7:04am.  Up.  With Kerouac.  Coffee in cue.  All day composing.  For book, yes.  But also for Self.  Tonight in class, mostly lecture on closing of Fitzgerald’s book.  What we have in the end, in his address of class, deceit, love, interpersonal webs.  So glad I finished all my outstanding grading Tuesday.  That way, I can spend most of the couple hours I have before class planning, writing for students.

Alice got a mocha for me before work departure.  So much appreciated, believe me.  I’ll need it with this little Artists, this morning.  She shows unusual energy.  Right now, he plays with an electronic drum that sings to and talks back to him.  Day’s goal, to just keep writing.  Writing down every character and detail I can think of.  “For what?” the argumentative, diffident, confrontational reader asks.  “I don’t know.  And back off,” I respond.  Just had a a memory recall flash of driving to the box, the latter part of the drive, when I reach downtown Napa, realizing what’s ahead of me in that sludgy office.  Many of my co-workers I quite enjoyed [before they were fired, I should say for some].  I always got a kick out of Yvette’s defiance, strength, assurance that everything would somehow work itself out; that they can only get to you if you let them.

Images of my life during that period, April [think that’s when I started] to January ’12, just before Jack was born, following in their sorties.  Yes, they let me go–whether it was ‘fired’ or ‘laid-off’, doesn’t matter.. I didn’t have a check coming anymore–right before my son was born.  And yes, they agreed to pay medical through the month of Feb, but that didn’t gauze unemployment’s immediate envelopment.  I know I need to get over it.  And I will.  Once the book is finished, and they’ve been hit.

Looking at Jack, diving into his eyes, their innocence and curiosity, calms me.  Even when he tries to slam on the keyboard while I’m typing, like he is now.  Need to use these images, everything pushing me right now: stapler, copy machine, Carl’s keys, the constant sound of closing doors (all their “meetings,” which I still wonder if they ever solved anything..), the temperature change from outside [always profoundly bothered me], “immersions” at other wineries before a campaign would start, where we’d taste through the wines, decide how we want to sell their wines to loyal clients and customers .  Still laugh when I think about how much writing I did on their dime, and on their legal pads.

They paid me to write, those blithering ill-breeding canker-blossoms!

8:10am.  Moving on.  Just watching Jack play.  Quite an independent little Artist.  Not needing me for much, much like the Self-published penner, not needing some parental publisher.  I’m simply spectating, at this point, making sure he’s safe.  Blinds open, letting in light.  Should be another gorgeous day.  And, should make for another nice ride home, with window down.  Summers, when you can do that, reminding me of Sunriver, when I was up there with Chris in ’99 and ’00.  Seems like so long ago.  Still never found out what happened to him, my old brother.  Hope he’s well, of course.  He’s family.  Still.

NOTE:  People in awe of those making wine, winemakers, but shrugging writers.  This bothers me.  With surprising sternness, actually.  Not a surprise, why.  People enjoy their “art,” they get drunk.  To enjoy mine, they have to think, interpret, be mentally alive, exercise independent idea streams.. and we all know how deplorable that is.