img_1897Day 02, April 21, 2017, Friday — Finally.  Seated for morning thousand and poem.  Day two of the project that should get me to my traveling and teaching in various zones and states, universities and, or, wherever.  At Dry Creek again… workers around me rearranging, and its especially cold in here— sleeves once up now down.  Quite a morning, with getting babies to school in molasses traffic, seeing one accident off to right, Jackie asking me “What happened, Dada?” Me just saying, “You need to drive safe.” A delivery man in front of me, bringing something to door that leads to back room, me trying to concentrate, cyclists on Dry Creek Road and a herd of them feeding outside, just in that side area by the driveway.  Feel so rushed this morning.  I somewhat understand why, and then part of me is utterly clueless.  It’s 08:54 in this breath, and I have more than 30 minutes to myself— to write, collect, promote, tell my story and have time to self (which these thousand words are often about, anyway).  Can’t tell what it is.  But either way, I’m writing through it.  Should be irregularly busy and sped today, with only myself and one other, J, behind bar.  Just have to be quick.  Wore old pair of running shoes today… so I’ll be in runner mode while pouring and getting shipments, getting other wines we need from back room or barrel hall.

Too many people around me right now.  I should go.  Write in my car somewhere, or just go to winery and write at one of the desks.  NO.  IF I’m to learn anything from this, it’s to write through distraction and less-than-beaming conditions.  First coffee sip, and I’m disciplining myself further.  Heard steps and lifted my head, girl saying ‘hi’ to me with that phony smile, or obligatory lip-up curvature, and me returning.  Don’t do that.  Just write.  This is your time— the morning.  After this your time is shared, commissioned.  Wake early, work early, for you…. Scone.  Blueberry again.  Asked about the breakfast burrito and the lady said it was close to eight dollars, or certainly over seven.  Yeah, not for this writer.  There’s the budget, but I want to be less comfortable when I write.  “A writer warrior”, one person said in a note to me.  Well, no.  Just a writer.  A serious writer— disciplined, firm, unrelenting, ardent and entrenched.

Cold still, but the people around me have left.  To take a break?  I don’t know.  No breaks for me.  I cross the 09:00 border.  Write quicker, with more poetic hue and form.  Read that Ezra Pound piece yesterday with class, “Before Sleep” I think it’s called.  I clung to his words and repetition, use of mythological reference and line breaks.  My form adds more poetic walk and color, as I age.  Why?  I’m crying less.  I’m not trying to be marketable. If I’m truthful to everything around and in my character then it’ll sell.  I’ll be moving.  But that’s the real priority, money.  MY apexing aim is FREEDOM.

Blueberry scone.  Not as amusing this morning.  Not looking at phone, or doing any marketing in this sitting.  Just the sitting.  Starting to love this store as a writing base.  What will this project look like when it’s done, this 2nd project?  The first one started with me biblically aggravated with money, work, myself.. everything around me. But I thought while driving up here, somewhere on the Windsor-Healdsburg border, again, that I have everything I need.  I’m not going to acquire the home I want with a teaching job, and certainly not working in the wine industry.  So, stay where you are… combine the two.  Make a story out of that— or rather, keep building the story from that, just intensify.  Test yourself.  Only answer.  In fact it’s not just an answer or a key or a solution— but a healing self-actuation.  Tourist walks by in workout clothes.  Not sure she’s one of the biker group, but she’s slow, deliberate, looking at everything on the shelves as though she’s never been here.  With such curiosity and analytical lean, tightened eyes and inner-speak.  Wonder what she’s thinking.  Would love to know, not only what it’s like to be somewhere for the first time, but to be eased… not pressured by time.  But I am and this is the writer’s story— this writing father.  The cool air in this this structure and lowered the coffee’s temp.  I write faster but become strangely relaxed, like I’m on vacation.  Maybe I should get one of those burritos, or a sandwich for lunch later.  No… still have quite a continent of scone remaining.

My goddamn backpack.  Promised myself, and you I think, reader, that I’d empty it.  Tonight, after gym, avowed.  But I could be jinxing myself with that oath.  Well, just know I’m thinking about consolidation and not having to haul this fucking this around.  Hemingway just carried a couple notebooks and pencils, in ‘Feast’.  That’s how I need be.  Today at lunch.. no laptop.  Well, it’ll be dead by then, right now only showing 29% support in its anatomy.  So me.. writing.. not so much typing after these morning thousand.  So let’s see… 28 days from now will be…. can’t afford time to check, but let’s just say 30.  May 21st, about.  Just on the doorstep of age 38.  God. Damn. It.  And time itself for that matter.

09:15.  Only 15 minutes till scheduled departure from my long, rustic, grainy wood surface here in the aorta of the store.  Forget the time… and it won’t take me a half-hour to get to the winery.  I should get there early, though.  See?  That’s my problem.  Need be earlier, for everything.  Ahead of schedule… with passing back papers, writing deadlines, waking up to write or run, or both— everything earlier.  Finally seated, but only to get back up.  That’s how it goes in the morning and the beauty of this project— that even with my constricted time mitt, I manage a thousand words and a poem.  Didn’t have that condition going into day one, but here it be decreed.  Thousand words, one poem, in earliest A.M. I can compose.

And into the day the writer blazes…  An Ezra.  Free.