting the students, that I should have more of an eagerness to serve the community, that I’m selfish in focusing on my life. Selfish? As in putting priority on my Self? What is wrong with that? Really? Just as I say to the non-artist advising me on my Craft, I don’t give a fuck.
Movies now, just fireworks. No substance, value. That stupid fucking Twilight sequel is the third highest selling movie of all time, from what I hear. What does that say about us, Humans, and what interests us? You’ll call me a cynic. I don’t give a fuck. Look at us, after special effects, not scripts containing literary merit. Zombie movies, the fantasy thing, all this vampire hypnosis, animation. Sick of it all.
Monday November 30, 2009. Never used to like Merlot. Always saw it as a co-dependent varietal, more or less gutless. But here I sit, sipping a glass. Today, the tasting room provided annoying roles, all belonging to the wine club. What is it about these people that endows them with such confidence, self-anointment? This one guy, command after command. Not a single ‘please’. I could never pour five days a week. I don’t have the patient, “professionalism.” My co-workers that do assume the full load have all my admiration, respect. I wish I could have told this man what a clown he was, standing there, on the other side of the bar like he owns half the valley.
Frankly, I don’t have the propulsion necessary to write tonight. Still, like my unmotivated students. One might say that I shouldn’t write such in this log. Censor my Self, in case students’ or co-workers’ collide with my Craft. If I choose to purge consternation, malice, and someone is targeted, then they will be attacked. Be this, though, the last of my haphazard entries. This log, a log of insight and transcendence.
In my circuitry, the desire to connect to my instrumentals, those curious sounds. But I have to stay here, in front of this screen, typing. I’m a writer, but can’t we scribes play music? Or would that be a scattered approach to life, too complicated?
I used to see the fence.
Now, I don’t think about it. Ever.
Fire in the ink. The stage, dimmed.
The reality of we, thinned.
I want to take the rest of the night to my Self, stop these stomping fingertips. But why is it so hard? Why can’t I just walk away, relax? Why do I distress my Self with these entries, this prose, poetry? The chapbook is near completion, the hesitation, shyness, erosion of confidence manifests. Why? Why can’t I just put the words into the worlds?
10:05pm. What I’m thinking of right now, sleep. As an adjunct, sleep is cherished. Adjunct. Done with that life. Creating my own reality with these chapbooks. The quick release, the pace of a poet. Watching “American Gangster” on HBO. One of the better movies I’ve seen in many years. Sometimes I ask my Self why this caliber movie can’t be made with more frequency. Truthfully, I’m elated it’s not. If it was, it’s just be another “Twilight.” What I take from this film, business. The way to achieve Equilibrium is to behave like one in business. In Paris, I remember thinking about living there for a year, to write. Forcing my Self to produce a 300+ page manuscript, perhaps 400+, or more, in that 365-day bracket. One day, a writing escape. How? This devilish adjunct cage. Need to travel to past entries. Jewels there, I’m certain. My temperament tonight, tumultuous, turbulent. How do I swing out of this stall? I’m a broken plane. Adjuncting is not a career.
The only way out, is by altercation, confrontation.
Further deliberation. Sit for too many a minute.
Me, never a zombie. Literary flips off cliffs.
Telephone another corner. Therapy with each entry.
Tuesday December 1, 2009. Swaths of literature in my head tonight. I again combat my reluctance to release my pages. Tonight, on this first day of the last month of this year, the hesitancy is euthanized. Wine and literature, so close they are, in my scope, an entity collective. When I sip wine, I think of my past and, because I am a creator, I want to trap these reflections. The bottles, their grapes, the process to produce what I sip entail scenes, characters, developments that I see in fiction, non-fiction, even poetry. My favorite character, the Zinfandel grape. It’s personality is bold, flirty, royal. I sometimes imagine myself as a winemaker, in my sister’s shoes. You know, I should interview her, follow her during the next harvest, see her at work with the fruit, the machines, sampling. The tasting room, the Room, my favorite stage currently. The classroom, my least liked. The Room, nothing but enjoyment. I’m a bit distracted presently, as I listen and watch President Obama give his speech on troop deployment to Afghanistan. His eloquence, passion, and conveyance are truly unbelievable, incomparable. He does not fear, or at least it doesn’t seem, releasing his thoughts. I must be equally courageous.
War, Mr. Obama addresses with this speech. As a writer, I am at war. With my Self, mostly. I must outline objectives in this war. Have an approach. I fight this campaign solitarily. My first battle, tonight, to update my “blog” with 1000-plus words. Also, to get to page 25 in my chapbook. I will bring in old entries for the latter. Those are the two objectives in tonight’s skirmish. War, with the Self. All at stake. Failure, not something to even be discussed. I can’t, and don’t, see myself as an adjunct for much longer. Today, I gave a lecture, “Writing Costs A Lot,” highlighting how demanding this life is. Made me feel that passion for instruction again. I will always teach, in some capacity. But this, now, no more. Suasion, by means of the literary, my life.
On a less weighted note, I’m getting a bit hungry. Chinese food sounds good. Broccoli Beef? Couple of egg roles? What do I pair it with? Pinot? Do I have a Pinot? Pairing is a facet of wine’s story that I find intriguing, mostly as result of the inherent mystery. Tonight, I read, about wine. Anything I can find. A play about a novice in wine’s web. All he does is read. He’s never been tasting. He’s scared for some reason. No. Not for “some reason.” He doesn’t want to look like a fool. Or, I could write a play about tasting room employees. I’ve done freewrites about that, in stageplay form. I should develop this. I do want to act someday, as you may or may not know. I could star in my own work. I don’t know how good of an actor I’d be. Probably decent. I have been told that I act like an actor. Interesting.
Poetry, tonight, surely. Verses in my veins continuously. Time for Chinese.
6:50pm. Didn’t get Chinese, didn’t look to see if I have any Pinot. Currently, reading my wine magazine. Need to start collecting seriously. Cotes Du Rhone, need to acquire much of this. Need to learn more. Turning pages, turning, turning…boutique wineries, I know there are a few dozen handfuls in Dry Creek, and I love Dry Creek. A day mission, perhaps. I could see myself owning a wine shop specializing in small production, boutique producers, maybe have a license to pour at the shop like my friend in Sebastopol. I will take small steps towards such by collecting.
Just opened a bottle of 2006 Valley of the Moon Sangiovese. An example of Wine is Literature: 1) Introduction (nose and front palate): 7. Not too pronounced with notes, nothing jumping out, demanding recognition. Some cherry, damp soil, oak. 2) Body (mouthfeel and mid-palate): 7. About the same. A bit of an improvement in terms of smoothness and the humble approach of the wine. What hurt the wine in the intro somehow complements it, raises its stock, in this part of the tasting and evaluative journey. 3) Conclusion (back of palate and finish): 5. Goes away, as if in a rush to get off the stage, afraid of critique. 4) Additional comments: Yes, I am drinking it. It’s not bad, by any means, by I wait for the reflection, for any impact that truly affects me. My evaluation of a wine is similar to the consideration and grading of an essay, but not the same. Simply because one is a wine, the other a piece of writing. But I do look for delivery, structure, concentration in both. Addition to my supplemental remarks: After the bottle being open for a significant time, I am greeted by a certain grassy/vegetable set of notes, varying in intensity. To be honest, I don’t like assigning a numerical, quantitative, value to wine. Wine is Lit, hence it is Art. Letter grades are more conducive and appropriate. So, I give the bottle a C.
I want to become more acquainted with Port. The bottle I’m looking at in this magazine was given a 95. And, wow, the bottle goes for $95. How will I collect when this interest costs so much? Not like writing carrying with it a high cost. There are actual dollar amounts to this passion. Came across a cool quote in this publication, from Duff Cooper: “Wine has lit up for me the pages of literature…has induced me to say silly things but not do them.” Wine and words are incapable of being separated. Think about it, the tasting notes on a menu when you approach the bar in a tasting room. Description, persuasion.
Tempranillo, Rioja, Gamay. There’s almost too much to explore in this world. What do I do? Somewhat daunted. Exciting, nonetheless. This wine is opening up quite agreeably. Perhaps I evaluated it too early. Perhaps, huh. I’ll continue to sip. See what happens. Gotta love wine & lit.
Wednesday December 2, 2009. The rest of this, I rest. My much-necessitated holiday. I’m not even going to write. No notes, no poetry. No prose, nothing. Laziness, idol. I deserve it. But how do I do this, this rest thing? I’m a writer. As I said in my lecture yesterday, this costs a lot.
Found a note in my wallet reading “Day after event in valley.” I’m tomorrow going to use this as my topic. It was if the area was recovering from a natural disaster, or war.
Office Hours...
And, no one coming. Then tomorrow, I hear complaints about how they can't figure out what to write, where to take their topics. The American Scholar, dead. Why don't these students like to think, exercise their own ideas? Sickening. Not letting it too far under my skin. This is the final term.
Holiday...
Need one. Bad. Exhaustion, this semester has injected. Thinking of a new type of journal to keep once my 2nd green Mead is full. Currently I'm on page 98. This new journal will be mostly in note form, no too much formal, and boring, prose. Brief, poetic, flirty in a way. Some notes I wish to trap now:
-Bordeaux blends. Need more.
-The chapbook, to be done by next Friday, the rough draft.
-Need to budget for first three projects of MADIGAN PUBLISHING
-Bordeaux blends. Need more.
-The chapbook, to be done by next Friday, the rough draft.
-Need to budget for first three projects of MADIGAN PUBLISHING
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)