Emma not wanting to hold my hand while walking little Kerouac to class, and certainly not wanting for Daddy to carry her. Somewhat saddening but an obvious metaphor and suggestion the way I saw it… autonomy. Clear discernment of what I was seeing, her in hr confident strut at not even 2 years of life. And me, sometimes weary of things, overly cautious, so much on the plate, juggling worlds and priorities, objectives and visions. But Emma’s walk this morning taught me to keep walking, just get out there and let the world see you in confidence, no second-guising of self or double-takes.
At Starbucks, on Hopper, and luckily I secured the table I regard as mine, in this alcove off to the side just around the corner from where people wait for their drinks. I spent the $0.50 on a refill of the iced coffee wife bought me earlier. And that’s another topic… she waking and me with her but not staying up, going back to sleep, even after I stood there over bed after she left for a bout two minutes wondering what I should do. What should I do? Are you a drained goose? YOU WRITE. So I’m here writing, hours before class.
I’m in a stall but I won’t let it remain or stall me any longer, with my sights and tastes of the Carmel house nearing and growing even more believable, my travels and the wineries I’ll visit and write about and photograph in Portugal, Spain, France, Austria…. Everything getting closer. Just need to keep tireless. Driving here from across town, Bennett Valley our old neighborhood where the little beats’ school situate, I listened to certain tracks that fed me poetry and ideas… another meditative drive like yester’s morrow, planning and seeing my business efforts and creative pushes, which are as well business efforts, compound and elevate, grow with me and me with them and so many stories I see it’s hard to clearly see and inventory— But I keep writing, scouring my thought plates and inner screens for directions. Last night’s wine speaking to me, strutting across my memory like my daughter and getting me out of my stall, into new flights.
Going over business notes I took yesterday in the morning, a business plan within a business plan…. Lots on plate, but all tasty opportunities, savory segues into new horizons and promises. I don’t want to overthink it so I pause for a bit and just focus on where I am— Hopper Starbucks. Even through this jazz, Davis’ “Summertime”, I can hear the coffee machines, the people chatting while waiting for their orders and passing each other at the front doors. I’m the writer in the corner, writing to jazz and next to an iced coffee he hasn’t yet sipped. Then, I’m hungry but will write through it, as I mean to do at the winery but am always tempted by lunch or snacking, or walking through the crush pad to film and/or photograph the harvest electricity, everything happening around those crushers and de-stemmers, presses and bins.
I stay close to wine in my types and ideations, thoughts and perceptive lots. More sounds from the baristas, the customers here… I imagine myself in the tasting room with all the people coming in and asking questions about the wine and sharing their assessments and judgements of what they’re sipping. Last night’s Cabernet— loud, layered, very intent. Not showing any flaws in balance or structure, just voluminous. Very much to absorb and take in, translate. Not sure where I’m going with that but the wine told me to do the same, be unafraid and bold and present to the point that others’ ignorance is in no way an option.
Little Ms. Austen this morning wanting to walk without Daddy’s connection as well reminds me that time is not waiting for me or anyone. I’m always cautioned that time is always going to succeed in bringing all to fruition, and that I can as well. She just walked, walked without Daddy, kept strutting holding her pink-ish red little stuffed raccoon, or fox… think it’s a fox. I can only now know that today like yesterday with its deeply pervasive and convincing meditative anatomies is teaching me about me and this Now, all Nows and potentials within the sequence of Nows. Have to keep moving and write all observations, record everything… do more than just document. Trap. All characters and articles… man in front of me, holding a book or something and waiting for drink, looking around the corner and see me and my table and appearing annoyed or disappointed. Do I feel bad? Not at all. I guess a bit guilty, as I’m more or less a kind and empathetic bloke, but still… my Now, my story, my morning material.
Ms. Austen, with her lack of fear this morning, not allowing its memory and image, the sound of her little shoes on her brother’s school’s concrete, to leave percept. I’m learning from her like I’ve never learned from anyone, anything, any sight or interaction. Fearless, confident… curious. Want to share this idea with the students… see how they ingest, digest, see and feel such an idea of being assured by their own presence, their identity, not having to wish for anything but just getting out their with audacious rhythm and doing it themselves…
Closing in on first thousand, of my aimed-for 3k, and needing to use restroom… can’t leave my stuff here… just work through it. One of the dangers in working in a public place. Ugh… Tuesdays, when the cleaning ladies arrive at the house, work their universe-sent magic, throwing me off. But I’m just whining, I know. Get to work… plan for class, have a time table, do it a bit different. Okay… first ten minutes, storytelling, each other’s days so far, then…. I’ll type it after this. Need be organized in my thoughts and books, all projects. Strut like Emma in her intention… she never went tangential, just marched forward, following little Kerouac to his class.