Writing freely.  No particular address from this mood and where this mood came from, who knows.. in old neighborhood Starbucks and thinking about everything from the condo we can’t be rid of soon enough, to the Adjunct War, to the wine world and how I’ll never be where I wish, financially, or even Creatively.. have to think, and I looked at a copy of the New York Times after ordering my cup and thought about the blogging for hire I’m doing, how utterly unriveting it is.  But it pays, so I should shut up, right?  Not in agreement ever with such disposition– this meditation here at this small deplorable table by the entrance/exit has to determine something, and what I don’t know– so many options and many detract and redact my identity; the writer and reader and lecturer, jazz lover, the one who only for Autonomy aims.. and this mood won’t let me, won’t undo its harness.. the barista asked me, “JC or winery today?” “Both,” I told him.  He laughed a little, shook his head, or started to but then caught himself, “Well.. good luck,” he finished.  I don’t know what the subtext or implication was, is, to his words but I didn’t like it and I don’t believe it to be targeted, really.  And is any of it untrue?  No.. I’m aiming to singularize everything, in wine and writing.. but how?  And travel, see the entire world, even the parts people and the government tell me not to, to avoid.. so I write on and hope for the best and know I have to keep writing.  This life, all its options and pitfalls potential– a young lady walks out with three kids.. I realize my life could be much more taxing and tough, so I should temper my temper and agitation, my pervading impatience, find my Road however I can, in this little crowded space, watching people leave into their lives and whatever they have to do for the day.

See another car pull up and I’m distracted by the two girls to my right, sitting in the tall chairs at the stretched counter, against the glass with a view of the courtyard, talking and annoying me, talking over Hutcherson’s tune, or Evans’, sorry.  My mood further swirls into some introverted postmodern shade, serrated and angular, jagged and opaque in narrative.  But don’t worry, reader, I’m just thinking, writing freely, and I deserve that once in a while, don’t I?  This is a 36 y/o (can’t bring myself to write it out.. mood…..) father and husband wanting to be seen and riled to function with a certain verity and brio.  So I write on, enjoying the freedom, and loving this life and the challenge it provides– and no I’m not depressed!  If I were I would have given up by now, or worse, but no I keep writing and shunning and dismissing all inhibitions of formality surrounding punctuation and professionalism and the syntactic strictures that act like bars and mar the Artist’s card, or cards he’s to play.. but I forward anyway, with only change in my pocket at the moment, used debit card for the mocha– cash anymore making the writer nervous.

And to expect what from this day?  Hopefully time to finish my articles, or at least the Tours one.. address the others tonight, stay up a bit late, then tomorrow murder the remaining two, submit, be rid of them.  And I better be paid promptly, or there will be an unraveling of the writer, for sure– I’ll turn into the agitated Martin Eden, a ruffled Hemingway.  I turn up the music in my ears to rid my Self of the teeny dialogue.. ugh, why did I put myself here?  Did another spot open?  Can’t stop typing now.  Like I wrote to this term’s matriculants, “Overthink is writing death.” So I just stop thinking and write and imagine me sipping wine in some hotel room, on my balcony, looking at the ocean or some lawn or pool area and typing, finishing my day’s entry or maybe the novel I’m writing while on the Road, from writing about a character who only wanted to see the Road– well now I’m here, so my gears go that way, to the attained, to what I see…  Oh I can’t wait.  I won’t wait, more like it if you must know.  I’m tired of waiting; for people to call me back, for an editor to approve an outline, for a paycheck, for.. anything.

You should see how focused I am at the moment, thinking only about this night’s class, my articles, the novel, and that’s about it.  What I want and how to get it, in these freely written writes, knowing my penning rights, all to me; my universe and innovative urges and translation of what I observe; the talkers right, the door ahead, the older lady who just say behind me, crumbling her little bag while removing the pastry, think a scone; my son just down the street at his school, tempted to go back, take him home so we can enjoy the day, a day off for us both, we deserve, protestedly!

And who knows, maybe it’ll happen soon, and fast, and I’ll be on the plane thinking, “Wasn’t I just in a Starbucks talking about this very moment?” Or probably, “What am I going to talk about?” (at the college I’m flying to).  Would love to write a lecture on the plane, look down at the clouds or if it’s a redeye then enjoy just the little thin beaming descent to my fold-out, me scribbling as quiet and lightly as I can so I don’t wake the person at my 12.  But I have to have the lecture done by the time I land in Massachusetts.  Harvard, expecting me, my paper on the translation of ‘On The Road’, arguing that all is addiction in passion, and if the Road is Life then Life is the greatest and most dangerous of all addictions…  Soon, soon!  My 14-page paper, much more charing and enlivening than these dimwit “articles” (I don’t even know if you could call them so) I’ve been commissioned to post on some blog– so no, they’re not articles, certainly not like there’re articles in the NYT!  It’s a blog!  For tourists or new-be-ers to wine’s wheel.  Ugh, disgusting..

So I should close, 9:39, having to leave for RRV in the soonest of soons, and I have to edit– a large man whom I see here regularly walks out in an exhausted wobble, me chagrined at all the hours ahead of me, I’ll be that tired at day’s end, or not, who knows– but the day and its music keeps me hitting the highhat, playing in scales and yaying rather than the usual Nietzschean naying.  The sky, clear but not, only clouds that want one last say in what’s seen, the visual to take with you for the remain hours, oh thanks, I think–  Man opens door, looks in, decides no.  So what did he see, what did he think?  Is the Time getting to him, not enough to stand in line and wait for the fix?  I understand…  But then he comes back, rushes to the order station.  Gets what he wants.  “Good for him,” I say.

(6/17/15)