At the station.
At the station.
Just facetious, it’s 24. In an antagonist’s angle, this morning. Feeling more in control of this AAE position than I have since accepting it. For one, don’t do your job so much, I’m telling myself. Make connections, and not the corny urgency of “It’s who you know”. No. I’m talking about connecting everything you do. Everything you have in your story. Everything that you already are and everything you’ve studied, and have some prowess in…. use that in your new position. Make more self-notes. Lose nothing, log everything. Even how I’m starting the day, sharing my three aims of writing tomorrow’s lecture, having only ONE coffee after this latte if any at all, and running at lunch. 76 more days to go till autopilot is initiated and set. Yesterday at winery working as quick and feverishly as I was, like I was full-time again in the industry and thank the Craft I’m not, but I felt in that character again, and it was telling me something about this, what I’m doing here, at this desk and in the Sonic office.
Have a meeting at 10. More than ready for it. Will showcase, or maybe just show, how I “sell”, and how I present. Excited about it for reasons that are all over this blog, but learning about the character, their business, what they want. Not so much that 80/20 rule or idea of listening when prospecting, but showing a genuine interest in what they want. Connectedness, community, creativity. Yesterday while in the tasting room, and walking back and forth from the cave with visitors, no matter how stressful (I wasn’t stressed, at all, please note.) it got, I never detached from the character and what they were saying. They constituted the entirety of the Now, and the freedom was from any potential angst or worry of conversion. I did sell wine, but I didn’t care. I learned the story of the people, the couple that drove out from Sonoma to celebrate the man’s birthday. He, with his wife.
Feel like I’m on auto, already. Like I not even need touch the yoke. Like the switch has already been flipped. Like I’m not working. Utter creative. Thieved my own destiny. You decide the words, you decide the story, you decide the YOU of it all. I am on autopilot. Enjoying the flight. Enjoying the peripatetic sight and presence of everything.
Need to drink water, for run. Be more than hydrated when in that 80 degree breeze, if there is a breeze. Hoping there is. This Account Executive story, in its I believe 40th day of duty, exactly like running. I’m running, catching my own time, old time, and beating it. Not even nine o’clock, and I have answers, questions, multiple theses, a new music. Not stopping, can’t let self stop. Notes for tomorrow’s lecture, now water. People around me talking, not listening. I’m in head of this new character and story. Not selling, but listening, and at times speaking. I’m finding that with work we complicate and over-oscillate and inwardly debate incessantly and that’s what compromises our fate, indefinitely.
Starting at Jimtown, as often on a Sunday in my wine life. Since shooting from pillow and sheet, thinking re-start, and re-write. We have ever opportunities and invitation for re-writing the story, for starting over if we elect. Right now, more decisions to be maddened closer to Day HUNDRED, so much of the page stack not yet written, and unread. So, proceeding forward into horizon.
Thinking of essays this morning, what this day is, essay-wise. The argument. The centrality, and reality, manifold duality. Where I am, Jimtown. What I’m doing, writing before Week 2 of the semester that wasn’t supposed to happen. What I’m learning, already—no rush. In this re-write, I see more. I’m calm. There will be certain facets certainly cut off. The idea of work, what it is for so many. What it could be, why so many don’t let themselves be happy. Why they don’t create madly, and let the vessel go to crashing. Making decisions, this morning. About everything. Everything for my positions, for my identities, narratives…. Writer in a tech company, as an Account Executive no less, and me in the classroom. Write everything. The new bridges won’t frighten if not allowed. Everything is everything, and the every-ness of each stretch is connected.
Back room at Jimtown, wine life Sunday but there’s more than just wine and this 23rd day in the project. But…. Place. More music, more verse, all opportunity and doors open sing to me, to US, this morning and all days. Stress is permitted. In this room, in your room, wherever you are, decide to be MAD. With your story fiery and tireless, moving to your frame envisioned. I share where I am and my work story from wanting for others to make theirs completely under their compositional control. Thinking too much will not lead to creative, will not lead to production and the architecture of your aptness.
Just now, caught self thinking, and overthinking. This morning is precisely what this “professor” needed. Readings starting this next week, for the two classes I somehow inherited. Teaching, and teaching what. WORK. For students to not only take ownership of their work, but see it as a self-educating ebb. In my staying thinking at this table, I wonder if anyone else has ever written here. And what discussions have been had here, and on what. Who has sat where I’m sitting, what families have been in this part of the back room, and what did they talk about. Where do they live, full-time. What brought them to Sonoma County.
What I do for work, blogging and writing about work, but thinking about more than what’s to be thought of, irrelevant of what the clock was, is. Dismiss my inner-pessimist, and have the day speak to me. Where I am, what I’m doing in the back dining room of this market, quasi-restaurant. 9:16, should get on the Road in a bit…. Walk a vineyard, let the clusters help me ideas muster. For the day, for the week. Can write anything into tangibility in your re-start and re-write. Looking at every antique and tool and thing in this room, where I’m working. Seeing the images, work to itself even if not written. It, they, assist in compounding and composing character.
Looking back at the writer.
A stop light is thought.
Someone’s. I don’t agree. So
What now. Action, thought …
*Written over a series of red lights on Park Presidio/19th Avenue, San Francisco.
Rain in SF.
All I need forward.
my partner narrator.