St. Patrick’s Day

Not sure what it means to me, the significance. If there is any. But I’m enjoying the day. Brewery up the street from the Autumn Walk Studio that I’ve been wanting to visit for months. And here I am. Finally. Back to work tomorrow and I return more composed and confident than recent weeks. Why…. I focus on the idea of sound, speed, efficiency, story. Kindness. The pillar and principle that should determine business momentum. Playing now, as I about to pick up the pint+ of Red Ale, Born On A Bayou, CCR. I’m taken somewhere. Somewhere. Some mood elevated and renewed. My day off but not. Not at all. This, this tap room if you’d call it that, present now in my pages. This is all significant. That I know.

Palooza Call

img_1088Had a beer here in the loft.  Only one.  Then… some food.  Thinking one of Jeff’s crazy inventive salads.  Today, Friday, so I’m quite confident I deserve it.  This will always be my favorite spot, my favorite writing spot, yes, but MY spot.  Palooza… and forget about it being a “writing spot”.  It’s my centricity for meditation.  This loft, and yes the writing has a lot to do with it, but now for example— the reggae playing, no one up here with me… just a place to inventory.

Ordered the Farmhouse Salad, no blue cheese anything for me, sub in thousand island, and smoked chicken.  This spot is tangibly positive, immeasurably inspired and inspiring, about expanding and changing stories with beneficially bolstering momentums.  This loft is an escape for me, something elevating and reassuring, that you can have whatever you want from life.  It’s as simple and direct as ordering something from a menu.  Palooza, which infers endless party, is the bridge of fantasy and reality, a certain postmodern unionization of ideal and real for this writer.  Creative corner in this loft…. As Jeff reinvented himself, I self-actuate, the like enact.  This place, my place, where I used to escape on lunches when I worked at a nearby winery, miserable in a tasting room, I’d come here to re-assemble self and my spiritual and creatively sensible fortitude.

And this all started from a hot dog cart.  Now, my friends have a restaurant going on their third year of operation, serving everything from hot dogs to artisanal burgers, pastas and steaks, to a salad so unique that you’ll be photographing it longer than lifting it to palate.  This’ll be only one of many ode notes to my place, to this loft, to this long table by the pool table and empty beer kegs.  This is not a ‘once’, this is a life, a scribe sage, a stratospheric stack of Composition Books.  I’ll keep my life, my party, here, going, actuated and animated.

Loop Do a True 

Frustrated with myself as I wanted to post a piece I wrote about Emma, earlier, but this evening is about a vent, a shelling of sorts.  Nothing negative, just that needle-esque candor.  Right now on floor of bottom floor of Autumn Walk Studio sipping night’s cap and thinking about day, how crazy it was at the winery.  How I love and loathe such momentum in tandem, how people that ask the dumbest, most self-absorbing probes of wine perturb and infuriate me— one lady today feeling the need to ask a question then use the answer as the foundation of her grievance— example: “Did this see any oak?” she asked about the Chardonnay.  “No,” I riled, “we wanted this to be clean and bright, expressive and charming.”

“Well,” she said, spilling the remainder into the pour ceramic in front of her, between us, “I like the oaky Chards, this is too thin.  Why didn’t you use new oak?” I dodged the question and told her something that made her feel more empowered so she’d shut the fuck up.  ‘It’s wine for fuck’s sake’, I thought.  Why do people get like this over wine, and I have to be honest it’s less than a percent of people walking through that front door-set that have such demeanor and lean.  I always watch from behind that bar, writer I be, to see what I see.  You have these presuppositions at times, we all do, but you never know.

Already I can feel myself getting lazy on this Studio’s bottom floor, and I haven’t even lifted the night’s capping of captain cappings.  So now what do I do, with this time to myself, after getting up when I did with daughter, then soonafter son— the writer’s a pretzel, self-promulgated in prose promiscuity, yodeling from this idea to that, and I get more frustrated with self.  So how is this helping.  I think of the vineyard walk I took yesterday, how if I were the owner I’d be doing the same thing as the current owner.  True acuity and familiarity with the property, telling a story.  It’s all a story, a zooming and tangibly scenic story-set.  I’m relaxed but not, as I see again how life’s shortness motivates us.  I’m angry, but then I’m not.  I refuse to smoke from negativity’s cig.  I’m here, now, downstairs, the fridge going mute, and me finally having a whale upon which to write.  Yes, each moment I can write while having two babies is like joyriding a whale, in the middle of the Pacific.

I’m okay now, with not touching the Emma piece.  I’ll get to it tomorrow.  Typical writer procrast’—  So now harm in my creative skin or waves, telling tide.  What’s going to happen tomorrow at the winery, who will ask what?  WHAT?  Feel like I need to know now so I can have some witty fucking response.  The wine industry’s like a circus, then like a business, then like a riot, then like a war.  Which facet do I better like?  Not sure.  You know what, curtly, I’d rather write about my daughter.


At the counter sipping my beer and

watching the Niners-Bronco’s game, I thought of my self in another city, and how that would feel, what I’d be writing if I were on travel.  The beer was cold and just the temperature needed for end of day–  working in my book for what seems like a life, a life with distorted time sense.  Coming semester could very well be the final.  This is my final exam, and I’m intent on acing it.  Writing what I need to to solely be governed by my stream of pages.  It will happen.  It has to happen.  Self-absorbed narrator, so what.  I ignore my momentary insecurity and sip the beer.  Watch the game.  Pre-season but oh well, it’s football.  I miss football.  Even though I’m a baseball guy, I love the game, the run plays, the play with the clock.  But I’m too distracted by the thought of my travel eventual, how music will sound in hotel lobbies, what the people will look like as they pass out of the corner of my eye– my thinking just leads me and in imaginative irrationality.  I need travel.  Sooner than soon. I get quite agitated when people mention how much they travel for work and say so like it’s such a bare.  I don’t get it.  This semester will change everything.  Going to teach like I’m already there, with the finished book, with the travels…  Beer done, young girls on phone, and so am I.  They send pictures and text messages to their “friends” or other others in their lives, I make memoir notes.  I’ve never worked in a restaurant.  Not even in college.  Why.  How.  How did I escape that?  Seems like some mandatory transition everyone has to pass.  An exam of its own onus.  But I’ve never done it.  I start to obsess over and in all these young characters around me.  Bringing people their meals and many times dealing with assholes, hoping for a tip and getting nothing–  and how do they carry like six plates with two arms?  I could never do that.  My job is the writer.  Quietly observing, maybe a bit sinisterly. Watching their rush, their staring at computer screen registers, crumbling receipts, talking to their bully manager who’s such a fucking service expert, then they go to the back to check on an order.  Interesting, I think.  What are they talking about, those two waitresses over there, by the bar corner, near where I was sitting?  The counter, reminded me how necessitated travel is as a writer.  I was imagining.  That imagining need to stop, become actually actualized, become my actuality.  This coming semester, that starts in a matter of hours, really, is the definition of my definiteness.  It need be poetic from pulse one to last.  sure I’ll think about this on tomorrow morning’s run.  Class one, then two, and all the way to Week 18.  “Plan, for once!” I order Self.  Follow-through.  Right?  Yes.  Can’t thank that counter enough.  That beer, the game on the screen, the odd couple to my right, lone chat at left.  All for story’s purposes.  This all is.  Think…  Weather, travel, the organic in expressing yourself in writing… hmm, I think, ideas for day one.  4th quarter, under 2 minutes…