last 3 dayz

Done with Chardonnay, now to decaf and those Star Wars cinnamon or ginger crackers, my son’s.  You know you’re a dad when you feel guilty about eating them.  I do, now.  Sip the Peet’s ‘dc’, and…  so much calm, Matterhorn tranquility.  Coffee and I have a relationship that alone could give way to a docking monumental of memoirs…  Two of the Star Wars bites, and I think about the day, that group of 100 or whatever it was, just sipping wine, and so fast we had trouble keeping with them.  the bride-to-be was elated with her wine country panoramic, and me just pouring but acknowledging and appreciating their day before the ‘big day’.

Atmospheric light down here, lower than usual, and I get tired quicker.  Think I heard J upstairs jumping around, so I’m at that part of the parenting play, I think to myself before having another swig of this de-charged coffee.  And I’m glad it’s de-, rather than avec.  I need this Chardonnay out of my system and with a certain tempo—  The writer only wants to now relax ad be lazy.  I’m done with the Chardonnay, remember?  MY mind goes everywhere just days before Summer semester, and I think I heard the back neighbor ry to drill something, or just boldly and blatantly drill something.  Would love to have more of the Chardonnay, but if this is a memoir or diary-pull I want it to read as me not a saucy.  I’m pulling this coffee cup, of de-charged bean to my lips so I can out-even.  Would love more of these crackers, or cookies, whatever they are.  Parents can relate, how I appreciate and take advantage full and fulfilled of this late eve Friday quiet.  How I chug this de- in order to rid self of Chardonnay’s wake.  Trying to be more ‘wake, more conscious and elevate to what’s venerated from the wine, from me, from this moment.

Picking this up in morning, this entry, hoping I wake at, I don’t know, like, 5-ish…?  Guess I’ll see.  ‘nother sip of the de’, and I deliberate, decide upon things, certain choices and avenue that will bring me everything, that wheel a place where I check with no one for a thing.

Time to study.  No more writing.  I’ll make a U-ie after I wake, come back to this exact fucking sentence.  My vocabulary can keep with my chameleonic and kaleidoscopic code and carrousel— have eight minutes to raise or reach..something.  I’m a mess right now, this writer, wanting the Road and travel so bad that I—  Stop whining, just do.  So I tell students this:  Make a list of your stresses, study and love them, then try to sell them, however you want to.  Be crEATive with this.  This is a paradoxing and parasailing with these guys— think my calling bed is calling now and I have to accommodate, provide and wherever the work and word.  And rain, only motif—  Who are, what person you vote for, and as long as they support the tax laws and other certain renderings…


Leaving the above paragraph as is, errors aplenty and all, so I now know, no more sipping wine then writing.  To my credit, I did have a cup of decaf, ad those Star Wars cookies or crackers or whatever they are.  TODAY—  French, and a ton of it.  Starting with the phrase ‘trente jours’, or  thirty days.  I’m not doing one of those trite and useless 30 day challenges, but I am going to take a 30 day sample of my life, the same way I many times do what I can “measuring runs”, see what I do in a certain time, or distance.  Like my last run was supposed to be a 13.1 measure run, but I only made it 11.33, which told me something… train more!  So… today, day 1.  The intention? See what happens.  30 days in the story of this writing, the one writing it.  Sipping real coffee, as per my normal routine, not as much stress in the house as this is Saturday, a day off, kind of, for Ms. Alice and little Kerouac.

It wouldn’t be banal to have goals for this 30-jour sprint, would it?  Okay…

1 – be FLUENT in French by 7/18/16

2 – Compile a book, nonfiction, prose, any length

3 – Run 13.1 twice

And that’s all I’m listing for now.  I know me, and I know that I could just keep listing and listing and wishlisting away.  And having too many targets would nullify the intention of this 30 day measure.  It has to be more natural than coaxed.  Now, stop talking about…..

Feeling amazing after the throws of the coffee.  Should get in shower soon, try to get out of here a bit early.  No private tastings scheduled for day, far as I know, which saddens me a bit as I’ve developed quite and acuity for the private pouring atmosphere and narration.  Not only is it a perfect way to pocket cash, but I can speak of the wines in a more thorough and expansive fashion.  Yesterday was going through a tasting with some people from New York, and one of them commented on my use of literary references and poetry in the personification of the, I think, Rockpile Zin.  They loved it, and I shyly thanked them, but realized that I didn’t realize I was speaking about the wine that way.  Then I understood, and understand, it’s just WHAT I am.  A literary character in a business, the wine business, and how I speak moves bottles as no one else orates that way about the bottles and what’s in their glassed borders.  I have something.

J’s waffles are ready, but hot so I have a couple minutes to write, letting them cool in the toaster, and slow, so it’s possible I have up to 2 minutes of words.. my sagacity for day:  “To suppress free speech is a double wrong.  It violates the rights of the hearer as well as those of the speaker.” (Frederick Douglass).  I need to be freer in my writing and speaking, care less like HST.  Ugh… if only I could have this whole day, or at the very very least the 8 hours I’m to devote to the winery, to just write, build my story, contribute to my ‘trente jours’.


And this next day, 6/19, day before semester starts, Father’s Day, I feel off, and odd.  Sip coffee downstairs, no one up yet but of course that will change at any moment as I’ve so many times noted.  No run last night or this morning obviously.  Should do some push-ups after I wake a bit more.  Toward the end of yesterday, was hit with a meteoric mood, and not sure why.  Some of it extends to this morning as I said, but I can’t clearly discern its origin.  If I think back to the end of the day, it started a bit after 4.. but what directed and motivated it?  No idea.  Just have to forward move.

Going to fast most of the day, since I’m not running.  I know it sounds like lunacy, and it is a bit, but it’s just my method.  I’m surely not endorsing anyone starve themselves.  And I don’t view it as starvation, but purposeful abstinence.  I know, just convenient wording, right?  But that’s what I’m doing.  I will eat, but just at day’s end.

Having another sip of coffee, picking cup off floor.  Makes me nervous, afraid I’ll drip or worse spill onto this laptop like Kali did at work, killing the device.  No big to a work computer with no personal writing on it, but if that happened to me I think I’d seriously consider cyanide.  So now I’m sitting on the floor.  Yeah I could still spill, maybe, but there’s not as high a liability so close to the cup, not having to lift it in such a dubious and chancy way with my fingertips.

Hear someone stirring up there, more than likely Jackie.  So he’ll be down here any minute, and—  I’ve written this before.   And this is just what I’m trying to break with the trente jours project, pattern and predictability.  So do something different.  What—  Write a letter.

To whom?

I know.

Will in a second.  New reading partner possibly and ways to see how others read and what they read.  This character is younger than I, but with the same ire and desire to change habit, do things different and improve Self in certain ways, one is beginning with a reading project.  Character came to the winery yesterday, with book and a blanket to sit on, enjoy a couple splashes of wine while reading.  Eager to see where this association goes, what the character reads and how they react and how they react to my reactions.

Morning aloft, Jack is definitely headed my way.  Time to switch modes.  To father mode.   On Father’s Day.  And just like that, so swift and definite, the session ends.  MY time, ends.  No mood surfacing, just a realization.  What being a Father is, partially, I guess.  Just wish I could wake earlier.  That 4AM war, not a war at all, as the hour and the alarm clock always win, enjoying me going back to sleep and not following through with my inclination to battle the hour, wake when the alarm goes and write.  But I’m here now, 6:46AM and one coffee in.  Doing the best I can, a writing father.