John Tang

Already April 13

Posted in Sketchbook by Jt's Item Roster on April 14, 2010

Simply Write

Time has gone and left a grainy scent on my collar. Where does time pass away? Since two days ago, I have had difficulty finding time to write, averaging an hour a night these past two days. A professor and poet, Nils Michals said he was in luck if he put in two hours after teaching at Solano. “What you want is habit,” said Michals. “You write in the morning, or maybe you’ll edit an old piece. And what you want is to have something to work on later in the afternoon–after work–when you come home. Don’t know if same goes for fiction authors.”

“During your Masters program,” I asked, “how much did you write a day?”

“I was a madman: Thirty five pages.”

“How’s you’re reading habits?” I asked. “Three hundred pages, you once said.”

“And that includes student essays.”

“How about novels?”

“Not so much as before.”

“And poetry?”

“There’s too many writers–in a good and bad way. I feel there will always fresh wring. I also feel I read enough poetry. Now I’m reading science books, to know more about the world. About the clouds…”

“Like the zipper jacket, when the top of the plane rips off. I remember that poem.”

“Yes. And you can find strange things in facts, like Mental Floss.”

“The best thing that has happen to me for casual reading.”

“The Strange and Amazing Facts, I think is a book.”

“Before I leave, I have one more question. ” I sat up. “Last time I was here, you just finished your book. How did that go?”

“Still sending them out?”

“You know at the back of Poets and Writers magazine, do you enter those?”

“Have to. Unless your an established poet, then you’ll be published.”

By now he had a list of students on the desk, many who were in remedial English at the Reading and Writing Lab that Solano has for college students. Later, he taught at six o’clock.

He inspired me to write begin this blog, so I could write everyday. Even the hands which clasp the fruit of each day, the piety resides deep in time. Rilke once told a poet you must have the conviction Jesus had in his Father.

Driving from Elk Grove to Vacaville, I came home eight o’clock. I was  exhausted and happy enough sliding a few words in my journal. Nothing is tonally attached anymore. So today would be explained in this fashion: Hopefully sealed a place in SF. Put in eight hours of work. Lakers beat Kings.

I know many would summarize a day in a list. A list is a lazy a day, like a photo album, only lived to be turned. There was one interesting moment at work: Standing in the corner, by the files, in a ring of patients’ charts, I was searching for Ms. Lei, when I shared a glimpse of my Las Vegas vacation. I would go with my friends–four girls, four guys–to the clubs on the strip.

“You don’t bring sand to a beach.” He advised. “You don’t bring a sandwich to a buffet.”

Silence stilted the air in awe.



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