2/3/19

Deciding not to replace laptop, but use as I am now with external keyboard.  Will get own keyboard, own mouse, maybe a mousepad.  Little Kerouac not sure what he wants to do, stressed about the options, not wanting to go roller skating or go to kids’ museum, nor hang out with a friend… he’s restless, anxious, for reason in an ebb of indecision and defeatism.  Not much I can do but listen, don’t indulge nor provoke.  My own errands, soon.  Right now, the laptop works, with these external bits.  Strange.  I move on.  Don’t obsess, don’t fixate or stress over the actuality that is, here with this odd, outdated clunky keyboard.

Need my own office.  Will have by year’s end.  Well as zero debt.  Getting close with the latter.  Have to build project list for day, year, right now.

2/3/19

img_7784

Haven’t been writing as much.  Blaming it on this laptop, the one wife brought home from her school.  Not used to its feel, the keys’ sounds.  Easy excuse, easy scape’.  Coffee and kids, Super Bowl Sunday, hoping to run as I did yesterday on treadmill putting up over 7.5 miles.  Marathon this Saturday.  Still don’t have motel booked.  Jury duty possibly tomorrow, this week.  Notice to left, going online to see if I have to “serve” or “perform” my “civic duty”.  Never understood that, still don’t.

Eased day, today.  Should have woken earlier, but that’s my consistent joke, isn’t it?

Don’t have to call in and check till tomorrow, I guess, around 4 or 5 or something.  After 5 it said.  Coffee, need more.  Jack lets out obnoxious stretch with roaring sound either to get my attention or provoke me.  I keep typing, learning poise and composition.  Happiness in what I do, where I am.  Not wishing for anything.  Class tomorrow, grade papers somehow—Had dream last night/this morning, and I include this morning as the end of it ran up to me waking ot sounds of kids playing upstairs.  Dream had me in classroom, first day, people filing in late when just before I thought I’d have a thin section and the department would cancel it.  Told students that were coming in announcing how great it’d be to work with me again to sit down and we can talk after class.  I even ordered the class to be quite so students could read what they just wrote during and in-class assignment, or prompt, something about Philosophy, or which thinkers, 2, did they find important and instrumental in their life.  I myself wrote Plato and MLK.  Explained a bit why, then woke.

When I teach Philosophy at Stanford or wherever, coming from teaching English at the CC level, of all levels of English, I plan to focus on Now, the magic of the meta, immediacy’s gravity and importance, first.  Before addressing selected texts and other exercises.  Definition, going back to my conversation with Bob Coleman in ’99, “Definitional Clarity” as he put it.  Defining Self, where you are and what you’re doing.  Does that presence make you happy… happy and health and the tie therein and of.

Today I feel like propelling joy and Equanimity into the world, in a multiplying and self-supporting stream.  I often voice and repeat “poz vibez” to people in my life near and everywhere I can.  This morning I embody it as I never have.  There’s no reason for stress or angst, or frustration…. Jackie just said something I’d rather him not say and I tell him that’s not nice, and he responds, “Hey, you be quiet, Michael…” Usually I enter into contest with my little Beat.  But not this morning.  I laughed quietly, smile, am still smiling typing this sentence.. told them both I’d go to Starbucks and get what we all deem “Daddy Breakfast”.  Some morning pound cake for little Kerouac and a chocolate milk for little Ms. Austen.  Speaking of Jane Austen, I wonder if I can order all her books online.  Want to lecture on her, or at least write essays on her work and read them.  But I’ll start with Ms. Plath… “…If I’ve killed on man, I’ve killed two….” Sad I’m not lecturing on her this term, but soon again.  Or maybe I can, print some copies of a poem, either “Daddy” or “Lazurus”.  Ideas in tow and I try to inventory and get what I Can to page but they swarm with more frazzle and roam than I can wrangle.  I go on with the morning, into it, and wait for the game.  Today’s, and mine own.

1/30/19

Mike feels anxious and undone, untied, of unusual vibe at day’s beginning.  He arrives in office and gets coffee, sets lunch in fridge across the floor, dives headfirst into everything.  He turns his back to the anxiety, to what stresses him, quite simply.

Mike notices himself writing in several locations, different journals, post-it’s, other straying pieces of paper.  STOP! He tells himself, angrily and yes angrily, like a tyrannical manager or high school gym or math teacher.

He puts one of the journals back in his bag.  Thinks about a bite of the cereal he brought, getting more coffee.  He reasons spending nothing till he’s paid, on Friday.

Keeping self busy and ahead of schedule.  Moving.  Present.  More than aware, simply in some trite and too often marketed mode of “self-awareness”, but present and confirmed in your identity.

Going all in on Self, thought while walking to get coffee.  Not aiming to be any kind of keynote, but writer.  Essayist.  Standalone pieces of writing, ideas built and composed and put to page for generating more ideas and character growth in whomever reads.  Or, ideas for character growth and story accumulation.

Latest coffee has thoughts in rapid revolution and movement.  Promising nothing, questioning nothing.  Only motion, only growth.  Knowing Now more than any before period.  FREED, as stated in blog’s log line or introduction, title bar… whatever it’s called.

 

10:36.  A few moments to collect.  More than a few.  Time abides and indulges the writer, if the writer allows.  How to allow…. Acceptance, embrace of the Now.  Study your Now, be a scholar of the Now.  Seeing all surrounding and not so much assessing it, but rather adoring it, adorning yourself with all elements on either side.  Each sight is significant, all voices compound and collect to contribute to your composition.  To be a scholar of self and your Self in your Now isn’t to matriculate at an institution but to study your own movements and moods, and modes.  Write everything down.  Try everything.

Equation in all day.  How to solve, what to multiple, to what do I just a bit add, what to subtract.  Thinking such right now, at this desk.  And what for lunch.  Can’t do Texanita, again.  Shouldn’t go out, period.  I won’t.  I’ll eat at desk.  Get pasta from breakroom across floor, eat quick then clock out to write in one of those thinking pods.  Or not.  Not sure what to do.  On lunch now.  Just clocked out.  Why.  Don’t spend any money I tell myself.  Just ate pasta, but still hungry.  What to do, what to do… Why am I giving this the thought that I am?  Leadership, so many are into leadership… “LEADERSHIP”.  Leading Self, that’s what really holds, that’s what rewards and gets you closer to your There.  Leading Self out of this lunch stall, this ‘what do I do’ drain.

Thinking of driving to Starbucks.  Get out of office for a tick.  Get a latte.  But that would break the no-spend mandate for day.  Not if I use change… and there I go, again.

Went to sbux and bought a latte, with change.  Carried with me $6 in change but only used about $4-something, as I only asked for three shots, not the morning 4 recipe.  Training new-hire, later.

 

I’m turning around this day.  Well, I already have but doing it more now with this three-shot mocha–  mean latte.  In my vehicle, of my Self, teaching self from day and every conversation transpiring in the hours of the day.  Sleuthing more knowledge, more information and understanding of where I am and what I’m doing, the prose of the meta, the story of it, this IT.  At a desk, whereas just last July I was pouring wine at that winery.  Which had its gems, don’t misunderstand.  But, here I am.  I’m here.  More than present and “aware”.  Even more than in a umbrage of understanding.  I’m provoked and taught, enlivened by Now.

Not at all what I was this morning, not a single sliver of that uneasiness.  Writing down points to hit in tonight’s meeting, tonight’s session and ideas back and forth and deconstruction.  Not at all a foray, this form, me in this form, forming a new Now.

1:34, and I’m closer to training.  Interesting, training someone.  Feel like I’m training self.  To be a stronger speaker, teacher, person, father, worker, business owner, thinker, runner, one knowing their Now, one wanting to travel, be free, fully FREE.  The latte speaks to me like Hutcherson’s mallets, Coltrane’s sax, Miles…  Notes, everything, now 1:36.  I’m instantaneously and with no awareness seeing time as something else, each minute need be written.  Each minute a book, a bridge, a voice, student and teacher me more free.

 

Santa Rosa, CA.

Want the location to change.  Need to make it change.  Self-publish everything.  Spend no money.  Save.  Share all content. Charge nothing, nothing.  Kamikaze of composition.  The motion says enough, words nearly not necessary.

Want the location to soon read ‘Paris, France’, and ‘London, England’… ‘Madrid, Spain’.  Everywhere, Everywhere…

 

Mike takes a second to stand, stretch, look around the office.  He feels dominant, moved closer to his There, more apart and in control of his Now.  He snacks on some almonds, then one of some healthy bar he packed for himself a week ago but forgot was in drawer.  No more need for caffeine, the clock was enough.  Each minute and set of numbers that presented themselves to him, more than adequate, more than what he needed to move it all forward.  Everything.  He’d go wherever he wanted.  Where thoughts were, where they landed and flew from.

Papers everywhere, no cares.  Mike sees it all as opportunity, an opportunity he created and vows to each day approaching have replicated.  By his perspective and perception, Personhood and valuation of Now.

Sentence.  Ones to self.  Wrote more, another and another, till something was said to end day in some mythical sequence, scribble set.  Jots compile and Mike reads them but only for a micro-blink and eyelash movement.  There’s something else being said, right to side.

1/28/19

8:49.

Busy.  Busier than busy.  Love it.  Addicted to the project accumulation and beat, this morning.  This beat, this one, I’ll keep.

 

Mike reminds self of victory this morning in not getting a latte, saving both time and money.  He feels a cold coming on but refuses to give it any acknowledgement or time.

Mike decides to know his Now as thoroughly and intimately as he can, and however long he stays in class tonight that will be much of his thesis.  Knowing Now, the Now, the Now you’re in and need write.

 

The way we do notes here at Sonic truly has me writing differently.  To myself, about self, about what I want for self, and the principles I institute in the moment.  In the present, where there’s the most life— Present Tense is the only tense that makes sense.  Capitalization is justified as it’s a capital idea, capitalizing on the Now begets and breeds more life, more ideas and insight.  Decide the day, the way, YOUR way, the new way of YOU.

Work is the intoxicant.  Stay trapped in its act and math.  Write and read You, not as you.  Value in objective consideration of your movements and sight, actuations and possibilities.

Former student messages me for some “wisdom”. I ask if she’s okay and she says yes but struggles with the decision concerning career.  Wrote her, “Don’t focus on the career, or selecting one.  Give your ideas to inward exploration and aims you want to see materialized.  Rather than pressure yourself, deconstruct your curiosities.  Have to laugh a bit, or not so much laugh but collect self and meditate in where I am in life.  Was where she is, now.  I remember it, but even deciding I wanted to pursue English and Literature, changed.  With wine, and now with Sonic.  Hate to see her pressure herself.  She’ll be fine.  She’s smart, and tireless in her scholastic efforts and habits.  Her message lifted my morning, and now the cold symptoms or whatever that was I woke with, not present.  Like a ghost that stay a bit for a haunt, then lost interest in pestering me.

 

Mike writes notes to himself.  On post-it’s.  Litters the surface of his work area with them.  Mike jokingly told someone in another department, the recruiter that actually recruited Mike, that one day Mike will own Sonic, and that Dane can retire early.  A joke yes but as Mike walked to the coffee spot, not so much a joke.  That was his aim… the platform to the platform itself.  Dane advised, “Use this as a platform to get what you want.” Mike promised self that he would save to one day invest heavily in the company.  A new goal… this day, giving him a goal, much like the career goal markers he had along his story… wanting to be a paleontologist when a kid from his love of all the dinosaur types and species, their teeth and tails.  Then a pro baseball player, a goal that lasted from about 10 or 11 till about 16 just before his surgery.  Then, to be an English Professor.  Those goals, the only definitive ones that would comprise his aspiration pattern.  And now, to own Sonic.  How to do so….  Mike takes more notes than he can write, in head then some to paper, distracted by a vision then a post-it again.  Mike had no true aims in the wine industry, partially why he left.  Mike retired, in his mind.  Now, he’s a consumer, and not much one at that as now he wishes to cut back, immensely on consumption.  Maybe one day he’d own a small label, but why.

 

10:45, looking at notes from tablet I use in Field—

 

Berkeley, beyond beautiful today.

Fee like it’s too hot for this hoodie. Or warm.

1/23

Deciding I’m taking lunch. By self. To write.

In the Field, you see everything differently. As part of a map, as part of a plan, but not one rigid or suffocating.

On Monterey Avenue, looking at houses. I want houses in several points on map… Monterey, Bend, New York. Write books at each.

Thinking about writing and teaching tonight, more than lunch, for once.

1/24/19

1227– Warm. Changing mood and attitude and the day follows suit.

So nice to be able to be outside, on a day like this, in Berkeley, for work… for this… the stories.. my story in the street.

122– Thought is trapped in something, but I think it’s the mulch or fertilizer or soil behind me I smell. Lady riding her bike up Marin Avenue. Have to run, tonight.

135… today, spring octave and feel… sun and how the birds sound. They’re not speaking winter today.

1:55… can only think about running.

2:08 each word said by anyone near me, teaching me. More animation in everything, from class to page.

210– Field Sales, I now see, only now, this day, on whatever street this is in Albany… Tulare Avenue. Walking and speaking and noting and observing, learning… model for me and my story, only today do I adequately grasp.

 

10:49

The Field, a place of not only education and growth, but dreaming, seeing, speaking.  More than a “platform”.  It, this, is a window and door, gate and bridge.

11:27 and feeling tired.  May go straight to bed after class.  What do I do for lunch.  Should get out of the office, work at the coffee spot down the street.  Not in the mood for the new breakroom, that nook.

 

Mike slows down.  Takes a breath.  Refuses to let the cold or whatever it is grip him too thoroughly.  He coughs twice, thinks about tomorrow, being in the Field, in SF, Richmond district where it’s cold and a bit unforgiving in conditions.

Mike looks left and sees his journal, the one he’s jotted in and used for his inward jots since being hired by Sonic.  He opens it.  Writes.  Anything coming to and staying in mind, taking loving residency.

Mike decides he’ll post at day’s end.  Make practice of this, day’s he’s in office.  And ones he’s not.  He’d post everything, everything.  Study it all, deconstruct his curiosities as he urged Keila, earlier.

Sonic is more than a simple platform.  A divine dais, for him, his story.  For anyone, really.  Not just the technology or consumer advocacy and ideology, or even how desirable a place it is to work, or even the story of how it came to be.  Its present, identity, the voice and coherence of its music…  Sonic is music.  Tracks Mike becomes addicted to and can’t turn off as he’s unable to, thoughts will quite literally not allow such.

 

Need to set a goal for lunch.  What.  What do I set for self?  Do I go out? Do I stay in…  Stop overthinking.  In fact, stop thinking.  Thinking that cafe right down the street, on Sebastopol Road past that main entrance to the condos or apartments, whatever they are.  Done.  Decided.  Can’t remember what I had there last time, but it wasn’t bad.

 

Mike looks at clock, 11:50, at peace with his decision to eat at the little deli or café down the road.

 

1:26.  Back from lunch.  Texanita, what was chosen.  Had water with shrimp quesa’.  Now, readying for training of new-hire.

What’s my happiness “hack”?  No hack.  Just decision, and actuation.  Desk a bit disheveled but I’m not at all bothered by it.  The “real time” ideology and practice tickling me, enticing me into new idea rooms, walking though new truisms, and with them.

 

Mike waits for 2pm.  He’s ready.  Feeling better.  More awake from this newest coffee he just grabbed from the machine across the floor.  He vows to self to not force pace, to be objective, consider him as someone else, an observe.  He will deconstruct his curiosities.  Mike tells self again how ready he is.

The day tells Mike to propel more wildly and creatively, be more free in his Now.  The philosophy of Now, the Now itself and its composition….  Something to bring up tonight in class, he thinks.

Mike wants to track his self-education and guidance, much the same way the Field Sales Leads do with their Reps, and how Mike does so with the Leads.  Mike refuses to obsess over pace, and/or anything quantitative.

 

4:54.  Couple more obligations then leave for school.  Dreaming about bed, right now.  I’m tired and don’t think any more coffee would necessarily help, to be honest.

Class… getting in mode, and mood, even though I’d love to just post it and go home and get into bed.  Forcing self to teach.  Let the pace dictate itself, don’t force it or anything about it.

The contour presents itself, materializes in worded form and not.  Insinuation of the demands of the stage and characters, me being one of them seeing all of it, feeling each step in getting to my There.

Sipping sparkling water now.  My character knows its plan, the mission of tonight and the week’s remainder.  Inventorying each effort, or re-writing them.  Keep writing, keep the narration aloft and moving, for me and every incremental musing.

Done with lunch.

Now, time to Self. Over 30 minutes I believe. Tempted to drive somewhere, back into the Berkeley hills, maybe. Listen to the eucalyptus trees move around as they do.

Forgot about coins being taken from car then I remember it again. Could have used money for business, laptop, something for me. Not now. Letting it go. Or trying. Doesn’t sound like it, now that I read what I just wrote. Little over hour left in field, then back to office.

29 minutes left. In car. The Safeway parking lot that I absolutely loathe. Always too close to other cars, always people driving without looking, and always people approaching me asking me something about the internet and if their house can be serviced. I don’t mind these people, locals here in Berkeley, at all. They’re all amazingly sweet and excited to see us. And, I put myself in such position by parking the car here as I did…. just what’s in my thinking, now. My Now, here in Field, doused in observation.

Wind. Already thinking about drive back, what I have to do in office, running tonight. Want running to be everything, my everything, and if ever distracted just say to self, repeatedly, “No. You have to run.”

1/26/19

Change stolen from car, center console. Lesson.  I’ve learned, I’ve learned.  Moving on, going to have a day that not only re-defines my story and purpose, principle thesis to all of this, but something else.  A day that…. More than a day.  More than a page.  More than a chapter. Situating my own story in this corner office alongside and within the Sonic story and narrative.  Kerouac said I’m a genius all the time.  I feel foolish, having left that much change in the car.  Change I could have used on the laptop.

8:53, moving and not stopping.  Most of Sonic tasks, I think all of them now that I really give it thought, are done.  Forgot about the stolen coin bags, already.  Moved some money into business account, to replace what would have been deposited.  Ugh…. Move past, move past.  About an hour till sales team gets here and we all shortly after there depart for Berkeley.  No lunch in field, today.  NONE.  Just the packed snacks.  Will make coffee for Road, have bottled water, micro-bites, then more into day.  See the drive, the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, Albany and North Berkeley.  What do I want.  More notes.  More randomness.  Travel, movement, sentences, the poetry and jazz in everything

The day starts rough, or hurls a couple barbs at your, they don’t have to take hold.  They don’t have to pierce your Personhood.  With a certain perspective and thought momentum they’ll be disabled of any ability to take hold.  Today, for my own joy, bottomless from the lowest and highest and furthest levels of my thinking and sight.

Started a list of writing rules.  Will make self obey, abide by, follow and actuate.  Busy in  office, Inside Sales team speaking with accuracy, poignant pulse.  9am, exactly.  Thought about taking a break but no I keep working and going through my task list which now I need re-write and add items to, print.  Will do when back in office from field.  Field, needing be capitalized as it’s its own concept and reality—what you see and the intersections of lives and intentions, apprehensions and certain ascensions.  It’s a collective, a singularity.  The Field isn’t just “the field”.  It’s material, a forward, a climate and ocean of reflection and character development.  For everyone.  You need be open to the observations, though, and their instructional qualities.

 

 

You have an aim.  Know it’s attainable.  That it revolves and provokes, encourages from distances nearer than you reckon.  Don’t let a goal continue to exist.  Use the Field around you, the Field is a magnet for You, for the pages you write and will write.  This paragraph, not the one you read but the one you’re living right now, what specifics around you breathe and extend, self-actualize, need be kept and allowed into your composition.  Character composition entails aims but is not depend upon them for definition and motion forward.  Each paragraph you live, is mammoth in promise, know that.  Goals should always be substituted with advancement, the character moving forward, doing something not particularly convinced that the result adds to anything.  Just to keep moving, to keep self in steps toward the intersection of terroir, the Field, and sky.

1/21/19

img_0285-1With family since wake.  Just back from walk to Starbucks where little Kerouac bought us all breakfast.  After the walk through Coffey Park, seeing workers rebuild and resurrect the neighborhood’s various little corners and micro-neighborhoods, enclaves and hamlets, many of them waving and saying hi and me thanking them for helping rebuild—Lost in those thoughts and conversations sitting here on couch in home office of home that wasn’t evaporated, that doesn’t have to be rebuilt.

Feeling tired from walk and what I thought about, again with my overthought but then I stopped at the Hopper-Coffey intersection—just write.  That’s it.  Moving past that quite quick, I think of wine and what I sipped last night, what I didn’t buy yesterday with a little time to self going to Bottle Barn.  I didn’t buy a thing.  Not one bottle.  Not even that red blend for less than $20 which I did actually have in my hand but just didn’t pull the trigger.  Didn’t walk it to the reg’.  Why not.  Why didn’t I get anything.  IS wine being diminished as an interest?  I think so.  In fact I’m certain it is.  But why.  Am I getting bored with it?  I’m letting that happen.  I have to make my wine story remodel itself.  Need a different approach to wine…. Play like I noted yesterday.  All my babies want to do is enjoy themselves, play, make everything around them entertaining and interesting for them.  So I do, with my writing, with everything.

After our long walk, the kids watch some Troll cartoon in the other room.  I move to office where I think the sounds and volume will diminish a bit in my favor but it doesn’t too much.  Wife naps on couch next to them, and I write away.  Could use more coffee but I want to cut back and down on that, everything from the lattes to coffee, to anything with any caffeine in its body.

External hard drive I bought the other week not cooperating, I’m still on this wife/elementary school teacher laptop, and I frustrate.  Didn’t wake when I wanted which seems to be my story of stories week to week.  Harsh, harshness, making the story leave the ground and climb at rates seemingly too rapid.  Nice being on this couch, imagining it’s my true office, door over there leads to hallway right next to stairwell taking me downstairs to a door that throws me into the sensory stretch of Healdsburg’s Square.  Decide that’s where Mike’s to write.  And write about Sonoma County from there, from where he feels is the aorta.  Mike walks down Matheson to HBG, where he orders a salad and ice water with lemon.  He takes notes of everything around him, everything, from the waitress to the bartender, to the tourists on their who-knows-how-many-th bloody mary.  Mike only lets himself write.  One hour into his sitting there in the far right corner as soon as you walk in, he’s not even half through his salad.  He thinks about taking the rest to go but he wants to remain.  He’s not in the mood for the couch anymore, not now.  He wants that bench on the actual square, the one next to that one tree, where he can clearly see the art gallery.

Kids still watching their cartoon.  Me on couch, thinking of that office, the walks around the square, tasting in other parts of Sonoma County.  Why didn’t I take sister-in-law’s counsel in ’09 and just write about wine.  Why am I thinking about this, overthinking it, thinking at all….  Last night’s red, a Cab which I did open the night before but only had singular pour, giving me more a rough delineation of Cabernet.  Not so much a brett brushing but something of the tune and tone of brett.  No declination of communication, from what the Cab wanted to say and what I was in the mood for last night, something not passive nor aggressive nor in between, it offered harmonious step and say.  With it wine made a return to my story and general composition and code as a character.  I’ll taste something new, at some point, today.  Little Kerouac may have a play date or something, at some point, wife and her friend acting as present proprietors of that present when it materializes.  May head to Dry Creek, taste some old visits and muse haunts for self.

 

Mike tells Self that wine is still very much an interest.  He tells Self that he asks why he ever fades from it as a topic, as a story.  Mike tells Self he doesn’t know and self tells Mike he doesn’t need to “know”, but merely make it his own.  Wine and its voices and scenes, hills and Roads still very much precipitate and actuate for Mike’s writing, Self notes.  Today, Mike re-opens certain wine notebooks, looks through old photos—Dry Creek and AV, Sonoma Valley, that one visit to Napa with friend Chris.  Not so much the wine that Mike wants for his work as much it is the work itself, the singularity and consistency of wine and the wineries, the people visiting, Sonoma County where he lives, the wineries down the road on Olivet, his sister and her stories from harvest, the old videos that pop up as memories in social media feeds.  Wine has formed Mike’s story, he sees.  Wine is his story, it is his BEAT, and beauty.  Composition of character and sense, meditation, thematic anchor and climate.

 

9:27.  Writing in quiet in kitchen, at counter island, or island counter.  Glass of Brandy mother-in-law gave me recently.  Unexpected gift.  Never had Brandy while writing in fact I’ve never had it before period so I’m not sure what the print will be.  Today tasting at two spots, Sanglier whom I’m more than familiar with and Lioco, a label I’ve been a fan of for years and have only been to the tasting room off the square twice.  Today being the second visit.  Wine communicating in different waves and movements the past 48 hours.  Today was thinking that thought, you know, the one about me having my own tasting room or wine shop, wine business of some sort.  But then I came across this Charles Dickens quote about concentrating on one subject at a time.  Story of my life, or hasn’t been.  What if now it is, with this book or blog on thought and knowing now, the Now as it presents itself to a writer.  Publishing and independent efforts from this house, the office or kitchen or the couch in the office.  This is something I’ll remember…. The Brandy night, with the laundry going upstairs, making that clunky clanky sound, hoping it doesn’t wake one of the babies, or both.  Thoughts, here with me at this counter, with this wallet next to me, the Germany journal, me telling self not to think so much but then that’s all I do and I laugh and scorn self to high elevations then let self fall to ground…  Took another sip of the Brandy.  Not for me, I have to say.  And why am I giving it any focus.  Thoughts hide in essays, essays I’m about to write, ones I’ve written, one I’ll try and finish tomorrow.  Thought, a sword with like eight edges, eight angry and pursuing points, after writers like me and anyone thinking.

The walk around the neighborhood this morning told me several things, made several declarative voices known to my character.  The first, stop with thought, just write…. And stop writing about writing dilemmas.  The second, Newness.  Travel.  Mike needs to get to the world, see as many corners of it as he can.  And how does he accomplish such. How does he sit on some bench in Prague and write about the bread he eats and the people he sees, the hotel he’s in.  Mike starts a new story.  He ditches and sheds everything.  Everything.  He pours the Brandy into the sink.  After one more sip.  He pulls some sparkling water from the refrigerator and starts taking notes.  Writing about writing and what the writing will do.  He’ll do all of it, all of it, for them.  Those two small, needing faces.

Wife brought home a laptop for me.  I like the unexpected feel

of some other device but then I’m concurrently bothered.  A Pinot for night, not sure how I feel ‘bout that, either.  This say something about how the wife sees me, a serious writer, one who needs to write for happiness, for his mood to be something that’s for home, for the father and husband character needed here in this Autumn Walk Studio.

Where’s the wine.  Over by sink.  10:03.  Should get upstairs soon, to wake early.  Hear daughter coughing, poor little..  Tonight, not a night for the write, the writing of right, to make right.  Can smell the coffee I made for morrow.  Need to brew one more cup, then chill it for the writing’s soon’s I wake.  Should I set my alarm?  Should I write like the notes at work, in 3rd person?  Okay… I should.  That’s better, much more, much more for the Now—

This semester, Mike knows, knows what it’ll do.  Mike tells Self that there’s something he needs to do with this semester that he hasn’t with the others, so many of the others.  The time need be nullified, not emphasized.  I don’t want to use the word ‘evergreen’ like so many in any or whatever business or industry do, but time doesn’t matter.  Today is not today, I’m inclined to write in stray, and just plainly say.

Starting to feel tired, but don’t have much interest in bed, or sleep, or rest, or even a pause.  When does the wife have to give back this laptop.  What if this is the device I write it on.  The book, the book I finish… the book, the book, the fucking book do you get it—

There’s something.  I like the key and their song, sound, song and sound and steps, me stepping with finger form and syllables, searching with some sort of sense, with a new laptop.  Tempted to drink coffee now, but I can’t.

I work.

I’m responsible.

And responsible people see themselves in responsible affirmative.

 

1/20/19

Don’t know the date of the above entry.  Was it…. Wednesday?  Doesn’t matter.  The writer here now at a Starbucks no surprise, this time on Mendocino Avenue.  Was going to write at the Hopper spot but I’ve already been there today and felt odd soon as I left the car’s cabin.  So I drove to Aroma Roasters and there was no parking.  So, here.  A writer’s here with people walking in, only spot I could find, one of the tables with a handicapped emblem in the corner by my right elbow, now.

Small coffee ordered, little cinnamon drizzle in its composition, I placed.  Already had enough caffeine from 4-shot latte earlier, before taking both babies to the Pump It Up building, an amazing locale for kids to jump around in jumpy houses and other inflated edifices, throw dodgeball-like balls and other soft spheres at each other while jumping, go down slides that are do sped and steep that even adults could be unnerved.  After yesterday’s 6.3 run and this morning’s following their every step and climbing everything there was to climb, following little Ms. Austen everywhere she went, I’m very much in need of this caffeine.  Sip… then what to do with day.  Bookstore.  Need the other texts for the semester, start reading, read ahead of students and alongside them.  Starting with Sedaris, his essays.  Memoir, narrative.  This term, with this new geography of students the entire thesis is story, and self, and telling one’s story for sakes of education yes but as well to see, see something in the telling of You.

Was up this morning not as early as I wanted, shock I know, but early enough to get a fair dimension on the day, ahead of it slightly, and be with babies, study their moments and what they wanted to do, always want to do as I was reminded at the play spot which is play.  We need to, as “grown ups” (which is a term very much a candidate for fierce debate) need do more.  Just play.  No destination or objective targeted.  Just be not only in the moment but be the moment itself.

Having a bit of trouble typing on this wife laptop, the one from her school.  Know I need my own set of keys but the expense itself frightens me.  Need use business sense, more of it as a writer.  All cash for laptop put in that envelop.  Right now, not anywhere near what I need for new table.  Like Dad once advised me in one of our many discussions, “Pay cash for it.” Noted.  So now, I just use this.  And, how much a golden slice of happenstance this is, wife telling me, “It’s pretty much yours.” So I need to get used to where these keys are place, arranged, how the board is situated.  Only edit at end, don’t backtrack and try to amend and recompose what’s underlined in red.

Next two days off.  No run today or tonight as wife and I might very possibly have dinner in Healdsburg.  The philosophies and ideologies circling and self-manifesting and manipulating in my thinking Road, thought highway, presently, extend from age, aging, getting older and watching what my babies do.  Emma climbing a wall with little protruding squares where a child can place their feet and latches of some fabric offering a place for grip, like climbing a rock, training for youngers.  I followed her, she telling me to back off, give her space, “I can do this.” She told me.  And she did.  It was that simple, life is, she taught me.  Announce your commitment and ability, and prove it.  Show, don’t tell.  The little Beats assert the easy nature of everything.  There is no difficultly.  Difficulty and or any ardent ingredient is fancied, is something to which you subscribe.  You tell yourself something will be of some tier of hardship and you buy into it.  Isn’t that true?  Yes, it may demand work, hard work, or even loads of hard work and effort, exertions and creative pursuit, but so what.  Anything worth acquiring should.  In narrating a story, your story, you record and relay the motion, the emotion and what you learn from steps and the discoveries entailed.

Not sure how much longer I’ll be at this spot.  I do what to go investigate laptop prices.  I will have to get one, maybe not immediately, but soon.  I want one.  One that helps me with my sessions, and yes I know I shouldn’t be tech dependent, and I’m not for the most part.  But my heart knows what it wants, or it thinks it does, stemming from a certain because…  Reasons and reasoning in everything that’s observed, accomplished.

Slowing down in the coffee sips. Caffeine all too present in the writer’s wheels and engine, general and integral functioning.  11:23, more people come in and I notice more underlined in red.  Laptops have harmed my ability to write, my acuity and prowess in composing.  Kerouac didn’t use a laptop of course and he didn’t, I don’t believe use a thesaurus when penning or touching those typewriter letters.  11:27, thinking of the marathon.  February 9th.  Am I ready, don’t know.  Hope so.  And if I’m not good I’ll learn from it or the marathon itself will get me in proper condition and conditioning for the marathon itself, right then and there.

2019 has me much more without fear and anxiety or reservation, hesitation in saying or writing something, than before years.  Must be the turning 40 thing.  I’m going to be 40 so I’m much of the ‘fuck it’ mind.  That’s my narration, what I’m this year narrating, very much.  From 1/1/19 to 12/31, and then past that.  I know how I want to be read—a writer writing and reading and studying past masters and learning from them, always in the learners pose and practice more so than some proclaimed or self-anointed master or “doctor of philosophy”.

Man waiting for his coffee, standing far too close to me.  Could be the story itself telling me it’s time to switch locations.  How I wish for my own office….  Over and over day after day, then again over and over.