from this morning’s inward jot

“Do I have a career?” He wonders.  He does.  He does starting today, the new him, the new of Newness around him and in his innermost inner voice.  No more settling, no more of anything that unsettles him.  Only elevation, only elation, only the forward and no more settling, settlement.  Advance, advancement, what he promised himself.

This morning, I don’t blog about wine, or write about it, but what it embodies… freedom, aspirations realized and made tangible.  No more settling, no more nay-saying ebbs about my story, around me, distant or right in front of me.  If eel musical this morning, freer than free.  I see each of my babies, looking up at me and proud of their daddy, proud of what he does and what he writes, eager to hear new stories.  I’m free this morning—  NO, liberated, basking in this liberation and enlivened vibration, and climbing primal pulse, my own proverb, curve and verve.

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Mike goes back and forth in narration, seeing his story at a crossroad, intersection, point of decision where indecision is death, worse than death.  He sees a vineyard in behind his house, it being harvested and he up early with the crew, helping them toss bin loads into the gondolas, even riding on the side of the tractor.  It’s time for dreams, he says to himself this morning.. no more expected, no more pattern, no more saying “I’m going outside the box”.  Life isn’t forever, life isn’t even life… life is curt, gone well before it can be appreciated.  He thinks of his childhood friend that dropped dead walking to his car after work.  Mike knows that could happen to him after writing in the coffee shop, now, walking to his car to drive to work to give eight hours of his life to a company.  Yes, a company he believes in, that he enjoys and for which he’s grateful for all tis motivation and story, inspiration and narrative, vineyard scenes and vineyard walks, wines and new characters.  But he wants more.  He demands more.  Of himself, of the opportunities he creates for himself.

Woman next to me with her daughter, and I’m guessing parents on the other side of the table, on my side sitting on the long couch-like seat with rectangular mock-leather pillows or cushions.  Three generations.. there, right here next to me reminding me of time, my time, here on the planet in my story and that I don’t know, I don’t know when I’m on my last page.  More opportunities, more Roads, more pieces and essays, and create— WAKE UP EARLIER.  Yes, I was up early this morning, well before wife and babies, but I could have been writing earlier, I could be at, should be at, 3000 words already.  But here I am.. different this morning.  Anxious a bit.. eager to be defiant today, to blast my way outside of normality and others’ expectations of me.. radicalized writer, tireless… seeing self get older and I won’t have my babies have anything less than a page warrior, knowledge addict, as a father.  Like my Dad, always seeing more, doing, doing, doing it.  IT.

He has about 20 minutes left to write, collect himself before his big day, the day that marks the death of the workplace for him.  Today he begins his official war to get to his office, to be free.  Again, no spite his company.  He just wants something different.  The difference of life, what so many say they’ll do and he’ll just do.  He was one of them.  WAS. 

(5/11/18)

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