inward jot

0c7912a9-f190-4f4f-8b7b-b781b33bc8ab-6321-000003e349dc6a68_fileMy vibe this morning here in the office, elevating. Brought lunch today, which doesn’t often occur in my morning habit and way.  Seeing it not me to do what others do.  The job thing. That’s why I make this job, here in the wine world, at this winery, my own.  I can’t be comfortable, certainly not conform.  Not as an artist.  Not as me.  I’m finding that there is one oneness about my “literary wanderings” as I put it to M, the wine club manager here asking if she minds if I sit and “engage in my literary wanderings”.  Have to be on clock in exactly 35 minutes.  So this meditations, providing more soul, more spirit, more health and wellness about my aims..

Looking at book progress.  Has to be done and sell-ready in three days.  Hoping I can do so.  I don’t much feel like teaching anymore, either.  At least not at the institution, at the JC where I’m only given what’s left, assignment-wise, as an adjunct.  So what next, then… only this.  Only writing in the morning and the rest of day living, taking pictures, taking notes, observing… simple observing, here in this office populated by cubicles and people at computers, typing and emailing, scanning and looking for another manila file folder.

Starting the work day… work.  What I do for a living. That’s the topic of every human, I feel.  Some definitively loathe work, what they do, for what they wake every morning.  I can’t live like that.  I won’t.  I don’t want my babies to see me that way.  They won’t.  They don’t.  Never will.  My ebb and vibe, sight, more than positively defiant and definitive.  My story, what’s my story, like I ask students every semester.  Just a writer…. freedom, waning to be free from any financial woe.  And I am.  So what are we talking about, what are we looking for and what do we want.

My inward types this morning, knowing, understanding.  I’m slightly distracted by something, but I won’t let it fester or grow.. keep writing… have a little wine when you go downstairs.  I mean, don’t drink, but taste through the flight like a journalist, like a wine writer… there’s no excuse for me to be in any lull or stall, pause or be caught by any push of anxiety’s ax.  Didn’t go to coffee spot as I only wanted to write, not spend money, that $6.05 (Can you believe that?) on a mocha with 4 shots.  Difference, this morning… you have to throw yourself outside of regularity and pattern to grow, to get to your There, I know see at my old age.

Where I am— office, winery.  What I’m doing— writing to self and hopefully nearing the Road, my travels, teaching, on writing and wine and writing about wine and the act of writing, keeping a journal and writing everything down even the shit that others would soon so dismiss, disregard.  This winery, much more sizable than the one I’ll eventually proprietor.  Journal on my at all times this day, jotting what I see and imagining the tasting room mine own.