As someone who obsesses over work,

and what work he has to do, what I have planned the next day and the remaining hours of this day, I am honestly with nothing.  But I make myself write.  One student tonight saying one of her goals is, was, is to wake at 2am to get ahead in her studies and I assume write a little as she does write poetry and write in short lines, short stanzas, pieces that span only a page.  And I say ‘only’ out of awe, that she does so much to a page in only a page’s pulse.

Was nearly too lazy to write anything tonight.  Told self, “Just a hundred words, per blog.” But I can’t hold self to that.  Should I do what this student plans on doing?  Should I set alarm for 2?  Isn’t that the time of the artist, the writer and poet?  Didn’t I read that somewhere?  On my lunch today grading papers and writing in the Sonic journal as this goddamn laptop didn’t want to let me use it.  Of course, now, I do push the buttons and have a note in my writing normalcy.

Finish the fucking book, I tell myself.  Like my son said tonight as I poised to make his bed with new sheets, “GET TO WORK.” I am.  I say the same to self.  

Sip the Barbera I popped last night. It, she, more calm.  Me the opposite of anything tranquil at the moment.  Working in the home office which isn’t as common as I’d love to tell you it is.  But, WORK.  Work.  What I write about.  Force self to write when I don’t want to.  I do write about wine, but that’s not my only onus and thought light.

Now, I’m like a train with this, these writing thoughts.  I, not failed.  Not failing in my aims.  I won’t allow that.  No one should.  Why would you.  You are here, once.  And I’m not addressing the fact one only lives once…. I’m speaking to myself and you, that where you are, right now, the opportunity and life invitation to bring a project to completion is singular.  You see it once.

You are a train, if you wish be.  Some unknown animal of fruition, bringing works to an offering stage.  There are only stops that persist acknowledged.  So acknowledge none of them.  I see so many of these speakers and motivational-who-be’s profess all this counsel but don’t consider the most apparent reality… the audience member has to decide.  They only elect to act if they bring themselves to movement.  Tonight I could have just as easily poured this red from El Dorado, sat on the floor of this home study, went on phone and scrolled through some photo pour.  No.  We decide to draw, paint new plausible for our Personhood.  Decide to move, be alive, mentally, alive, wildly alive in all movements of your steps and actuating saunter. 

What work does for and to the character is animated in divinely lucrative chant.  Dodge the task, never.  Distractions and suitable sanctions to project-dodge are terminal.  The panacea, always, is preemptive production.  Never, labor deduction. 


Fight with Writing

img_7371Deciding to not go to lunch after drive to East Bay, Berkeley.  PB, J, and some other snack I brought the other day buy didn’t get to.  Quiet in break room.  Am I early to lunch?  I am, 12:59… there’s the door, someone coming in.  He goes to fill his hydro-flask.  Me, just here, eating what I brought, thinking about the drive and the houses, driving past UC Berkeley and seeing self lecture there, someday.

I restart my session, this sitting at lunch, the diaristic effort during an hour or a bit less where I’m to eat and zone out, not do anything productive.  What I’m doing now is anti-lunch.  But I’m eating— But I’m working, making self be with page, do something, be effort-prone in some level or elevation.  Class tonight but I’m not in much mood for anything after this but writing more and enjoying some wine, doing some money stuff, maybe, going through old pictures I haven’t sued yet.  Something for me.. what.. WHAT.  No answers now, more people walking into lunch room, me not knowing what I want to write about other than I’m writing and I would lecture on self-writing, examining self thought he words you put to page when you do write.  Self-study, self-examination and I guess to some extent assessment.  I’m thinking too much about this, this, where I am and what I’m doing.

Fruit delivery and they drop the boxes right here, the table at which I work and write and do the anti-lunch thing.  Guess the fruit’s for all of us here in the tech spot.  Think of re-starting my sitting again, around one word, then decide against it, then decide so vocally and cheerily for it.  I decide that I’m just an indecisive writer with a new job, a new office.  People debating around me and in front of fruit what they want for lunch.  Did I hear a taco truck’s coming?  Thank so.  But not spending money.  Not today.  Now the room’s alive, more than a few people.  I switch from the sandwich to some almonds I packed last week or the week before.  Thirsty now, again indecisive.  Time to self wasted thinking about everything and every article and specific thing near me.

Restart.  Another.  Poetry, writing one a day for the last few.  Soon going on a poem hunt through all my journals, wherever I can find one, I’ll collect it, make it parcel to a band of verses.  I’m bored with my writing, now.  Nothing about it interests me.  Could only imagine much I don’t want to, how a reader’d feel.  Wrote a poem while in the car, while co-worker navigated company car through Marin traffic.  Took a banana from one of the boxes.  Always makes me think of hotel lobbies, when I eat bananas.  Not sure why then I’m acutely sure why.  In the morning at some many hotels, there’s that breakfast spread, right there from which everyone can pick.  All the hotels I’ll stay in when touring with writing, speaking one writing, sharing my pieces then workshopping others’.  Then of course the obvious, at least to me, metaphor and symbolic steps of fruit, of labor and effort, thinking, living.  Need to decide what to speak on, tonight.  How to keep them engaged, but more than that how to keep myself into what I’m saying.  I’ll talk about reading, writing, college.  As the course title is College Reading and Writing.  I think.  We’ll start with one poem from Hughes, then our own works, our own written observations and reactions. Already bored, me.  I have to get creative, more free.

Onto another snack.  Fruit snacks that were bought for the kids, me sneaking one pack out of the house… again, bored.  Backpedal to poem—

Work, the clock, me in

Then out

The next phase or lean, 


Guess it captures my feeling now of restlessness or not knowing what to write, and when I do write I’m just not into it. Am I “into it” now?  I guess.  What do I do?  What’s the cure for this, this block. Is it a block?  Am I blocked?  No.  I tell myself, NO.  So… to what I was noting, this room. The writer at his own table, writing his new experiences in a tech company.  He doesn’t know much tech.  Well, maybe enough “to be dangerous” as people say, but he didn’t think so.  He’s from the wine industry, where the most technology dealing and toiling is found in punching buttons on a register, or operating a POS system than a monkey with ADD could.  Now, he narrates and markets a service, provided by an internet company.  He tries to write, this lunch break, and produces nothing to his herald.  “Fuck that.” He says, to the last typing.  His own victim, hunter, hound.

The last restart, approaching a thousand.  I need fiction, as what’s immediate and physically proximal doesn’t ignite a thing.  I put myself in class, tonight, what I’m teaching.  Nothing.  Tonight, we’re talking.  Nothing formal.  I care too. much, in this session.  I’m not overthinking.  I’m thinking in excess to the point that my thinking is so cyclical that no real cognition presents.  Rub my eye, one of those annoyed exhales.  Mom’s right.  Tell stories.  Tell stories… the tasting room’s where my inner eyes go first.  Then the classroom.  Then writing.  More than indecisive.  Only reason I’m following through with this shitty session is so I can return to it, learn, not repeat.  But knowing me…

I should have gone out to lunch.  To that Mexican place up the street.  Family-owned with over ten years ownership and residency on Sebastopol Road.  Whenever I treat self to lunch there, stories circle and swarm.  Ideas of owning a store, a wine bar, some wine retail and something-something.  Yes, should have gone out.  Tomorrow, no fail, I’m driving up the road.  Is that taco truck gonna show?  I should go outside, see… wait, I think I know where it is.  Then I feel full from the packed snacks.  Goddamnit.


Readying for races.  Metaphor’s obvious. 

With my writing, always be at the races.  Not a chess player, or baseball player, but a race car driver.  Quick and maneuverable.  Drinking my 4-shot mocha and Jackie ever-eager to see the race cars.  I’ll record everything, my son’s reaction to these cars, their sounds and the feel of the track and as they zoom by.  I’ve never been but Dad has told me about such the scene several times.  Now, finally, I get to absorb it and translate it as I wish, for the telling of my story, my architecture as an Artist—

Do I have everything ready for the day?  Sunscreen… snacks… what else… journal for me.. charged phone.  Thoughts of a writing father, I know.  Mom should be soon here to retrieve us.  So off the laptop be’s me.  Later we talk…  -Mike

All around my state is a new state,

new debate a slew’s date– when does it arrive I don’t know  I’m in a hive of angry bees

leave me alone please I can’t hear my mind to write this

poetry and if I don’t then my babies won’t eat,

fuck this stress, so much indignation to propel off my

chest, I think I failed the test of composure, not sure what my range is, 

barely a rover, pressure now that I’m a homeowner, oh..

looks like I won’t be sleeping tonight, too many new sentences to light–


Don’t want to go back to dreams– well that’s a falsehood, I abundantly do.  But I know if I do go back to the closed eye I’ll resent myself and wait till tomorrow night (or really, tonight) and have the conversation with me that I need to wake early tomorrow morning, right?  The same circle.  That I’m sick of, intensely I’ll with dream and wish and taking self everything I want– the wishlisting I’m known for.  Going to close eyes for a bit, and hope I wake when I want, just minutes forward.  And if not, there’s a morrow, and another after that.

Hot down here, some reason– close eyes, sleep, wish I could make coffee, but that’d wake them all–


Wrote seulement poetry today. 2 standalone pieces. Not exceedingly busy in the tasting room, which was fine with me. But I still sold. Felt self in vineyards, walking and writing, looking at the cordons, and listening to the verses they wanted me to write. 3 tracks tomorrow, all to be performed/recorded, like what I wrote today. From this morning, a rebirth of the spoken ME; jazz and said versery. Something about to happen in my story– me, stage, reading. Stares, lights, filled seats and photographs, me thinking how I saw what they saw. This reinvented ME–

Wine this night: ’12 Sbragia Cab.