Me at work. Thought about getting coffee at the Hopper sbux but then thought it more poetic and meaningful, more “visceral” as so many like to say, if I took a cup from the winemaking team’s break room. But then I think, should I have done that? Will I affect production for the vintage? Don’t know. Don’t want to worry or think about it. Coffee not sipped yet I just do wha tI do, listen to the production sounds on the other side of the wall, then my thinking goes to the classes I yesterday taught. How I’m intent on doing more with my lectures, words… inventory my writings, my poems, my thoughts. What would I talk about if I went on a speaking “tour” right now? Honesty? Life. And writing your life. Yesterday I offered the perspective of writing for your life, writing in your life, and writing about your life. Then I thought as soon as the students left the room that I need to follow my own counsel, listen to my own lecture and read my own lecture notes a little more intimately.
First sip… hot. Not that much flavor but I don’t need nuance at this sitting. Just caffeine. Just fuel. Just what I need to show the world what I’m doing this NaNoWriMonth. Music comes on somewhere out there…. I hear noises then more music. We all have music in and to our lives. That I see and know, and am reminded each time I see the babies in the morning— This morning little Kerouac with his fervid hankering for conversation and bragging how he won’t be at school today but spending time with his grammy. A write I enjoy always speaks of travel, just getting out there, seeing what’s out there. You don’t accomplish that between 09’ and 17’. How could you? You’re on someone else’s docket. In someone else’s runnel and grapnel. Here on this page I see everything for us, readers… everything. You owning whatever shop you want, me traveling the world and photographing and writing it.
Second sip. Education. Educating myself to keep going, and to read further into what I’m doing and what I see… admin manager walking in looking for something and not finding it, shaking my hand or reaching to shake my hand just as I pick up cup for ‘nother injection of this hot and harsh winemaking fortification… perceptiveness this morning especially forward, forwarding. As writers and readers, as people we have to refuse blocks. There is no writer’s block, there is no business blocks, there is no WE-blocks. There is only meditation and invitation to keep with out momentums. This is me, at work… this is my real work, working here at this keyboard and offering ideas as I do in class. Want to teach more. Want to share more ideas. Writing about our lives, in our lives, and for our lives ‘cause no one else will. So what is you story? What do you want to be read as? How do you want to be seen? What do you want to see from yourself? Trust me… all this in and on my inner tablets, this morrow. I’m archetypal of my own contour. Not sure how holy or sagacious it be, but I’m reading it, re-reading it… editing as I go, or trying. I want to see myself somewhere— in Paris, in Madrid, in Canada on that lake… Louise?…. Writing by hand and typing when I get home. Matter ‘a’ fact, I should be penning now. Like my students. Want to be a teacher? Offer ideas? “Tour”, Mikey? Then write more by hand and don’t just let the notes away-waste in some bloody drawer.
3…. Cooler. More direction and poise and precision about the palate. Just remembered I have to send my newsletter to 3 new subscribers. Lost one, yesterday. Not mad. Actually, relieved. Less, much preferred. I don’t want to force my ideas or writings, notes or thoughts or in-the-moment musings upon anyone— Idea for class, “Building a Book from Notes and Jots and Scribbles”. I could start the class on 1/8/18. Start the New Year with a new class and a new cascade of plausible for my writing and teaching career. All is within reach, my most lovely and kind readers. Can’t you see that? Can’t I see that? I do now. Why’d it take so long? Ordered myself yesterday after the English 100 class, driving to meet mother-in-law at Emma’s learnery, that I will die for my writing, my lectures, my offered thoughts, ideas…. ‘One written page a day’, one of my. What if as a writer or someone thinking about writing, or just someone wanting to get thoughts on page or plan something, you only had one page to fill? What would be on that page? What singular word would you start with? Today my word is MUSIC. Music…. Me, here with this coffee I took from the winemaking team, the echoing music out there on the crush pad blended with all those clunking and clinging metal sounds…. This is more than visceral.. this is penned Personhood, and edited and re-edited echo of my own epistemology, etymological sinew and discourse.
4. Extended… deep, more communicative….. The coffee sings to me and we sing together and the fire wheels its words into my pulses and circuitry, cyclical senses and circulation. Thoughts. Plans. Musings. Decided. “Teach yourself. That’s the only way you could ever hope to teach others.” I just jotted in my Comp Book, the one with ‘1’ on the cover below where “MARBLE COVER-80 SHEETS” is read. Teaching my self not to fear, not to worry, not to stress, not to (as much) mind time. To write when you can. Of course, try and write as much as you can but if for some reason you can’t sit for a thousand word sitting like this, don’t fret, don’t complain, don’t fume. Breathe… meditate. You’ll get to your love and passion and page soon where you design your dream and dash forward like a famished cheetah chasing that plump prancer.