After yesterday’s longer than extended and boa-esque day, I’m home after day of lunch and wine with wife.  More wine here in home, and meditating, thinking about what I’m doing.  Coffee made for morrow.  Dinner done, dishes cleaned.  I’ve been a husband-like character, and then daddy putting kids in bath and readying them for bed and little Kerouac going right to sleep after me sitting next to his bed as he requested I do, as always.  Now I’m here.  Home and on floor.  No TV.  No writer shows.  Not a single distraction as distraction is death.  Something I offered to ‘100’ class last week.  Something Dad told me years ago, that distractions are death to a goal.  The wine I sipped earlier, given to me from Thomas today when wife and I stopped by for visit, she finally getting to meet him… not impressed.  Not that the wine’s bad, I mean it is the wine of this session, but it’s one off those ‘okay it’s here and I’m a wine writer I guess, some wild wine page-churner, I guess I’ll sip it’, wine.  It’s over there, by the toaster, and stove, in corner of that counter.  Thinking about all my writings tonight, how I did write a bit yesterday but only in journals and those are in the company car.  I’ll show early tomorrow to get them. I can’t let that happen.  Why did I.  Doesn’t matter really as it’s MY company car and I brought the key home.  By accident yes but that’s what the story wanted.

I haven’t had that much wine, but enough to have my thoughts in cosmic curves and turns and tells of my now, me sitting here and thinking about my babies upstairs and recent talks with Dad, certain motions he’s intoned but not directly said.  Tomorrow begins a massive creative and character-meant revolt, a campaign of sorts but no I hate that word. Makes me think of the wine office in Napa.  Tonight I’m just not he floor.  Typing.  While others eat dinner inter bed, have some beer, and watch a fucking reality show.  Not me.  I’m a writer.  OR I tell myself I am.  Pretty sure I am. They’re not.  I’m here, writing.  Doesn’t make me better, but makes me more ME.  The wine, still tasted.  Dad and I going earlier to Bottle Barn for beer, so he and I could have our traditional before he and Mom left.  We did, and watched Emma with her sass and little Kerouac with his vocality. 

That bottle over there, the one Thomas gave me today.  Like an unpopular kid on the playground— no wait I was him at one point—  A plan that doesn’t fly so well, so straight, so steady, making passengers nervous.  Either way, it’s odd.  Have no idea the composition and I’m sure I cold figure it out but why bother.  What would that do.  Is that who I want to be?  One of those consumers?  The wikipedia-reliers?  Think I’m still tired from prior day, that Albany event.  Floor reflecting light, toys around me, one of Little Mama’s shoes, toys, headphones?  I’m in Dad Land.  Me.  A wine writer, thinking of one day having vines of my own and the babies helping out their auntie Katie with harvest.  Doing anything.  Pressing, sorting, smelling, washing barrels… what be.  And me, in this vinifed poesy. 

9:15.  Closer to time bed.  And me, on this couch, setting down phone like its some needle, some addiction.  What do I need to check.  And why so often.  There’s something missing.  In work.  In life.  Right here on this couch.  My kids will read this one day—  Are you guys reading?  Cheese?  Mama?  What do you think?  Won’t tell you what to think, but I’ll tell you what to do, to try to—  Write.  If anything, your aims.  What you want from today, the next, the week.  Goals, I hate that word.  But true visions and aims, there’s a voltage and climate, a BEAT to that.  Go for that.  What Dad did with flying…

I’ll be up tomorrow morning.  I’ve sworn to self.  Like presidents to at innaug’…. Not so much with the current one, but anyone can see what the writer’s saying.  I see something, and tomorrow when I’m up at 4 sipping the coffee I made just a matter of ago minutes, I’ll produce.  Production isn’t just about number, but quality, a feel, an atmosphere, a general and pervasive understanding of self.  Yesterday in Albany, a city I’ve visited only a 10% handful of times, I saw people and families, life and community.  After a long shift in scene, in territory but I didn’t care.  I was there, talking to people and seeing what I did, all the restaurants and residents and gear children call for their parent to follow them to the area of dance.  I watched, filmed from my phone, from my seat, thought I should do more film work, capture more of this— moments in street with people doing this, THIS, living and enjoying the evening with each other.

Hungry, suddenly.  I hold.  Not eat.  Nothing done that could endanger tomorrow’s early wake.  What if I actually do it. Make a project out of it like I noted in my notebook, the 4AM idea, the book, written only in that single inky stride.  Tomorrow, tomorrow… there’s is always— but not tonight.  This Coltrane track molds me in an everywhere of everywhere’s.  So people won’t be pleased by me ways and pages and progression.  And do I mind.  No.  In fact I love their lack of settlement.  I feel HST, as when he was in Vegas looking for some dream, American or otherwise.  My insurrection starts with now, this cushion on which I sit, this night, everything in this house and where everyone is— wife watching some reality TV something that does a nothing’s nothing and squeezes life from the one watching it, poor gal.  Babies en haut (upstairs), me with a week ahead.  Another week.  Shouldn’t say it like that.  But I did.  Can’t back take it.  Yesterday in field and after at some event that did what I’m not really sure, and now here after day with wife at lunch at Campo Fina and two glasses of some Chardonnay, and into later hours goes day.  I can tell things are different. That’s what belies, that’s why skies, that’s what why’s.  I see everything.  Tonight’s declarative, with a manifold reasoning.  Couch.  9:39.  Late.  No more wait.  Tell self be more a writer.  How.  Wake earlier.  MUCH earlier.  Singular day.