Day 05, April 24, 2017, Monday — Dry Creek General store.  Second choice for writing spot. first was Vine Street but there wasn’t a single spot for the writer to situate.  Felt odd bringing my own coffee here so I bought one of the blueberry scones that are so dreamy I actually have dreamt about them.  Asked the little lady at the front if I could work here, she said yes and here I am.  Plan for day.. clean.  This laptop, the home office which is anymore a storage or dumping area for wife things, me things, kid shit, and everything-things.  But, today I clean.  Reposition and reconfigure all around me for sakes of the writing.  Forgot to put yesterday’s poem at entry’s end.  So, here then…

Not lazy if

the relaxed state is

warranted. If there’s page.

Need more poems today.  Not just one at the end of the thousand-word sprint.  Need to show people I’m as tireless a writer as I boast.  I will, especially today.  Did a fair job yesterday, but I look to improve, improve more.. test myself and educate myself along the way, the whole way.  So that finally when I turn 38 I have a “way”.

Pretty sure I have today off, but I’m going to go by the winery just in case.  Hope I DON’T work, ‘cause the pants I have on, jeans, have a slight tear in the left knee.  But I’m out with them, here writing.. inventorying my progress.  Can’t forget to edit and post the piece I wrote yesterday about wine being bottled poetry, and how I see the vineyard as more poetic and artful, divine, than the wine.  What to write about… always go back to the vineyard, with me.  Always.  I share with students there’s no such thing as writer’s block.  And there’s not, for me.  I do believe “writer’s block” exists, but only if you let it.  IF you allow yourself to be blocked, you will be blocked.  My solution, if I’m to teach anything in this entry… is to have one singular thought, concept, thing, place, idea to return to.  Me, vines…. You, maybe your job, or your children, your dreams of being whatever.  And then I conjure another thing for me, a place.. the office I haven’t landed in yet.  But one day I will.  And wall to wall, books… music… a screen for screening films wine or writing-honed films made by myself or someone I work with.  There’s a lot coming, and it’s all from the vineyard blocks behind me, all around me, here in Dry Creek and all over Sonoma and Napa counties.

This Store…. pretty sure it’s my preferred writing room, space, office.  Office?  Guess you could call it that, at least for now, but in this office nothing’s free.  Even this scone was $2.50.  That befuddles me when I really consider the tag.  Two dollars, fifty cents.  For a scone… okay, well, nothing I can do about it now.  And if I wanted a breakfast burrito, which I’ll disclose are proverbially prophetic in how resplendent they taste.  So.. I have to watch myself in this office.  When I leave, may write a little outside, in Composition Book, to necessitate further this “tireless writer” creed I’m always chirping…

something in my soles

steps, morning synchrony has me

ajazz, flying all around in my own head

nothing wrong with that, not if you’re

free, freer than free, so liberated that

any stationing is confinement —

so, just keep with your taps, playing all around all


that’s a garrulous anecdote

Had to expel that poem, but it’s not the day’s piece.  No.. that I will write later, keeping with my pattern.  Discipline… what I’m learning more and more shapes a writer and how he’s seen outside his pages.  And in them, now I think.  People all around me working and moving something from one corner of the store to the other, and I’m too busy to sip my coffee or look at my phone, I’m too glued to this occupational hue… not just digging for truth but fiercely excavating my own ideologies and hiking around my own head like it’s the Matterhorn… more jazz, more jazz, more notes from Hutchinson and Miles, John and Oscar… they’re just playing, and that’s what we need to do more, we writers.  Don’t shoot so stubbornly for form.  Why?  The in-the-moment shape is its own form, and it’ll never be duplicated.  It can’t, ‘cause it was, is, that moment.  The moment is the piece— like me here with coffee I haven’t touched and the scone I bite every five minutes or so.  Yes I’ve written here before, with these same additives (scone, phone, Comp Book, coffee), but not today, this 24th day of April, 2017.  Understand?  This Now is the only time it can be written or tasted.  So why not write?  Why not bite?

09:18— attacking the time with its own numbers.  Like stopping a robber mid-rob and stealing what he stole from you.  My moment now tells me to pretend these keys don’t have words on them but rather nothing.. they’re piano keys, me and this urge to recite poetry to the vase on the table with an astronomical price tag.  How much is it?  No tag.  What about the wine behind me?  Too into my Now to look.  And I’m not interested in wine, not now, not as much as I am my sweet, elevating vineyards.  Rain expected today— and you might say, “Well you can’t walk out there between rows when it’s raining.” Well, there’s no better time to walk out there, actually.  And, “out there” isn’t “out” or any kind of “there”, if you were to know.  I’m IN a dimension I feel encouraged and renewed, alive, safe.  Additionally, that “there” is more a “here” than anything else to me, even when I’m not by a vine.  The time goes faster and more recklessly by.  What can the writing father do?  Keep writing.  And if I’m not writing, then think of vines, the dirt, the creek, sky above the blocks and burgeoning grapes.  Here, not ‘there’, you find moi.