Day one.  New project.  Have no idea what it is.  Part I love.  Blank page.  Day one of what… no idea.  Certain aims I have, that I won’t write down.  For reasons.  One being, I want to keep them in head, remember what they are.  How I know they’re true, meant to be pursued.  What do I want, I know.  I know exactly what I want, how I want the story to be.  Liberation, one facet.  Travel, another.  Everywhere.  Writing about each street, each wine, each person and conversation.  A thousand words per singularity at a minimum.
Parked on side of 128 as I used to years ago.  At the same winery,  coming back for Sundays, occasional Saturdays.  Back then, in ‘12, more permanent.  Relying on winery checks.  Now not so much, but still partially.  Could be at home with my kids now, writing, building something…  Not allowing overthought to override and muddy my mind this morning or any part of the day.
Day one.  Laurel and aim for day, enjoy the blank page.  Write down and divulge on vision ingredient by day’s close.  Not sure what it’ll be or if I’ll even remember.  It’s the first day, the page with nothing on it— more encouraging and welcoming, encouraging and antagonistic.
Get out of the tasting room.  Teach more.  Online.  Lessons on writing and reading, reading your own work and your own ideas, story.  De-emphasize word count altogether.  Just had the inclination to copy these paragraphs and put them in some word count app to get a count.  But I won’t.  I refuse.  I’m teaching myself to start the story over.  Lesson one, ‘Understanding You Can Re-Write’.  You do not have to accept your story and where it is, the current draft.  Ever.  Keep writing, keep editing.  Be lawless.  Be musical, Wild in your writing.  Won’t be evasive about it.  I miss the students, the classroom.  Not so much SRJC, but sharing ideas with students and writing, reading with them.
Car drives by, toward Napa.  Snap of cold air comes through window, I listen to Miles— When I Fall In Love.  Today in love with the story, my story, highway 128, Alexander Valley, wine and the people in the industry not the industry.  Quiet road on road side just thinking about writing in this same spot in 2012.  Need a shift, more than a re-write.  Laptop out of power so I couldn’t write at Jimtown as I wanted, but I don’t preoccupy with how the story set things this morning.  I react.  And with love, and with writing, and when writing we have to acknowledge and not just accept but be in love with the cognitive autonomy of the story itself.  We have control, but don’t.  And we should focus on control as much as we should composition.
Could write a book about this writing spot alone.  Maybe I should, or at least start a book with this sitting, this Miles track.  Maybe I should.  I will.  Or start a semester with this image.  Yusef Lateef, “Don’t Blame Me”, and I don’t want to leave this spot.  And why should I rush to do so.  Like my other the other day inquired and with a slight prosecutorial scorch, “How much money are you really making there?” And she spoke this to get me to think, encourage, not at all for lowering or criticism sharp.  No, she meant to prompt meditation, and here I am typing on a screen in my car, with vineyard air massaging the left plain of my morning mask, meditating on the story, writing, Day ONE of this new something.     

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