New Rewire Wired
sbux on vine street. My screen exposed and I hate where I’m sitting but I think a lady’s getting up. I’ll take her seat if she does. I’m a predator now, watching— no, she doesn’t leave. I’m starving this morning and in a bit of a mood but I try to write myself out of and through it. Other people here working, what do they do? This morning driving here, watching the clouds collect and speeding through a short standing of rain (if you could even call it rain), I thought of a “dream job”, the ‘perfect world’ conversation Dad and I had at Monti’s that night. And mine— writing. But it has to be more than that.. this blogging, recording everything, building content.. rich content, being a professional storyteller. Of whatever I can find. Even this breakfast sandwich, with its meat and cheese and egg equator; comforting me and telling me to snap out of my mood, that this day is going to be the greatest of ’16 so far. I have to record everything, everyone, every thought I have no matter how trivial or commonplace. The Carpe journal under the phone, I’ll note in it all morning, afternoon I mean… And into this evening. Jotted a couple thoughts this morning on Jack and how mornings are crazy for this writing father. But that’s what maketh Autumn Walk the perfect studio for me, gathering my notes and sharing my life as a writing/blogging father. The jazz I listen to tells me to hurry up that life won’t wait and if I stop even for a second I miss material, I miss a story which I can’t afford— Scott in tasting room, whom I call affectionately and humorously “Safeway Scott” as he used to work at Safeway for a better 30 or so years, just messaged me, notifying me of my business cards arriving. So now I’m part of the winery, but do I want to be? Yes.. it’s what the story intends. I will make Sanglier my own, sell wine like I haven’t anywhere else, give the owner no choice but to put me in an instrumental position, put me on the Road to grow the brand, the story. Other people at this long obtrusive table. I battle further the mood, making it altogether retreat, and if people are watching what I type from behind or making remarks, it’s from jealousy that I write so fast, that I embody writing and the writer’s life like no one alive. Tomorrow… I wake at 4, watch me. Not a drop of wine tonight, and if I feel the hankering for a splash of one of my better reds, as I last night planned for tonight, then I’ll take notes in the Carpe, what I’m feeling and what I imagine— if I were on the Road and not in the AW Studio with Ms. Alice, the two Madigan babies.
Started lecturing last night, only abbreviatedly, on Kerouac, his Road book, what he was and why he wrote the way he did, and lived the way he did. I’m now taken from my paragraph looking at the goddamn time, 11:02. 28 minutes left in the sitting. Want to hit a thousand words for this morning, edit a bit if at all, then fly to the tasting room knowing this day, February 18th of ’16 will be the single day that defines my writer-blogger-entrepreneur-hood. Feel like I’m starting a new job today, and not like I’ve similarly expressed prior to today. I’m quick like this jazz, this Cannonball Adderley track, “Love For Sale”. Which is precisely my business, my love of writing, of living, of telling stories, of teaching and wine and travel, people and their stories. So much I’m feeling and seeing this A.M., I can’t be taken from this session, no matter how hard these people around me unintentionally attempt. Tempted to lower the volume in my ears as it is a bit loud, slightly irksome, but no. I AM jazz today, the percussion and the sax, the piano and the— That lady gets up again, I think she’s packing. But I can’t move from this chair, it’ll take too much time and in the 90 or 120 seconds it takes to relocate I could paginate at least 50, maybe 75, maybe even 90 or 100 words. And she’s gone. I’m still here, enjoying my day, the thoughts of the drive up 101 to H-burg, the last bite of the sandwich and the first sip of the three-shotter (mocha of course). I feel isolated more, and more at peace with that lady gone. Note on a Carpe page, where at the top I wrote “DREAM”, not “DREAM JOB”, as my dream job wouldn’t be a job at all. It’d be a life, not a life “style”. IT would, and will, just be me, how I am and what I do which is what I am— writer blogger liver. No more applications or interviews or hounding people to get me in anywhere. I’m hiring myself, how ‘bout that? Today, day one of my new job. What’s my title? Why do I need one? “You need one,” a voice says. “Okay,” I react, “writer”.
“You need to capitalize it.”
“That’s more professional.”
“That’s just why I’m not capitalizing it.”
“And, the title might change.”
“Not sure. I have to wait.”
“I don’t know.”
My inner stichomythia stops for a new thought, “running”. I need all my runs to be like my treadmill work the other day, and progressively more impressive, stronger, each run. No digression or ‘bad runs’. I seek to only impress myself with each outing. Running IS writing, and the reversal. The life I feel now is inconceivably more potent than any illegal stimulant. This, here, is my fetish, as I told my friend last night— The coffee, the jazz, the solitude, the word, dreams like beautifully disturbed puddles. The dream splash to tangibility.