a Bottled Ox

Bright Letter

This morning so far has been intensive with meditative qualities, not stressing about anything.  And Time, what “Time”?  I’m ignoring it, the most sizable culprit of stress.  And enveloping myself in every moment greeting me.  Spending time downstairs with my boy, nearly 4, and little daughter, 2 months come next.  Time depresses and slows me frankly with its swiftness and disregard for how it swirls and pushes and pulls me.  But today, embracing all the seconds on the clock.  I tell my students that each moment is its own standalone piece.  And today I practice that, write from that, grow and learn from that, plan in it; establishing new visions and goals and dreams that must quickly be brought to fruitfully fruity fruition.

In the Sanglier tasting room on Center—  I mean ‘Plaza’ Street on Healdsburg’s Square.  Where I eventually want my office.  After this article I’ll go for a walk in this light but thickly consistent drizzle, a blend or rain and translucent-feeling mist.  No wine today, not a sip, need stay focused and plan.  I’m working, not just for this winery but for myself and the moment— this is the semester where everything is augmented to my standards and I see travel.  Not just my winemaker friends get to travel, I tell myself.  Yesterday I found this writer in a great stall, an evaporated ebb, a dried river of creative momentum; a polluted creek-bed.  But not this morning and again never.  The moments will compile for me, and the fortune will only upon this writer fall.  Saw this morning while returning from Jack’s school transportation, getting a hot chocolate for Alice and another, one of the last free tumbler refills of the month (promo ends 1/31), I checked my account balance and saw over $500 deposited from Solano.  Part of me’s puzzled.  Part of me wants to know why.  But, why?  Why wonder?  That’s what the day’s story intends, has gifted me and I with it run— no, I devilishly SPRINT to the next moment, the next idea, the next invitation from the story to be fiery in my creative combustion.  Composition to Composition.  Meditate, don’t fight the story and It will be kind, so kind.

At one of my past jobs, and many of you know I’ve had many— actually, the Insurance gig, with ‘Roger the Racist’ I called him— Roger said to me one day in his office, “Your biggest problem is your attitude.” Could have leapt over the desk and choked him, at the time, but now I see that as easily one of the more useful critiques of my character, ever.  MY disposition an emotional argot today is colorful, musical like the Hutcherson mallets I now hear.

I love mornings like this.. ideas.. envisages I can tangible bring.

Then more prize for my day, a Summer Semester class.  Wasn’t sure I was going to get one, in fact I was quite resigned to not getting one after the department admin, Janet, a nice lady who always seems shy and evasive but is unquantifiably generous and helpful, told me it didn’t look like I was going to get a section with my microscopic “seniority”, and that I’m Adjunct.  But, I do now!  An English 100, from 6-8:15, Monday to Thursday.  This beaming perspective, from me, I must credit myself a bit, is working, only magnetizing the affirmative, the ‘yay’, expelling the ‘nay’.  A happiest of Fridays, and I have no idea what time it is.  Or even, what “time” is.

Couldn’t care less.