Up early..  Family off to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, and me here with jazz

photo-on-2-10-17-at-8-48-am-2(Hutcherson) and some coffee—  thinking, thinking…. About?  Everything.  Career shifts, how to make more money… how to log and capture everything I do, even if it’s not exciting.  Right now.. thinking poetry while listening to this jazz.  Being up early is a gift, I’m seeing.  Most want to sleep in, most want to wait for that alarm clock.  ME, I hate the clock.  I hate the alarm.  I hate anything or anyone telling me what to do, ever.  So I’m up, writing and thinking about what I think about.  Last night’s wines still on mind, especially the Cabernet (Napa).  Feels odd not having class the whole week…. Just fetched Composition Book, dated page for today.  First jot— “Poetry.” Punctuated and primed for day, and not stopping like Hutcherson’s mallets.  Can’t afford to be that writing father that waits for anything, anyone.  Just soldering into my story.  If only I could have risen earlier.  I always say that, “If only…” and “4am…”.  That shit needs to stop.  I always write that, as well, that it needs to stop.  So, I act like an alarm clock to my own brain and cogitation and sever the detrimental consistencies.

Almost time for another cup.  Think I’m running out of coffee.  That is tragic for a writer like this.  No coffee in the house?  How?  How did I let that happen?  Money’s tight.. and the priorities lie elsewhere.  With coins, dollars, whatever I have rumbling and clinging and clinging around in that backpack.  Every time I’m alone, here in the kitchen, typing at the island counter, I get this way— focusing on problems and what I’m running out of and what I don’t have, rather that what I have to utilize, creatively weaponize, and work with.  I go fetch whatever books are in my bag.. Plath’s Ariel and HST’s Fear & Loathing.  When in doubt, put it back on the author, or authors… like I tell my students right before a paper or while they’re composing a submission for the semester, and are stuck, can’t think of what to write next.  Not that I’m stuck, or maybe I am, with all this free time and quiet on my hands, sometimes filibustering certain directions and impulses.  I have to always come back to literature, with whatever I do.  I’m a writer, a tireless fearless aggressively militant disciplined writer-father.  Then I feel guilt— why?  For what?  Like I should be cleaning up the house or tidying the kitchen, or something.  Straightening the toys on the floor or putting them into little colonies, something.  Why do I feel guilt about enjoying some morning time to myself when most people I know are still fucking asleep?  I get this way, don’t mind me.

Wish I was with the babies, wife, to see Emma’s face when she sees sharks for the first time, all those fish behind the tall glass walls.  Hate being away from my babies—  I know, “What are you going to do when you start traveling?” Have no idea.  What, you thought I had an answer for that, some mood or emotional formula to mitigate traveler-daddy blues?  No way.  I see Emma smiling, touching the glass, saying “Dada, dada…” wishing I was there, or thinking I’m close by but not.  I’m at fucking work.  Now my mood sinks and throws itself into some flashing warning, telling me to turn around, focus on your writing, “There’ll be a day when you work and write and work solely from home,” it says.  Huh, can’t wait for that.

A memory pops up on my Facebook feed, from six years ago, me behind the bar, pouring at Kerry Damskey’s then-tasting room in Geyserville.  What was my life arrangement then?  My work?  “Career”?  That was 2011, and I didn’t teach that year.  Think I was just let go from some puss-bowl of a tasting room in Dry Creek, and Mr. Damskey to rely on from some pouring hours and wine story.  There needs to be a change in the writer’s story, which is what in the last few days (yesterday especially), I’ve enkindled.  Today’s Day 4… day 4 of a reinvention dash, sprint, race to tranquillity and a creative equanimity that will feed my family… give wife the option to work or not if she elects.  So much rolling and spiraling in this diarist’s dire head this morrow.

Today I’ll talk about the wines more wildly and poetically and HST-y that I ever have…..  Took a short detour to finish an article that I didn’t forget about but was just prolonging.  UGH, why do I do that?  Second cup made, but I let it cool on the little tin surface of the Keurig’s landing area (how it looks to me, like a helipad for my cup).  Hutchinson continues his jaunt across the notes as do I, this sped wine writer and blogger and journalist and creative wino, winding creatively around and about ambitions and aims.  Fucking staying inside any box.. no, not for the writer.  Certainly not this writer.  In many ways my situation hasn’t changed since that clip from Kerry’s tasting room.  I’ve realized this in the past few months, and have take drastic, somewhat forceful darts to manipulate it to my liking— more to be disclosed later of course, just know, loveliest reader, that there is a tidal wave of reconfiguration about.  And I don’t care who knows.  Doing all this for those little faces I every morning see.

The writer approaches 1,000 words.  How.  Where did the time go?  WHERE DID(!!!) THE TIME GO?  8:01.  Fuck.  Have to get in shower in 29 minutes.  Have to use restroom.  Have to drink coffee.  Feel’s though I’m losing control of my sitting and session and sentences—  “No.” I tell myself.  “Get it together.  You woke early and started writing early for a reason.  Keep working!” Think of Emma, Jack, seeing all those fish and otters and sharks… then I start writing feverishly again.