Neither body nor thinking will let me fall back to sleep.  5:38AM.. should go running but all my uniform for such is somewhere upstairs, in our room.  If Jackie weren’t in there with Alice, I might attempt.  But no, not now.  Keep thinking of all the changes at Palooza and the new chapters my friend Jeff writes; with the cheese plate Nate and I last night ate, the poker tables, the new beers, events, bookings.. trying to mimic such spontaneity and risk execution but it’s difficult– that’s what I sort out during tonight’s writing retreat.  First thing after work, run, 7 or 8 miles, Lawndale and part of estate.  Then drive home, dinner, pick up beer of some type [Little Sumpin’ or Racer 5].  Then finish whoso draft.. this HAS to be done.  Then enjoy some freewriting– yes I need to edit the novel but so what, I need a night of writing, long intervals of jazzprose.  And I will turn off my phone, make it so no one can get to me.  No, what if Alice calls..true, so then don’t answer anyone’s calls.  This will be an exercise of certain discipline but I’m more than fixed and set to put so in definite wheeling.

No mochas this morning, just hard black coffee.  But it’s too early.  If my little Artist even detects a hint of noise associated with my activity my cover’s blown down here, in the dark, on the couch.  Usually the noise the fridge makes masks my types, but it’s so quiet down here you could hear the amoeba’s shapeshifting.  Before rising to type, I saw the alternate beamings of the two laptops stacked atop each other on the red endtable.  One would beam then fade, then other.. beam, fade.  No significance I don’t think just and observation I wanted to log.  And the light threw itself through the small rectangular diode on the front, lower keyboard portion.  Now the fridge chants in its low octave and I have a little bit of cover, can type faster.  Another objective for tonight if to go through photos, on the old phone as well as new and this laptop itself.  At the stoplight at 12 & Los Alamos last night, before turning left, I noticed a starkly magnetic and poignantly luminous sunset– I’d never seen one like this actually and I’m not sure my words are conveying what  I saw, in fact I’m sure they’re not.  So I look at the pic I shot while at the red, on my phone.  Rich watery orange with blinding yellow, surrounded by gray–puffy muscular but weakened–of defeated clouds.  And where the orange meets the gray cupping you’re drawn to a strange pink featherish bend.  And when the light fell to its inevitable green, I turned, still looking.

Do I want to lay back down, try to get some sleep, or write more?  Look something up on journalism or Hemingway or S. Thompson?  Or write Amber, or Dav.  No urge to write Lila as her priority isn’t with writing, I feel, and certainly not writing me.  She’s had tumbles of bad luck and I’m hoping she pulls herself from it, but I’m of the thought that a writer writes no matter how cloudy or rainy it happens, ‘it’ being life, your days and circumstances and story evolution.  Hate that word “evolution”, especially after always hearing this one winemaker always say “the evolution in the glass”, referencing how the wine is changing both in bottle and after it’s poured.  Just a sidenote, but…  Words, I’m always trying to find new ones, and I don’t want to bore you with these writer problems and troubles, or pains, but I just wanted it noted here somehow.  And there I go, causing another katzenjammer…

5:57AM.  Now there’s most definitively no way I could fall back into any kind of sleep rest or dream.  No motion upstairs, but I should type quieter or try as the fridge will be quiet soon.  Should do some reading while here, in this peace.  Get ahead on Hem’s ‘Feast’.  But I do want to read the Thompson interview on the Paris Review site.  OR, finish the 300-word standalone I started in the parking lot yesterday.  No eating till noon, Hunger and discipline like Hemingway argued– sharpen senses and alter perception; make it sensitive and reactionary and acute like it’s never been.  Focus on the people coming into the tasting room and how they approach the bar and how they sip wine and what questions they pose and what critical remarks they make like they want the whole tasting room to hear them.  And the dumbfounding quiet returns to this lower floor, 6:02.  This is about when we all usually start our day’s machine, but not today, it’s Saturday.  Alice & little Kerouac head for Monterey around 9, or earlier now I remember as my little bestfriend has a haircut scheduled in Petaluma.  He grows faster than I want him to, but he’s excited with all the new abilities he can display and repeat.  I have no choice but to celebrate with him, even though more and more of my baby I lose.  I look forward to bikerides, catch, running with little Jackie, and discussions like those Dad and I have always held.  Funny, mentioning Dad, I woke thinking of Eric Hoffer, and how Dad introduced me to ‘The True Believer’.  Never did complete that book, but this was my first thought waking from a dream about Uncle Stevie and Auntie Linda [wonder whatever happened to them].

TONIGHT: Read.  OVERDOSE on philosophy and politics; take notes, write freely, start a new book.. fuck it.  And organize your office, find wines to give away.. free much space in that closet– there should never be more wine than books, anywhere in this house.

Winery, the labor, what is it doing to me?  Hoffer saw labor as a right of passage.  Not sure I fully agree and I’d need to know what he means, truly, in his idea, but I can only wonder what impact his winery stint will have on the writer– if anything, right now, I’m ireful, fanged and nettled.