my sunday pier

All these documents open on monster.  Getting dizzy.  As Jackie feeds his breakfast, I have coffee abrew at my back, ready for a day of “project R.” Will only address book project, verses, when project R’s ready for release.  Stanford, in sight.  Just a class or two, as a visiting professor/writer, or writer/professor.  That’s all I want.  Winemaking.. should go by the winery, taste my barrel, see how it’s changed.  Should I put the tip money towards fruit then–  No.  Not changing course.  Getting book out there.  In fact, that other POSSIBLE opportunity make suffice for winemaking aims.  Speaking of which, going to do some winemaking studying today.  I’ll bring 1 book with me when I go to Starbucks later, to work on project R.

Maybe I don’t need coffee this morning, already energized like this.  Then, hit a wall.  Not a “block,” just writing stalls.  Nothing around me pushing, suddenly.  Know what I have 2do today, wrote it for Self, then I stop.  I should stop.  [8am]


Mike came back to his keyboard, ready for a delivery.. of some kind.  Kelly, away on business trip.  He wanted to be away, writing, somewhere.  He needed that newness for his writing.  But couldn’t leave, not now.  40 hours each week in wine’s wrap, two night classes at the JC.  He’d have to write, wait.. Write his way there.  He thought he might have too much on his plate, but quickly shed that preoccupation.  The more obligations–no, he hated that word–bookings, gigs, whatever, the more material he had to put in book.  Was it a book he was working on?  He didn’t know.  It was something that had shape, pseudo-shape, some semblance of coherent curve.  He kept writing.  A winemaker, just producing his first entirely solo vintage.  The winemaker was more broke than the most struggled college student, than any single parent, or that’s what winemaker felt.  He didn’t have a tasting Room, but a space in a collective off Sonoma’s Square, his friend’s father’s spot.  He was one of seven labels poured behind counter.  If this didn’t work, he always had insurance awaiting his return.  He’d rather flip burgers, he thought.

Mike stopped at 857 words.  He tired of writing about risk.  But wasn’t that inescapable, he thought.  His Sunday, a Tuesday.  He thought a drive out to Sonoma’s square sounded appealing, to see where winemaker’s tasting Room would be.  What kind of guests would come in, what they’d request, what they’d expect, bla bla.  He had papers to grade, he knew.  First time in over a year he was in that spot, with a colossal edifice of student responses on one side of his desk, pen on other.  Did he want to use a red pen, or black?  Blue?  Did it matter?  What did he have…  greenish blue.  That was different.  Mike needed difference.  He began with the first submission.  And there he was, for the first time in a year, with grading to do.  Only one class, though, for today.  The other section didn’t submit till later in the week.  After the first paragraph, he needed a break.  He took one.  With coffee.  Some mocha mix.