Monday March 8, 2010. For the most hellish of days in my week, this installation unfolded rather pleasantly. Don’t expect this to be a lengthy sitting. Sipping the Meritage from last night. At the end of the 65k, I want to be on that NY Times list of bestsellers. But realistically, I merely want to continue, and to have produced something engaging for readers. Went to grad school to be a professor. Past. Do I want to work in a tasting Room now, full-time? What do you think? Not saying there’s anything wrong with that, it just isn’t for me. I deplore serving. Going to be 31. Time to do what I want. Time to be defiant, a true ANTI.
The Room today, like a nothing-flavored wafer. Time, drained, wasted, strained to pure plain. Good to see Stan and Jack. Other than that...
Another tip of the bowl toward lip. Flawlessly woven blend. This bottle from Mayo, a titillating tapestry on palate. Energized, ready to record what through the mental corridor travel. Refrain. Ready to retire. Bona sera.
POETRY4EVER
Monday, March 8, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
An Idea, for Now
I’m in the hours of the night before Monday. What am I thinking about? Nothing much. Just thinking about he weekend in Napa. The wine tasted, food consumed, sights savored. One of the employees, actually the hostess at the restaurant last night, refereed to Sonoma Valley as “the other valley.” In jest, she spoke, but I nonetheless found it valuable. The rivalry between the counties seems contrived and meritless. Someone recently compared the rift to something, but I can’t recall what. Goddamn it. It was really poignant too. The Napa culture and that of Sonoma are like warring tribes, bickering family factions, like the rivalry between the north and the south circa 1860.
Wine, how do I go forward with it, besides the “Wine is Literature” stance? I’ll figure it out. Graded a pile of poorly proposed papers today. Saving the rest for tomorrow. Tonight’s mine. So what do I do with it? Think of a life without papers, ungracious and disingenuous students, a “profession” that lacks professionalism. Should I have a glass of vino tonight, or should I stick to this deep, dark, beer? Might jump over to a Meritage that I bought the other day. Which is appropriate, considering Alice and I spent the weekend at the Meritage resort in Napa. The excursion gave me the idea to interview others in Rooms, in both valleys.
Account balance, bleeding, injured. How do I write about wine when I struggle to afford a bottle to review? Thinking of writing a review of the Meritage Hotel and Resort. Bit of a spoiler, it’ll be all praise. The surprise will be how I assemble my prose ode. Everything from the olfactory web in the lobby and halls to the fountain by the pool, wonderful. Want to go back. I could get in my car right now, drive there, charge a few nights. No. No, no, no. Not without Ms. Alice. I have one recurring character from the weekend: the person going to or coming from the spa, in a white robe. Just looks odd. Why not put the robe on when you get there? Why do you have to parade with it, march around like your an elite on holiday?
Time for a stroke or two of Meritage. Need to live with wine, breathe it, if I am to write it. Wine is literature, because literature is us, and we are life, and why go through life without wine? Attempting to gauge my alacrity. Okay, I’m stable, joyous. Time for a pour...
Just sipped the first mini-fall of this Cheval Blanc-styled Meritage. Lovely, a beauty. Want to review another wine. Should pick one. Cruising through the pages of Wine Spectator. Don’t stuff too much stock into this publication, as I find it pretentious and pompous, but it’s a place to start, I suppose. So much to know about wine. Where do I start? Zins? Malbecs? Bordeaux blends, like this Meritage? Why do I have to have a focus? Focus is boring, predictable. Why not just jump in?
Took some notes this morning at the resort, while Alice was still slumbered on the floor third, over a cup of black steam. How can I look forward to a sense-sucking classroom tomorrow when I spent a succulent shot of life among the grapes, the full bowls of libations and liberty?
The colors stand out, still. Justifiably confident greens, yellows. Barren branches eager for spring, their offspring. Seeing a correlation with the delivery of manuscripts. Poetry, about me now. See a fence, again, between the old entries and other writings in that plastic box and me, my Now. Need another sip. My way, that resembling Hemingway.
Odd being away from the Room today. Almost missed having my elbows in curious miniature ponds. That magnificent marble separating me from the visitor, the barbaric invader. Miss the rude characters that peer at the flights on the menu. Why is that? Easy, the literature in this wine world. So many pages, characters, scenes, developments. How can I not be compelled to propel prose, poetry?
The Meritage now assumes a dark, commanding role. Curious as to what awaits, further into these red waves. The lines are jabbing my time. I’m stunned, fall.
The cartoon sparks soon. My tunes part moons. See? I’m truly unruly in this entry. Can’t help but rhyme. The Irish Carl Jung, sell my signs. Acting irresponsibly, with these poetic purges. The goal of the 65k is to land somewhere, on a profitable path.
Room Notes.
-Man not wanting to taste anything I suggest. He actually said I had a bias. Bias in what regard, I wanted to ask him.
-Write write write this Room. I’m still confused. Not an expert. These visitors expect me to know everything about wine. How is that reasonable?
-I look at all these wines behind the bar. What do I do with these, in terms of reflection? I feel like I’m too used to these inventions. No longer wooed. Bored. Like Will said, “house palate.”
-A lady just said to me, “You look like Jeff Gordon.”
I said, “Oh, is that good or bad?”
Her friend, which I later learned was her mother-in-law, said “Don’t you know who Jeff Gordon is?”
“Yes,” I said, hoping for an actual elaboration on her statement. But no. Their attention swerved. Jeff Gordon drives cars, right?
-Need a sip of something. Maybe the Syrah. No, had that too many times. Panicking. Trapped in this Room.
Writing for my life. I stayed like the blade of a knife in a full sink. Instead of brandishing guns, I’m standing in ink.
See? There I go, in word spoken. I’m a slurred token.
Stop!
What an unexpected session, this evening. Had enough of a catapult, with this weekend, with Ms. Alice. I feel, re-collected, re-planted, re-branded. Like poets in days me behind, I’m isolated, confined to this sheet, screen. My catharsis at the end of 1k, a barbaric but beauteous bravado. Purgation, this situation.
One last conveyance: Death to critics, I stress wreck to your guilt-ridden gimmicks.
(Sun. 3/7/2010)
Wine, how do I go forward with it, besides the “Wine is Literature” stance? I’ll figure it out. Graded a pile of poorly proposed papers today. Saving the rest for tomorrow. Tonight’s mine. So what do I do with it? Think of a life without papers, ungracious and disingenuous students, a “profession” that lacks professionalism. Should I have a glass of vino tonight, or should I stick to this deep, dark, beer? Might jump over to a Meritage that I bought the other day. Which is appropriate, considering Alice and I spent the weekend at the Meritage resort in Napa. The excursion gave me the idea to interview others in Rooms, in both valleys.
Account balance, bleeding, injured. How do I write about wine when I struggle to afford a bottle to review? Thinking of writing a review of the Meritage Hotel and Resort. Bit of a spoiler, it’ll be all praise. The surprise will be how I assemble my prose ode. Everything from the olfactory web in the lobby and halls to the fountain by the pool, wonderful. Want to go back. I could get in my car right now, drive there, charge a few nights. No. No, no, no. Not without Ms. Alice. I have one recurring character from the weekend: the person going to or coming from the spa, in a white robe. Just looks odd. Why not put the robe on when you get there? Why do you have to parade with it, march around like your an elite on holiday?
Time for a stroke or two of Meritage. Need to live with wine, breathe it, if I am to write it. Wine is literature, because literature is us, and we are life, and why go through life without wine? Attempting to gauge my alacrity. Okay, I’m stable, joyous. Time for a pour...
Just sipped the first mini-fall of this Cheval Blanc-styled Meritage. Lovely, a beauty. Want to review another wine. Should pick one. Cruising through the pages of Wine Spectator. Don’t stuff too much stock into this publication, as I find it pretentious and pompous, but it’s a place to start, I suppose. So much to know about wine. Where do I start? Zins? Malbecs? Bordeaux blends, like this Meritage? Why do I have to have a focus? Focus is boring, predictable. Why not just jump in?
Took some notes this morning at the resort, while Alice was still slumbered on the floor third, over a cup of black steam. How can I look forward to a sense-sucking classroom tomorrow when I spent a succulent shot of life among the grapes, the full bowls of libations and liberty?
The colors stand out, still. Justifiably confident greens, yellows. Barren branches eager for spring, their offspring. Seeing a correlation with the delivery of manuscripts. Poetry, about me now. See a fence, again, between the old entries and other writings in that plastic box and me, my Now. Need another sip. My way, that resembling Hemingway.
Odd being away from the Room today. Almost missed having my elbows in curious miniature ponds. That magnificent marble separating me from the visitor, the barbaric invader. Miss the rude characters that peer at the flights on the menu. Why is that? Easy, the literature in this wine world. So many pages, characters, scenes, developments. How can I not be compelled to propel prose, poetry?
The Meritage now assumes a dark, commanding role. Curious as to what awaits, further into these red waves. The lines are jabbing my time. I’m stunned, fall.
The cartoon sparks soon. My tunes part moons. See? I’m truly unruly in this entry. Can’t help but rhyme. The Irish Carl Jung, sell my signs. Acting irresponsibly, with these poetic purges. The goal of the 65k is to land somewhere, on a profitable path.
Room Notes.
-Man not wanting to taste anything I suggest. He actually said I had a bias. Bias in what regard, I wanted to ask him.
-Write write write this Room. I’m still confused. Not an expert. These visitors expect me to know everything about wine. How is that reasonable?
-I look at all these wines behind the bar. What do I do with these, in terms of reflection? I feel like I’m too used to these inventions. No longer wooed. Bored. Like Will said, “house palate.”
-A lady just said to me, “You look like Jeff Gordon.”
I said, “Oh, is that good or bad?”
Her friend, which I later learned was her mother-in-law, said “Don’t you know who Jeff Gordon is?”
“Yes,” I said, hoping for an actual elaboration on her statement. But no. Their attention swerved. Jeff Gordon drives cars, right?
-Need a sip of something. Maybe the Syrah. No, had that too many times. Panicking. Trapped in this Room.
Writing for my life. I stayed like the blade of a knife in a full sink. Instead of brandishing guns, I’m standing in ink.
See? There I go, in word spoken. I’m a slurred token.
Stop!
What an unexpected session, this evening. Had enough of a catapult, with this weekend, with Ms. Alice. I feel, re-collected, re-planted, re-branded. Like poets in days me behind, I’m isolated, confined to this sheet, screen. My catharsis at the end of 1k, a barbaric but beauteous bravado. Purgation, this situation.
One last conveyance: Death to critics, I stress wreck to your guilt-ridden gimmicks.
(Sun. 3/7/2010)
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Room Notes: Threaded
Mike looked at the red in the bowl. How do they do this, the winemakers? He rose from his chair and walked downstairs. What would he do for the rest of the evening? He could call some of the guys, but his balance couldn’t take anymore hits. Caged in the condo. That’d be a good title for...something. He opened one of his flip- pads. Room Notes would fill the time more effectively than the fucking TV.
Phone. “Hello?” Mike didn’t want to talk, at all. He didn’t know want was to be in this night’s agenda.
“Maddenson, what’s good? You gonna come get a beer with us?” Cameron’s voice charged from the earpiece like a horde of hungry syllables, in need of an eardrum through which to puncture.
“Not tonight, Cam. I have so much to do and I can’t afford to be going out anytime soon. Need to keep myself here, be disciplined, for once,” Mike said, knowing he would regret this as soon as the call dissolved.
“Not even one beer?”
“Sorry buddy. Gotta be good tonight.” It felt good for Mike to say this. Was he finally exercising restraint of some kind?
“Alright. Have a good one, Mikey. Call us if you change your mind.”
“I will.” After the phone was set back on the uninviting, cheap, plastic-ish charger, Mike thought if he should have said yes to going out, gather intel on his characters in a setting social. He was trying to justify a mind change. He knew what they were like outside the Room. He needed to save money. Not just pinch pennies, hide them from himself.
He needed funds now. As much as he adored the Room, it did not pay for what he lunged. The flip-pad open. He surveyed his capturings from shifts past.
T 12/29/09. Watching snow, writing about it. What else would a reader expect me to do? How often does it snow here in the wine country with the sun still a bit visible. With every new year, it seems, follows a canoe of resolutions sure to sink. Not this year, 2010. No more outlining, only action. But that, of itself, is a resolution, hope for a new Now.
Forcing my Self to write. A penman of waste, matterless matter that will never, and should never, matter.
Mike closed the little book of notes. Time for dinner. Cat food, he thought, was sure, all he’d find this night. Decided to stay in front of the screen, ignore his grieving core, the internal tremors, rumbles. He continued to flip through the mini-pages.
Late 20s guy, dropping off his resume. In a good mood, I give him a comp tasting, four wines, Sauv Blanc to a Russian River Cab. He kept on about how much free wine we get working here. He really wanted to work the next barrel tasting. He asked, “So after barrel tastings you guys probably get to take home a bunch of wine, huh?” After moving through the wines, he continued his free wine investigation. Wonder why he wants to pour here.
The vines, out there, just beyond the lawn, wonder what they’re doing that we can’t see.
One of our Zins, the “bully in a bottle,” as I call it, a favorite today, guests and me. Taking a sip...wait...reminded why I love the alpha Zin.
Ate three little trays of the amuse bouche. Still hungry. Hate having to eat on a schedule someone else contrived.
Mike was bored from his notes. He picked up the phone, dialed Cam, but stopped before the last digit. TV, on. Not what he wanted to do. Reality TV, sports, movies de-gutted by censors. Mike picked the pad back up, with its lucrative little scribbles. Read.
Wine, wine, wine. Keep it at all times in this mind.
He opened a bottle of Grenache that Mom and Dad gave him as an unexpected gift a couple months ago. He was going to save it for an outing with Alice, but he needed speed. He needed to be productive to some degree this evening.
First sip, the notes grappled with his cognition. He didn’t want to write, just enjoy the potion tumbling towards his center. He picked up the little pad of pages, made some notes of this now, the Room of the encaging condo.
Wine, for me. Not guests pestering me.
Turning off this malignant TV.
His phone rang. The screen let him know it was Cameron. He wouldn’t pick up. A conversation would wreck the Room, this Room. He delighted in being caged, could breath on his schedule. The Grenache’s cherry and pepper tunes threaded themselves into Mike’s imaginative web. This moment, better than a shift in the Room. He discovered a new Room, a new Now.
Phone. “Hello?” Mike didn’t want to talk, at all. He didn’t know want was to be in this night’s agenda.
“Maddenson, what’s good? You gonna come get a beer with us?” Cameron’s voice charged from the earpiece like a horde of hungry syllables, in need of an eardrum through which to puncture.
“Not tonight, Cam. I have so much to do and I can’t afford to be going out anytime soon. Need to keep myself here, be disciplined, for once,” Mike said, knowing he would regret this as soon as the call dissolved.
“Not even one beer?”
“Sorry buddy. Gotta be good tonight.” It felt good for Mike to say this. Was he finally exercising restraint of some kind?
“Alright. Have a good one, Mikey. Call us if you change your mind.”
“I will.” After the phone was set back on the uninviting, cheap, plastic-ish charger, Mike thought if he should have said yes to going out, gather intel on his characters in a setting social. He was trying to justify a mind change. He knew what they were like outside the Room. He needed to save money. Not just pinch pennies, hide them from himself.
He needed funds now. As much as he adored the Room, it did not pay for what he lunged. The flip-pad open. He surveyed his capturings from shifts past.
T 12/29/09. Watching snow, writing about it. What else would a reader expect me to do? How often does it snow here in the wine country with the sun still a bit visible. With every new year, it seems, follows a canoe of resolutions sure to sink. Not this year, 2010. No more outlining, only action. But that, of itself, is a resolution, hope for a new Now.
Forcing my Self to write. A penman of waste, matterless matter that will never, and should never, matter.
Mike closed the little book of notes. Time for dinner. Cat food, he thought, was sure, all he’d find this night. Decided to stay in front of the screen, ignore his grieving core, the internal tremors, rumbles. He continued to flip through the mini-pages.
Late 20s guy, dropping off his resume. In a good mood, I give him a comp tasting, four wines, Sauv Blanc to a Russian River Cab. He kept on about how much free wine we get working here. He really wanted to work the next barrel tasting. He asked, “So after barrel tastings you guys probably get to take home a bunch of wine, huh?” After moving through the wines, he continued his free wine investigation. Wonder why he wants to pour here.
The vines, out there, just beyond the lawn, wonder what they’re doing that we can’t see.
One of our Zins, the “bully in a bottle,” as I call it, a favorite today, guests and me. Taking a sip...wait...reminded why I love the alpha Zin.
Ate three little trays of the amuse bouche. Still hungry. Hate having to eat on a schedule someone else contrived.
Mike was bored from his notes. He picked up the phone, dialed Cam, but stopped before the last digit. TV, on. Not what he wanted to do. Reality TV, sports, movies de-gutted by censors. Mike picked the pad back up, with its lucrative little scribbles. Read.
Wine, wine, wine. Keep it at all times in this mind.
He opened a bottle of Grenache that Mom and Dad gave him as an unexpected gift a couple months ago. He was going to save it for an outing with Alice, but he needed speed. He needed to be productive to some degree this evening.
First sip, the notes grappled with his cognition. He didn’t want to write, just enjoy the potion tumbling towards his center. He picked up the little pad of pages, made some notes of this now, the Room of the encaging condo.
Wine, for me. Not guests pestering me.
Turning off this malignant TV.
His phone rang. The screen let him know it was Cameron. He wouldn’t pick up. A conversation would wreck the Room, this Room. He delighted in being caged, could breath on his schedule. The Grenache’s cherry and pepper tunes threaded themselves into Mike’s imaginative web. This moment, better than a shift in the Room. He discovered a new Room, a new Now.
19th&20th
Friday 19/2/2010. That kind of dating looks odd on the screen. Anyway, have wits to write tonight. Need to spice up my prose, get crazy and unorthodox with my wording. Like C said, worry how you feel about it later. One thing I’ve been juggling, this blog. Don’t want to get too specific, but I may increase my energy towards this digi-log. My students, this term, tiring me. Teaching the class before Comp is cutting at my core. Just speaking of this term’s actuality warrants a break. Another sip of the Racer. Wine on the mind, literature too, after today’s excursion and review. Love that little Room at Larson. The road to their Room, what a symbol, image that begs expansion in an entry. Pause, me, this ink...
Need to give this log more of a wine knot. I address the stage sporadically, but I’m considering a recalibration. Wine is Literature, my guiding advancement in surveying any pour. So, I’m cordially inviting wine to with this penman reside for an indefinite block of pulses.
Saturday February 20, 2010. Taxes done. While Alice and I were finishing up with Janet, our tax wiz, a gentleman next to use made himself known. Truly, one of the most perturbing roles I’ve ever encountered. As Alice and Janet finalized a few specificities, I was in the mode of the penman spy, ink peppering my flip-pad. He was born in 1968, works, I guess you could say, in construction. He didn’t pay his taxes last year, and hasn’t worked for about a year. He is divorced, with two kids. His ex is on welfare. His situation I did not in any way find annoying, it was his voice. His loud, raspy, over-enunciating voice. He kept on repeating the name of his tax person, with every statement and inquiry. After essentially explaining the entire concept of taxes to this man, Suzanne revealed that he had owed money. He then said, “Suzanne, why are they stingin‘ me so hard?” She went item by item, with charges incurred by this man. He then said politely, but quite loud, “I just wanna get it done, Suzanne.” She tired to find areas where he could make deductions, asking him if he went to school, took any classes, expenses, etc. To each question, he replied, again quite elevated in decibel, “nope.” Nope, nope, nope. The word was like a series of belches that wouldn’t halt. Even Janet laughed a bit. Alice looked at me, said “I have a headache.” His phone went off, louder than his tone. A call from his son, one he had to advertise to the entire building, room. Suzanne asked him if he has ever filed electronically before. He then replied, “I don’t even own a computer, Suzanne.”
The forecast promises rain, but nothing arrives.
WRITING PROMPT: Capture three characters from your nearest grocery store. Give them identities, and have them go on a voyage, or trip of some sort, together. Rules...they can’t be related, you must include both genders, and one has to die. Please submit at least 500 words for this exercise. Let me know what happens!
1:44p. Can’t stay away from the Stanford website. These professors are incredible expansive in their fields of focus. Want to lecture in those halls one day, but will I ever be qualified?
“What kind of talk is that?” the Self says to me. I realize I have to move with unorthodoxy, difference. I have an approach. Brewing, like the espresso for my morning mocha. Like Martin Eden, I’ve tired of regular labor. Sometime today, need to break out some of my theory books, Philosophy texts. Alchemy, a certain thoughtful sorcery on the menu for this day. I am energized, now.
WRITING PROMPT: 500 words right when you wake, another 500 right before sleep, the day’s repose. What do you have, in that thousand? Edit only once or twice. Keep this one authentic, honest.
4:15p. Poetry in my person. Inspired just by pushing these keys. Picturing myself in “whoso,” my envisioned ambient cafe. See Self sipping Syrah. Peace, all corners, in each level of my situation.
If I close my eyes, what will I see? Pond or tree? I’m wondering
to a corner for certain order. A coast away, miles from where
most would stay. Final pages in the book, many minutes me took.
Arms shield the page, I’m in the presence of many a crook.
BOOK ONE, now a work of 65k, down from 80. Brevity and wit, reminding my Self, and students. They don’t listen. Told one of my former students, when he asked how my semester was progressing, that I was only doing two sections of English 90 (again, the class before Comp). He then wrote, via IM, “...nothing more substantial?” I wrote back citing that I felt the same. English 90 is not substance, not for me, the rate at which my vision stretches, my interpretive and creative tools operative.
Going to Mom and Dad’s tonight for dinner, getting a drink with Miss Alice prior to. Her dedication to teaching, even with the impending slip of pink and all the other treachery, humbles me. I need to have her attitude, to remedy mine.
Freezing in this home study. Unorthodoxy, all about my shell. Now, forever. Critics, devils, beware. ANTI on the rise!
Need to give this log more of a wine knot. I address the stage sporadically, but I’m considering a recalibration. Wine is Literature, my guiding advancement in surveying any pour. So, I’m cordially inviting wine to with this penman reside for an indefinite block of pulses.
Saturday February 20, 2010. Taxes done. While Alice and I were finishing up with Janet, our tax wiz, a gentleman next to use made himself known. Truly, one of the most perturbing roles I’ve ever encountered. As Alice and Janet finalized a few specificities, I was in the mode of the penman spy, ink peppering my flip-pad. He was born in 1968, works, I guess you could say, in construction. He didn’t pay his taxes last year, and hasn’t worked for about a year. He is divorced, with two kids. His ex is on welfare. His situation I did not in any way find annoying, it was his voice. His loud, raspy, over-enunciating voice. He kept on repeating the name of his tax person, with every statement and inquiry. After essentially explaining the entire concept of taxes to this man, Suzanne revealed that he had owed money. He then said, “Suzanne, why are they stingin‘ me so hard?” She went item by item, with charges incurred by this man. He then said politely, but quite loud, “I just wanna get it done, Suzanne.” She tired to find areas where he could make deductions, asking him if he went to school, took any classes, expenses, etc. To each question, he replied, again quite elevated in decibel, “nope.” Nope, nope, nope. The word was like a series of belches that wouldn’t halt. Even Janet laughed a bit. Alice looked at me, said “I have a headache.” His phone went off, louder than his tone. A call from his son, one he had to advertise to the entire building, room. Suzanne asked him if he has ever filed electronically before. He then replied, “I don’t even own a computer, Suzanne.”
The forecast promises rain, but nothing arrives.
WRITING PROMPT: Capture three characters from your nearest grocery store. Give them identities, and have them go on a voyage, or trip of some sort, together. Rules...they can’t be related, you must include both genders, and one has to die. Please submit at least 500 words for this exercise. Let me know what happens!
1:44p. Can’t stay away from the Stanford website. These professors are incredible expansive in their fields of focus. Want to lecture in those halls one day, but will I ever be qualified?
“What kind of talk is that?” the Self says to me. I realize I have to move with unorthodoxy, difference. I have an approach. Brewing, like the espresso for my morning mocha. Like Martin Eden, I’ve tired of regular labor. Sometime today, need to break out some of my theory books, Philosophy texts. Alchemy, a certain thoughtful sorcery on the menu for this day. I am energized, now.
WRITING PROMPT: 500 words right when you wake, another 500 right before sleep, the day’s repose. What do you have, in that thousand? Edit only once or twice. Keep this one authentic, honest.
4:15p. Poetry in my person. Inspired just by pushing these keys. Picturing myself in “whoso,” my envisioned ambient cafe. See Self sipping Syrah. Peace, all corners, in each level of my situation.
If I close my eyes, what will I see? Pond or tree? I’m wondering
to a corner for certain order. A coast away, miles from where
most would stay. Final pages in the book, many minutes me took.
Arms shield the page, I’m in the presence of many a crook.
BOOK ONE, now a work of 65k, down from 80. Brevity and wit, reminding my Self, and students. They don’t listen. Told one of my former students, when he asked how my semester was progressing, that I was only doing two sections of English 90 (again, the class before Comp). He then wrote, via IM, “...nothing more substantial?” I wrote back citing that I felt the same. English 90 is not substance, not for me, the rate at which my vision stretches, my interpretive and creative tools operative.
Going to Mom and Dad’s tonight for dinner, getting a drink with Miss Alice prior to. Her dedication to teaching, even with the impending slip of pink and all the other treachery, humbles me. I need to have her attitude, to remedy mine.
Freezing in this home study. Unorthodoxy, all about my shell. Now, forever. Critics, devils, beware. ANTI on the rise!
Monday, February 22, 2010
2nd Note, Monday 2/22/10
Assembling my chapters. Not just in the manuscripts, universally, all corners of the Now. The Grenache, spicier with each of the digital clock’s new red combinations. “I write too fast and too much they say, the next day offer me praise,” I said in one of the lines, in one of the first EP’s songs. Critics have so much to say, and how they adore hearing themselves saying it. Funny to me. Will go for a drive tomorrow, take a pic or two.
Couple more sips, and I’m done for the night. Watching this rare Tupac footage. That man’s fury is truly worthy of study, praise. I realize, that no matter how persistent I am with these words, scribbles, my additions will one day halt. There is no forever. Must keep up the contributions. Why breathe when I can write?
Couple more sips, and I’m done for the night. Watching this rare Tupac footage. That man’s fury is truly worthy of study, praise. I realize, that no matter how persistent I am with these words, scribbles, my additions will one day halt. There is no forever. Must keep up the contributions. Why breathe when I can write?
Note, Monday 2/22/10
Any critic of my writing should just withhold their infantile inferences. Those that cannot do, like my sister says, teach, or critique. BOOK ONE, will shut them all up. And, quite frankly, to any critic reading, present your qualms to me in person, in the street. Don’t hide within rumor, or a column in a rudimentary periodical. You can’t decry an ANTI. You’re a pawn, critic. Me, and all the like, rebels, shapers of collective and individual Nows.
These colleges boast acceptance, fairness. Then why are so many of us, educators, summarily shed. Creating a more conducive Now. Another sip of the Grenache.
These colleges boast acceptance, fairness. Then why are so many of us, educators, summarily shed. Creating a more conducive Now. Another sip of the Grenache.
Daycap
Going to post a slew of entries on the morrow. Going to take a bit of a cesura from the reviewing of wine, I’m thinking. Not sure. Great day today in the Room. Worked alongside Stan, Lonny, Jack. Not much traffic. But, the character that did enter, delectable in both aesthetic and application, especially a group of girls from the South. Polite, vibrant, beautiful, each one. Pages, deluges of pages, they would inject into any manuscript.
Tomorrow, a day off. Many tasks before this author. BOOK ONE, its 60k requisite, almost attained. MUST dive into the box of old writings. Will I? Want to drive around and take a couple more pictures, like I did last week in Dry Creek. So much I want to do. This literary art is pain peppered with pleasure. And sometimes, that’s reversed.
Hating this 730a section of 90. Too early, not enough connection to my lectures from the surrendered scholars, that possess no scholarly acuity. I am going to focus on my lectures, a writing project, new leap. I’m not concerned with apathy, not any more. I’m not philanthropic, not for disingenuous and ungrateful, not to mention opportunistic, students. This term, my last. Off to Stanford.
Can see my Self there. Can see my book on shelves. Stop, topic next, Mike. The weather today, faultless, supreme. Rain projected for morrow. We’ll see. No mocha this day for Mike. Probably good, saved a couple legal tenders.
Journal jumping a lot lately. Need to stop, use only one 8.5X11, and my little one for the Room. If I get too thin, the pages will never be printed, no publication shall disseminate. Dinner, hungry, ebb lowering. Where is my Capote book?
7:31p. So glad to be in tonight. In this humble Madigan castle. Already over 1k. That was fast. Tiring. Had a couple beers last night with George, Stan, Lonny, and Jack at the Gnarly Thorn. Nightcap. Best way to unwind. Best crew to unwind with. Now, in this Now, trying to relax, but not too much.
Tomorrow, a day off. Many tasks before this author. BOOK ONE, its 60k requisite, almost attained. MUST dive into the box of old writings. Will I? Want to drive around and take a couple more pictures, like I did last week in Dry Creek. So much I want to do. This literary art is pain peppered with pleasure. And sometimes, that’s reversed.
Hating this 730a section of 90. Too early, not enough connection to my lectures from the surrendered scholars, that possess no scholarly acuity. I am going to focus on my lectures, a writing project, new leap. I’m not concerned with apathy, not any more. I’m not philanthropic, not for disingenuous and ungrateful, not to mention opportunistic, students. This term, my last. Off to Stanford.
Can see my Self there. Can see my book on shelves. Stop, topic next, Mike. The weather today, faultless, supreme. Rain projected for morrow. We’ll see. No mocha this day for Mike. Probably good, saved a couple legal tenders.
Journal jumping a lot lately. Need to stop, use only one 8.5X11, and my little one for the Room. If I get too thin, the pages will never be printed, no publication shall disseminate. Dinner, hungry, ebb lowering. Where is my Capote book?
7:31p. So glad to be in tonight. In this humble Madigan castle. Already over 1k. That was fast. Tiring. Had a couple beers last night with George, Stan, Lonny, and Jack at the Gnarly Thorn. Nightcap. Best way to unwind. Best crew to unwind with. Now, in this Now, trying to relax, but not too much.
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