New writing spot, 1:51PM.  At the park by Maria Carillo High, and the library, here on Montecito Blvd.  Jack’s birthday, over.  Not sure how to feel.  Partially sad, the other looking forward to his developments, how he shapes as a character.

Lightly raining while I sip this second mocha.  This one, 3 shots, while this morning’s held 4.  Looking forward, a baseball field, thinking of days I’d play, on the peninsula.  Seems like so long ago.. someone around me plays music, with nearly excessive volume.  Not sure I’ll be here long.  To where do I relocate?  EH didn’t do this.. he committed to his spot.  From here I’ll go to Railroad Square, somewhere.. where?  Cellars of Sonoma?  Jacksons?  Do I want coffee or cocktail?  So pleased I’m not at the winery today– FREE, to create, to write.  I will be writing poem today, but I just had to purge the anxiety that bend me slightly, with this prose.  The rain, now, a thin soapy-like layer over the windshield, making no noise.

Have so much grading to do.  Should start on it now, really.  But I’m not in the mood– and the Marin app.. I’ll touch that later tonight.

I want something from today.. but what?  Three poems, at least, a huge step closer to this collection standing in its rays of completion.  A rush of pigeons land on the lawn directly at my twelve, only about twelve or so feet distant from my dashboard.  The don’t compete with each other for what’s between the grass blades.  It’s a harmonious hunt.. no competition, no bitterness, no bicker.  Interesting.  The antithesis of the human working world.

I look up, they’re gone.

 

2:01PM.  At 3, Alice and Jack have a photo shoot with his cousins, Blair & Sloan, in from D.C.  By then, I will have been stationed for a few minutes at the new location.  Getting quite tired of this ‘blog and no book’ predicament.  So why can’t I just put a stop to–

Just thought, act more like Hemingway.. write similar to him, not in style but in habit.  Yes, beginning to see more as I look up again, to no pigeons.  The baseball field, seeing myself at 3rd base as I used to be, then out in right or center field.  When I’d play, I’d love looking at my statistics upon the game’s close, even if I had a bit of a slumped performance.  I’d imagine myself one with a baseball card, how my stats would look on back.. how much my card would sell for…  Such imagination, its playful nature, lost as we age.  But maybe that’s one of my problems as a writer.. it’s possible.

Right now, I’d be looking at the clock, from behind that bloody bar, sipping whatever’d be around the writer.. begging Time to pass quicker, which is amusing as I usually scorn the clock for passing so quick, only aging my son, mySelf, all around me I love.  A glass of something white actually sounds rather good at the moment.  Somewhere close to home?  Monti’s?  Or is that too expected?  See how I’m overthinking?

Now, crows patrol the field, only biting at the grass every 20 seconds or so, whereas the pigeons never took their beaks from the blades.

 

At Cellars, I could do some tasting, be close to the mall, where I really should consider upgrading my phone, which I hate as that only further folds me into technology’s treacherous wave.  But I have to do it, as my device loses functionality by the day, and has little to no storage because of all the pictures I’ve taken.  Should go in an investigate the upgrade–  Hemingway wouldn’t be talking like this.  And someone pulls in, two spots to my left, a white mini-cooper; a couple with their dog, some shaggy white, filthy-looking pup.  Oh, of course, they’re headed to the dog park over there, just beyond left-center field.  The dog seems energetic, needing a walk, a stretch.  As do I, the writer.  I can’t have this sitting, in my wife’s Passat, constitute my entire day’s writing retreat..

 

So.  Plan:  to mall for phone recon, then to…  Cellars.  Do some wine tasting, writing.  Make it work for you.  Make wine what you want it to be; a thematic anchor, nothing more.  And frankly, it doesn’t deserve any standing higher than that.

Going to start poem, then leave.  Will write later tonight.  Or try–  No, I should be able to.  Wish I brought some of EH’s letters with me on this drive..

 

9:29PM.  A page of fiction written at Cellars, in the Comp Book.  Then, Alice and I to Roberto’s for an impromptu, unplanned, beautifully spontaneous night.  She, her sister and mother, will be traveling north, or east on 80, to Sacramento to visit her grandmother.  With whatever time I have here, in condo, I’ll write.  Write what?  Verse.  Right now, for night’s cap, sipping Blair’s ’13 SB.  It’s in “shock”, technically, but flying to senses with quite the character.  Using the little cherry glasses for pouring, so I don’t sip too much.

Mom & Dad, to Sunriver tomorrow.  Would love a week up there, by Self, to write.  It’d have to take the form of fiction, or some narrative.  That’s the one thing about poetry I don’t agree with– the brevity; you can tell a story, but development’s always yielding to what the format, or “genre”, demands.  But either way, I think of that ’09 winter often, quite often…  Today’s theme, fielded in SB.  From the ’07 Gann I sipped at Cellars, to this ’13 I’m now courting.  Wine’s mine, and it knows so.  It no longer has even a strand of control over the writer.  And its “industry”, just humor to me.  How so many take it so seriously.

The rain, gentle.  But I can hear tap down the gutter, or drain, on the wall’s dichotomizing side.  While walking to get the laundry, in the most distant mat, here in this complex, the wind threw different drops at my mask–  Mask…  Makes me think of the Poe lectures from last semester.. ‘Red Death’, other stories.  Jack’s toy trucks around me– every time I look in the same locations, after another visual round, I find, accidentally, another.  And like that, with my sudden sight of his artifacts, the rain intensifies.  Need another glass of this recently rounded white.  Seeing more now, with this page I wrote at Cellars– the stories must forward.  Will get a bit of grading done tomorrow, as well.  Thinking of working in 15 min increments; grading, poems, novel– already too much.  Just focus on poems, novel.  That’s it.

 

10:03.  Still raining, from what I can hear.  The SB, still numbed.  Well, doesn’t matter, the bloody bottle’s open either way.  But I tire, as I always do, now, with my aging.  What if I refused science? What if I proclaimed that I’m set to enjoy a night to Self, down here, on this bloody couch?  Looking at one of Alice’s water bottles that she has after a run.  And she’s so much more habitual than the writer with her jaunts.

This weather makes me even more wish for the chance to experience “extreme” weather, be bunkered in, write while I witness from distances, vantages safe.

(2/15/14)