Second day of this

project, and the sore throat persists.  Not as bad as yesterday when I first woke but it’s there and it’s noticeable.  Sipping coffee from tumbler, and I cannot wake up for this life of this writing father.  Jackie plays with that mini-computer or tablet my sister bought him whenever ago—  “Sip the coffee faster!” I order Self.  Fantasize of an ‘if’…  If I had the day off today, the whole day to write, hit my 3 pages for the 30 mission then fiddle with poems, short pieces to sell.

Checked bank account balance, and I’m pushed, pushed to keep writing and forget about how tired I am right now and how I wish I had the whole day off.  Nonsense.  If I had the whole day I’d have no stories, nothing of the tasting type— people coming in from wherever to taste our wines and make their comments, observations, wanting to sound like roaming wine authorities- “Oh I’m looking for some new stuff for my cellar… I’m low on Cabs right now,” one guy, a block from the East Bay said.  Then another guy, I think local, a total clown with his questions about everything, from the oak regiment to the region, to the clone of Cabernet that’s in the AV Cab—  I just walked away, but when I came back to the counter at one point he was still there, tasting through everything for the 13th time, asking “So this one’s American oak, right?  For how long?” Ugh… what does it matter, I always want to know.  Once you have the answer you’re after, is your life that much better?  Already bored talking about it.. moving on.

Waking quickly with this coffee.  7:11.  Class next week— need to do something different.  Pass everything back on Monday and do an aside on poetry.. form and rime and the expression behind certain poems.  Have to decide which poems I want to use, though.  Thinking a couple by Ezra, one or two by Dickinson, Kerouac, Hughes…  Next week’s teaching days (days 3-6 of this 30-day mission), will be completely about teaching, noting every minute I can something for class, something for the students to think about.  Timed writing… writing on a piece of scratch paper (may bring some of those small pieces from work that I’ve cut over the past few weeks or months, right by the register for someone to take notes on.. whatever).  That’s interesting, being forced to write in a small confined, concentrated, FOCUSED, space.  What a thought.. me, focused.  I know, seems like a lot to ask, I know.

“Daddy, my tummy’s hungry… do you know?  Do you hear my tummy?” Jackie remarked.  So I get up, ready the waffles for toaster.  Write every minute I can, while it toasts then after he has the waffles.  Approaching page two, already.  Fine start to the day, this writing father hasn’t the energy for running this morning.  I’ll run tomorrow morning— always say that, but I will.  Not as much a time constraint.  But will have to wake early and have running gear down here, in the office.  Forgot to get everything from room last night and when I went up there to look for my shorts, socks, one of those non-cotton shirts, I couldn’t find it and could have looked but didn’t want to wake little Emma who sleeps in our room, by our bed in one of those little ricking bassinets.  Ugh, if I only had the day today to run, get in ten miles then write the rest of the day.  Soon… at the end of this project I’ll be inches from the Road, my first travel to a hotel and unfamiliar stage where I’ll be atmospherically demand to not stop with my morning types.

So.. is the aim to be a travel writer?  I always ask myself that.  Well, somewhat but not as you think of a ‘travel writer’.  I have no aim to be a journalist for some corny travel mag’, nor do I want to be like that guy, what’s his name.. Rick Steves?  I want travel to be THE thematic anchor in my nonfiction, in my essays and in my verses.  Not wine.. not running, even.  I target constant movement, both around this country and through others.