En Pensant

So much in and on and around mind this morning and I have no idea where to start— Where’a the jumping off point.  Where do I begin and for what am I beginning today.  Kept thinking about classes yesterday and the entirety of educating— self-education and being a student, being a teacher, being a student of the students when you’re a teacher.  And how does this all factor into wine…. Think I see it now.  This morning driving North on 101 after dropping off little Kerouac at his school.  But I’m too constrained by and in the thinking of it.  All of it.  Just too much.  Student yesterday that asked me about what he should do, ringing in my perception like a thousand cathedral bells.  What do I do, I ask this overthinking self.  For right now.. just write.  That’s the right thing to do.  I partially blame the hotel and the clutter and compactness for this distress, or self-branded stress.  And, how I tout singularity but notice I’m a profuse and obnoxious pluralist.  But maybe the pluralism IS the singularity, somehow.  Stanford… what happened to that dream.  What happened to me, the “professor”.  Nothing I guess, as I’m still at the JC, teaching two sections per term.  BUT, it’s going nowhere.  There’s no elevation, but in pay.  Which is important, yes, but I’m no closer to Stanford.  When will I see one of those rooms?

I feel self becoming more obsesses with singularity, the singular joy and glimmer of this sitting, here in the winery office.  And what career do I have in wine but to eventually write and blog about it, from my academic and Literary reposes.  Distracted by calendar, what I need to get done or what I’d like to get done by EOD.  Everything around and in my mind forcing me to lose a bit of breath.  Not a panic attack, but an urgency storm, and eagerness quake, creative inner wildfire.  Photography…. Should I hit the vineyard quick?  08:49.. Don’t see why not— stay where you are.  Don’t move.  Write.  You still have poems to collect, as well.  Look at this writer.  A mess.  But a mess can be cleaned, tidied, straightened up and ordered, INVENTORIED.

Sip coffee, and strangely I’m relaxed.  Must be the jazz, Miles, my jazz love, or one of them, telling me to calm down and that everything will more than merely “work out”.  I finished a book last month.  EDIT IT.

SELL IT.

Pulled it up, and rather than hit the vineyard and take pictures that would only slightly contrast my efforts and captures past.. I’m here, in MY moment, at the winery.  Before clock-in, before opening bottles, checking what’s on the calendar.  What I’m being taught from this morning is that change is a simple decision that could yield massively advantageous wakes.  This is just a writer in a prolix kick.  No big deal.  Or it’s a tremendously tidal deal, turning 39 next year—  The year I turn 39 is 24 days off my bow.

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