inward jot
9/21/18
Coffee. Didn’t think I would have any but a nice bloke named Art helped fix the machine. Something with the paper inside he said. Not sure what that meant and I had trouble finding his repairing ability and magic powers but am cosmically grateful for the cup I now enjoy. He had his dog with him, Murphy, a mix of pit and rot and German Shepherd or something. Cute little guy that I though a puppy but really 8 years old. Want a bigger property to have a dog for kids. Working on it.
Out in field today, again. Meant to wake early as I always do but needed more sleep, waking at 630-something then ironing some pants, into shower, getting coffee and wee treat for wife as she has day off, recovering. Me in break room. Saw co-worker who also enjoys Kerouac’s work, walking her dog as I approached front door. Asking her how her morning was and she told me great, woke at 4:45 to go to gym, workout, and here she is. The mornings, I need something from them. More hours, more time, and I have only self to cite for not waking when I want. Prophesying the next 8+ hours. Selling with team, walking around the East Bay today, I believe. Want today to be wild, more wild than any day this week. Written, written madly. Bag on table, person behind me getting napkin from some odd and stray little stack. Writer at a tech company. Love it. Love this place. What it does and what it stands for but I try to find more. Not letting self get breakfast as I did the other day, and yesterday. Yesterday having some croissant sandwich with egg, cheese, meat… felt disgusting afterward. So none of that. And none of the doughnut array a guy who next to me sits brought in this morning. Was tempted. Told him, “Maybe later.” But no. Going for a bit of a literary fasting, ration, penury for sakes of prose today.
An office, versus a tasting room. Then thinking of every job I’ve had, reflecting only now at 39, and where I’m going as I seem to in every entry… Do I want a snack? NO. Fast.. deprivation, a sort of literary and page torture training. What will it do to the psychology of this writer, how he touches the keys, how he writes… what will it do to the book, book? 08:30. 20 minutes about, to collect. People come in here for morning fixes, one man just now grabbing some dry cereal and some cold caffeine or coffee drink to pair. This place fascinates me. The video games, stacked chairs, a jungle of deliberation and fascination, like Duke and Gonzo in the casino, at the bar surrounded by lizard monsters. I look around and see business, me building my story and “brand” if that’s what you want to call it. I just want more, like everyone else. The coffee to me speaks in radiant and radically riled voice and unspoken syllable sets. Going to write everything down today. From today’s poem, poems, to notes on team, the field, sakes ideas, me-ideas, everything around me secures the affirmation of dream-actuality transformation and actualization.
In ten years, I’ll be…. Don’t want to say. By the end of the semester, well, I do want to say. Teaching on writing. Teaching independently. Independent and NEVER dependent on the JC for classes and teaching opportunities. This break room teaches me to write faster, write more, about the coffee and the coffee machine, Art and his dog Murphy, the people getting their breakfast bites, and me here writing like a beatnik having finally found his his IT, moving with supersonic insistence toward a storm of ideological adorned page-forms. Seeing something, then writing it. Living it. Odd embodiment of passion and presence, passion for what’s in front of me and present.
Feeling a but of a famine rumble. Ignoring it. Writing rethought it. If I had something to eat what would I have. Certainly nothing in the fridge. Then what. What do I want. What will I do if this ravenous inner-stomp heightens in any way. Not sure. Just keep with the words, the— TODAY. Today is the IT, the IT of it all. The coup de foudre, for me and this book. Not failed, in any pour, in any sound, in any movement or issue. Today is all any writer should be focused on. I’m here, at work, about to share ideas, about to speak to people, about to learn, about to be more me than the bloody wine industry could ever echo or hasten or hurry. I’m finding not only work here, and nuggets of knowledge, but visuals that confirm the reasoning for why I’m here now.. to work over or about an hour early and diving into pages, a book project.
So many of us fear work. I see that as a decision. I see that as a surrender. What do you want to do for the rest of your life? The answer should always be “Everything.” Try everything, experience everything, WRITE everything. That’s what succeeds in solution, answers, happiness with I think everyone quests. Everything…. “Try EVERYTHING” I started the semester with. And now I the like enact.
More coming in for snack, something to eat. The writer tempted, but I find gems in this starvation and deprivation, a re-allocation of self and functionality.
08:47. Want to be back at desk, soon. Start day. Initial tasks. Notes for field, for me in field, observations from yesterday. Coffee already going cold. I think of last night’s wine. Which one. The Rosé, of which I only had one glass, and the Barbera of which I think I had maybe 1.5. OR two. I deserved it, I reasoned, keeping the 1A class over 90 minutes which made for a 12-hour day, give or take.
Again quiet. Sip again.
…next glass, poured in a sec. This house so quiet without kids in it. I miss them. I feel frustrated. I know they’ll read this one day. What will they think?— Jack, Emma….. What do you think? Do you see me a writer, or just a madman? A strutting diarist with postmodern rushes and sprints toward thoughtful intersections and Roads?
I calm down and set the laptop on two planks in the wood floor. Planks? That what they’re called? I heard something upstairs. Think I felt an earthquake. Thought I felt one in class, well as some of the students. That has to be some worldly symbolic suggestion, don’t it? Like what? What? I need the answer. More in wife’s shoes on kitchen floor, one tile for each foot, then toaster still plugged in I unplug it then look in the cupboard for two coffee pods I find them then put them in the machine, or one of them, turn on machine wait for it to warm up to where it can do what I need to it do, brew for morning sitting, then come back to these keys. Only wanting to write this wine, write about it, with this last glass. I stop the session. Watch the news, all the local events that are hardly events, no news of earthquake oh well…
Home after this day.
Wine, thoughts.
My book.
Thoughts, fantasies, of waking early and finishing that book.
But they’re just thoughts. For now.
9/20/18
Could it be the last time I say down to type was three days ago? Yes that makes sense, with all the trips I’ve been making to the city for work, no longer having that hour to type in the Sonic break room. Me, now, in the conference room in the English Department and I feel funny writing. Probably ‘cause I just had dinner again even after I said I wouldn’t, at La Texanita. Something about that place, I swear. I feel like I’m distant, away, vacation or just on some Road travel. Speaking of, ‘bout to give my last talk on Kerouac’s Road. I have more or less a plan, but not really. Not at all. More in the mood to teach than I was on Thursday, definitively. Already wine thoughts find my head and me in this chair where I’m supposed to be planning. How will I feel next semester, when I have no sections to teach? Not sure… I can see there being a bit of sullen bend, but it’s for the better, for me, family, advancing in my writings on tech and life, work, business. The office new’s given me more than I thought I’d receive in this timed life. And now, staring at my notes, trying to shed this oddity in the writing act like some old skin. Skin and sense, through consistency for which I hold no interest. What else can I “teach”, tonight. Go word by word. Be in the room with the author, Kerouac. Need to underline more… have more prepped thoughts. But then I think I’m so good in the moment I don’t need to plan or write anything out. That’s the problem! I say to myself…. Any chance you have to write you should, just as the people in the office are of the habit and forward, entrenched decision to write EVERYTHING down. Every conversation, every idea, every question, every in-the-moment musing or anything.
Bought an iced coffee in the snack shop, at the office, but left on desk. Shit, I think.. should I go get some now, in the caf’? Might keep me up a bit, tonight. So what, I think. Then I write, till 3 or something then take a nap. Yes… soon’s I’m done with this entry or revival post or whatever it’s called then I’ll go there, across the street to where I know there’s coffee. I want to approach the room with energy, the same energy I had this morning in the meeting with T, which we yesterday planned just upon my return from SF. I gently coerced her to title the meeting the “Beatnik Meeting”. Exchanging ideas wildly over coffee. We had that meeting this morning and I was all fire, all storm and storm surge, deluge and decisions, while as well learning from her words. Again, what happens when no classes at JC? Then I have all classes on blog. Easy. There. DONE.
18:30, now. Coffee, coffee. Only thing I can think of, see self sipping. Other than the eventual wine, tonight.
Leftovers and red…
Wine never needs to frame complicated. Wine should never direct prolix. She’s inviting, approachable, narrative and affectionate. What’s surrounded by curved glass reads a presence, a prophetic face and storm of versifying lines.
After a day, working, wine waits, debates her approach to me, my life and day and immediate room. The room, now, connotative in resonance, assurance, a perceptive seat. I’m at a table with her, being instructed, listening,eating leftovers and coaching me on Now, this doesn’t have to be layered or codified, and sort of sophisticated set.
Haven’t touched this glass. But the visual and nearness has me. Inward recite, and known night, thrown toward a lone vinified light.
9/19/18
0502
That’s better. Still not 4 but this is the kind of hour I need to wake at in order to get that kind of start in and on day. Today, to be a long one. Starting in office new then driving to SF, then back to office, Santa Rosa, then to class later, 7 to about 830. The solution, not that there needs be a “solution”, as there’s certainly no problem, is to write everything down. What a surprise I say that. But how about actually do it. Not that I don’t, but how about more zeal this time. More singular and definite words, short sentences. More specifics in what I see in the city, on my drive. Where is my voice recorder? Hate using this phone while driving, if you should know, and you should. Not sure why you “should”. Truth, I’m reminded. Truth in the day, these long days. Not sure why it’s on my thinking’s terrain to points of sleep inability. Why am I up? Why am I not asleep right now? What’s on my mind I ask myself. What. Is it the office? Is it the day itself, the drive? Any angst with this new job? I came downstairs to write, hear kids talking and I tell them to go to bed, both in our bed. What am I thinking, this writing daddy, this writer who sees something in the present present. But what. Sip coffee. Not yet. Wait. This hour, the dark of the room and the outside, and everyone out in the vineyards now harvesting their lots. I SHOULD be up. And not just this morning, but every morning. Think I recognized it– It’s that, this. I’m writing a piece on the morning itself, being more tuned in the morning, for it. There is nothing to fear in this day or any other. I have more than a head-start or head’s start on Tuesday. However you write it. I already have the whole day, or have the opportunity to. And it’s not even 05:20.
Coffee. Slow communicative sip, pull from dark puddle. Me, couch, no sound. Awake to have more of day itself. Challenge it. Have it. Know it, already. Beat it at whatever game or field, board it thinks its own. It’s mine, I promise self. All mine. Had a thought of calling tonight’s class, but no I swear to self. Go. Go in tired. Remind them, show them, those enrolled, what a long day is. Teach, if anything, about work. About self. About deciding what the day will say. The day itself has NO say. That’s all us. Me, up now, thank the Craft, not so much collecting or gathering thoughts but being with self. Quiet time, like I tell the babies when they have an unreasonable volume about them at an inappropriate hour or any hour.
39. 40 next year. And still in a search of sorts. Think I found something, actually I know I did, with tech. This new office. A tech company and office and being around characters with more technological acuity and awareness than I’ll ever have. Not that I can’t be them but– No. I can’t. And I don’t want to. I shouldn’t have to. No one there is making me, which I love and more or less can’t believe. They want me to be me, this writer and blogger. They hired me for me. Realizing that this morning could be one thing keeping me up, disabling me from going back to sleep aside from the coffee. This morning I’m 39, tomorrow I will be too, but one morning I’ll be 40, then older and older. Age is only age if its acknowledged and credited. What if I stopped crediting it. What if I decided age is unaccredited. Like some two-bit, hair-brained for-profit college. I can do that. This morning teaches me to only see what I want. To work harder. Just now, I grieved a bit, that I didn’t start writing right when I came down but rather used the restroom briefly. 04:50-something. Can’t do that. Here I am, I’m awake, what are you going to decide to do. Am I “figuring out life”? No. But I’m definitely not letting it tell me what’s possible, what I’m allowed to do. What I’m capable of doing.
Waking early puts you in a different world. In a different role. You’re not yourself, not the same character if you’re used to doing this. There’s a challenge and a stress to it but with concurrent ease, meditation. From where I’m sitting in this house, what used to be my office, I won’t be able to see the sun rise but a gradual lighting and progressive brightness, brightening of the day itself. Which saddens me, but only if I dwell. I don’t let self. I listen to the nothingness heard in my home. Son sniffling a bit, the fridge humming behind me, my thumbs tapping on this phone, its screen. Being in the city, San Francisco, wakes me. Those thoughts. Thinking…. office, drive, walk around city with sales team, meet with them, then drive back…. when lunch? Maybe I won’t get one. Grab something, maybe. On go. No fast food. Haven’t had in over a year and the last time it made me quite sick.
Mood turns. Not sure why. Time rushing. 05:40. Only so much time left. Typo… fuck. My frustration compiles like my pages. What do I want from day. Where am I going with this entry. In tech. With writing. With teaching. With 39…….. Stop. I fracture the inward scold before it holds me, holds anything. Yawn. I’m tired. No I’m not. I’m eager. For the day. For work. For more writing. Speak into phone if you can on drive down. Be careful of course, but don’t fall into a complacency mitt.
More meditation, more questioning, more drawing of what here is now, a month ago in the wine industry doing the same thing over and over and o…… And now, this. Waking before six. A thousand words and for what. What will I do with this. What will I do with me today, these opportunities. The day will tell me, I’m sure. And I’ll tell it something in return– I’m deciding and writing how everything’s to progress and situate. The pages are mine, all of them.
9/18/18
Wine reminds me
that there are certain moments just for me. That I don’t have to share. Life is mine, all of it, and it’s cruelly curt. It flies by with no minding and I can either observe or fly with it. Wine sings, again.
For me, working in tech is
far more dimensional and engaging than wine. On a number of considerations but I’m tight on time so I’ll just cite one such light. Knowledge. Yes there are things to be learned in wine and the wine industry, but I’m just engaged by more here. People, community, certain business practices and management strategies, creative, the office feel, the people, the company’s name and thesis. I honestly don’t know where to start and end, really. If you must know I hope this NEVER ends. I don’t see myself anywhere else. And it only took me 39 years. Why. Stop with that topic, Mike.
I know.
So I move one, think about next year, just around the corner, how it’ll be that year. Whatever that means. Shit… just over 10 minutes left on break. That’s okay. I want to get back to desk, further own what I’m doing here. Demonstrate my invaluable value and contribution consistency. I’m ready for everything ahead. From the tougher days, to those where I’m just overdosing on knowledge. I’m home, I say to self in this corner, in this swiveling space age-looking seat. Watch what I do know, watch where I go now, who I become and what I write. A literary guy in tech.
I got it now. I see everything.
5 minutes left. Should get back to desk. Start. Enjoy how the time just by me flies while wishing it would wait for me, let me enjoy it a bit more. Just for another ten minutes. But time, like I, has its work. I respect that. I guess.
Taking this lunch to regroup
not that I need to, but more accelerate in the momentum that I’m in place put for self 
today. Cruised through the to-do I composed, the list that is, on Saturday and a bit last week, and feeling alive this morning. Just noted that I won’t let the semester stress me, and I have been. Not sure why. This is my last, and I will enjoy. Talking to students, today. Nothing to rush-grade, so that’s a relief. Thought this morning on “writing the book on”, as it’s said with so many things, waking unusually early to get more a jump on the day, what I have to do. What I have to write. To do yoga and stretch, my pushups and planks. To see the dark of the room, waking earlier than anyone I know and bringing to fruition more than anyone I know before they’d even have an option. There’s definitely a competitive edge to this writer, today.
Going to talk to class today. About the paper. About writing. About the day. The essay… understanding what it is. Understanding where we are and what we’re doing. More a meta discussion and ideas exchange…. Seeing me here in this break room which is also a warehouse of sorts right now with a forklift moving about and boxes being moved to one side of the floor then other, driver honking that odd, meek and metallic-sounding horn. Me smiling in love with where I work now, everything I can do with words in tech. Tech. TECH. Yes, I’m in tech. My tech revolution and reconstruction you could say for my literary life and being, practice. Nearly done with lunch, or eating what I brought, but not my literary lunch. More to write, more to reflect, reflect upon, the poetry of everything I see and hear, one of the guys to my right finding a pingpong ball, bouncing it a few times, walking to the other side of the lift to be sure the driver’s measured and aligned most optimally. “Safety is the most important thing right now, safety is THE most important thing.” He says. I note it of course and wonder what’s most important to me right now. My kids, family, MY business, this business, my mission here.
Still over 40 minutes left in sitting, so I’m not concerned with time. Not at all. But running out of observations in this room. So I go outside of it. One Ginger Ale in fridge. My eye on it. Still a bit hungry after what I brought. Not letting self buy anything. Saving. For business. Other things. Life, I guess. Saving to save as a friend said to me years and years ago. Not that hungry anymore. Only for words. For verses. That poem I wrote the other night in class, with the 1A crew for an open mic activity. Looking at the fork’ and the driver and wondering if I could do that. Never did get certified while in wine’s industry. Not sure I would have wanted to if I really had to. In fact tI was pretty vocal that I didn’t want to get cleared to do that. Could see myself puncturing a box, some pricey case or putting some oddly-shaped hole in a wall, or barrel.
In re-grouping, I’m everywhere in thought. Eager for the semester to end then saddened by thoughts of not being in a classroom. But this is where I am, this is what I want. Wanting to sell the services of this company, speak its language. Be fully present and learn from what it teaches me. Thinking I might have to leave… the talking is getting to me. I should leave, sit in one of those space-age-looking seats just outside the door. In re-grouping, wanting creative discussion tonight, on writing, on self, on health, on work, on getting what you want, on making something your own.
In one of the space seats with just over 28 minutes left on my time, time for me and if I am regrouping figurine out its objective. Whatever that means. I have no idea. I’m just delighting in the day and the cup of coffee I just made on floor to my left, smelling it but not yet sipping. Could write forever about this chair, or pod, open-egg seat. I want to swivel and move around in it, play, but don’t want to look funny. Had a thought for tonight, on feeling funny about writing, feeling odd when reading your work, the odd relationship even the most practiced writer has with writing. Finding out more about self in my writing life, my writing practice, why I’m spending my entire lunch break, essentially, and ACTUALLY, working. Yes on a project for self, but still working. Find out more about ME as a character and writer here in the first 3-4 weeks at an ISP than I did in the 12+ circular, repetitive, terminally lateral life in wine’s business. If you could call it a business. Told T the other day, and a week before that I think that wine isn’t a business, it’s bullshit. THIS, is a business. The office, was citing.
In love with this chair, how it feels to sip coffee in it. Just took first sip. Not too hot, thankful. Rest of day, more note taking. Been scribbling since I git here, everything from thoughts to the time, to what exactly I was doing, to… well, everything. I write about happiness now, how I find it, or thinking I did. I left wine’s industry. That was meteoric in movement significance. Co-workers walk by, ones I’ve never spoken to, smiling and comfortable, no stress or at least visible. And me, here, feeling comfortable and eased enough to post in one of their Jettson-y chairs. There’s something here, for me. Something. Everything. The remainder of my life. No more jobs, no more applications, no more waiting, no more interim. I’m home. Just getting started, at 39. I have a life to write, that’s why I write about. And everything assembled to resemble and radiate, read from and for happiness. There… I’m more than “re-grouped”.
9/17/18