inward jot

Photo on 5-14-17 at 9.21 PMAfter a day of Mother’s Day outing, outings, I’m here not he couch.  No wine.  Just concentration on words and the week ahead, this new project I have in motion, and everything else I can think of.  Walking through the forest today with wife, Jack and Emma, took me mentally back to when Dad and I used to walk through Big Basin woods down near Santa Cruz.  And here I am, now 15 days before turning 38, and seeing everything as I see everything.  Tomorrow morning, goddamnit, I’m waking early.  To write, not run or workout.  I may do some pushups between paragraphs but then I wonder what that would do… should I?  Would that be just a mother-distraction in the distraction storm that has lasted this writer a life’s time, disrupting and mincing my time.  Wish I had some decaf, or water… water’s best for night sessions.  Makes your body maintain constant functionality and no danger of giving you any jitter.

No wine sipped, but it’s all about my senses.  Thinking of the Pinot I tasted at work yesterday, over and over, Sonoma Coast ringing all over my inner bells and nerves.  Pinot’s layer and riles continue to fascinate me.  I always say I’m a Cabernet chap, but maybe I don’t know myself that well as a wine drinker.  Could that be?  It’s like when people ask me what I write.  They want a singular answer, something contained and easy-to-understand.  Well, maybe it’s not.  I love Pinot, I love Cab.  I write poetry, prose, some fiction, some journalism.  Why does everything have to be so presentable and shapely, clean and pretty and bow-wrapped?  Would it be so bad if something were different and multiplied?  Walk with my family this afternoon tight me more about freedom than any manuscript has.  Looking up with Jackie at the treetops and telling everyone not to move, but to just listen.  There’s no singular reason why I did it.  I just wanted us all to sip the whole moment, wholly and with expanded openness.

If I do manage to wake early, 03:45 like the one student in my class who sits in the back and always walks in like a proud soldier after working out for over 90 minutes, I’ll advance further into this book idea.  I could be at war with myself a bit, possibly.  And this book.  This book that principally has no name.  Does, but doesn’t.  ‘A Real Wine Book’ I started to call it, and ‘Cuvée Kismet’, but now I hate both titles.  Forget the title, just write.  Huh… that goes against pretty much everything I’ve ever offered students in terms of titles.  But that’s what’s in the writer’s head now.

Well, I’m still now.  Thinking more about the day, this day of Mothers, my mama and how magical she is.  What have ever done that could even fractionally match the most minor deed she’s actuated for me or sis?  Nothing.  Now I’m not still, thinking of Mom, and how I want to make her not just proud but expectant of my work— her saying something to herself like, “I always knew he would do that.” You always want to make your parents “proud”, or I do anyway, but I want them, Mom notably today, to experience something with my success.  Yes, I’m waking up incredibly bloody early.  Pages will be filled, this wined story will be scribble and, or, typed.  We can only elevate if we speed up, if we turn on afterburners and don’t get cozy in cruise- control.

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