Schedule today…

Swarm of conversations and notes, projects, prospects.

Leaving at 4:30 to get babies, then to Mom and Dad’s for dinner with babies.

Can’t forget to take running stuff home, since I didn’t get out today. Was with Sales Engineer, down in San Rafael then Petaluma.

Have to be better about record-keeping as I go. First hour, or more, of day was all admin, all catchup. Never again.

Going back to desk now to do EOD and make notes in next weekly report. Feel like one of my students, saying there’s not enough time in the day, then my voice responding “YES THERE IS.” Just write it all out. And if you stick to the plan or not, fuck it. Least you wrote it.

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At a loss as what to do now.  Made calls, secured some appointments, and looking at clock.  Sipping last cup of coffee.  Grade some papers after this, and where should one do that. One thought is campus, but I’m not in the mood to just rush over there.  Possibly going to a writing spot, somewhere.  Which one.  Feel so much better than I did yesterday.  Tomorrow will be one full of appointments, running early then driving to prospect shortly after that, then to Berkeley to secure an account.

Will work on letters to send prospects, between now till day’s close.  Going to pull back on calling for a bit, unless it’s a response to an email.  Want to accomplish all, and I will, through writing in this AE story.  Need to get here early, tomorrow, if I can.  And remember my badge.  Forgot it today, shamefully.  Where did I leave it… oh shit, on the white cabinet, with the wine glasses.  A bit of irony, I think that’s irony, not having wine last night.

Grading next semester will be incredibly different than this term, if I’m still teaching.  I wrote more when I had the Apple laptop.  Now, I’m typing on these low-quality, not really for writers laptops.  My opinion.  And I need to write quicker, more, and with less thought. Is it dark outside?  Haven’t been out in a bit.  So it could be dark and I wouldn’t know.  I truly feel like it could be dark outside.

Grading takes from writing, I know that now, and have, but not thinking of everything I need grade I cringe.  Write about wine… oh fuck here we go again.  Have some to sip when home tonight, and whatever I grade with.  Don’t they have a Grenache at Whole Foods?  Yeah, they do.  And I remember it being sharp, and loving, jazzy and playful on senses and one that would encourage me to write.  Now, just talking about it, I’m looking forward to grading.  Writing some wise-ass remarks or something cryptic and encouraging in the margins…. Satirizing the institution, while forwarding their efforts in their studies.

Always coming back to wine, always.  And why is that, why did I go to a winery and taste, take notes, and be in wine worker mode on a day off?  “Day off”.  Obviously in quotes since I don’t believe in days “off”.  Wine, the reason and reasoning, where I reason myself and sense of self to be as a writer.  Old pictures in WordPress memory, past, and most of it wine.  From my Roth Winery days and before.  Writing about wine and her colors and bright intrigue and confusing qualities, not meaning to propel and confusing crux but shove you with love to interpret and understand that it’s not the thing in the glass but the reaction and interaction.

Office quiet, and my letters to prospective clients take shape, like I’m writing about wine.  But not at all.  About happiness and no stress, what all business owners want when it comes to their office’s tech.

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Nothing written today, from being as busy and centered in my AE story as I’ve been.  Which is good, no?  Readying for class, which more than likely I’ll let go rather early.  8 mile run, not feeling anything right now, but know I will in about an hour.  Thinking of going to break room and getting coffee, some water for the #pozvibez flask, or tumbler.

Nothing planned for tonight, and that’s just the way I want it, the way it should be.

Sipping coffee slow, water tumbler loaded, ice and water.  Surprised there WAS any ice in the machine.  IT’s usually ice-less.  Something about that ice machine I just find funny.  An ice machine.  Don’t ask me why, or maybe you should.

Should get off clock in a bit.  Head to campus, plan something for tonight.  Like what.  Planning… planning something to write.  A narrative on you.  Start there.  Right now writing a plan with tomorrow’s checks.  Payday, hate that I look so forward to it.  The next 100 days project will be enormously focused on finances, making my money do something for me, for the family, for business.  Less eating out, buying more for home so the house will be the restaurant, the wine bar, the café, the everything.

And, another thing for the next hundred days, write more freely. Think less, if at all.  Freewriting and humor need be free and not at all concerned with inhibition or if the humor won’t land or connect.  Freedom in writing, something about it has a seductive nudge and note that I can’t ignore. I of course endorse and advocate it, speak of it with the highest of loves and esteems, but I don’t practice in a way that aligns.  Right now, I’m thinking… about what.  Yes, now I’m going to make fun of myself… about class, about what I do till class.  Tomorrow, the drive to San Carlos, the meeting with the property management guy, then the drive back and that fucking traffic on 280 or like last time on 101, then 19th Avenue, then the narrows (Novato).  Fuck I’m a mess, and not from anything around me.  I’m creating trash and contamination in head through thinking.  So, now, and in the coming project…. NO. THINKING.

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Still don’t have 2 fiber appointments.  Goddamn it.  Went for my run, somewhat honored meal plan in that I didn’t lunch out but I didn’t touch the snacks I packed.  Two fiber conversations on calendar in the next hour and 23 minutes.  Can I do?  Start calling….

Finally, an appointment in Marin.

November in 2 days.  Back to the NaNo project, and Joe’s story.  Or is it my story, being sick of my thinking and my pauses and self-strangling lulls, stalls, falls.  Over wine tonight, and Game 7 of the Series, I’ll be swarming self into this book.  I’m not going to say the title, much I want to, but you know what my attitude is.  Get a bottle of something nice, break budget.  Fuck the budget.  Write about the wine from sip one to last…. Bring your verse to the page, the screen, the book.  The attitude so many have with wine is the wrong one, taking wine out of wine and making it more about score, not the gentle zenful complexion and song wine denotatively and connotatively submits to a sipper.

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…but it was my stupid ways that earned me the flimsy thin piece of Orwellian paper (more like tissue, or something from a detention center, some napkin or bathroom roll).  Then this devil laptop running an update and fucking up everything I had.  Again my fault.  Both were my fault.  And the wind they’re threatening tonight, not yet here.  Reluctant to be satirical or snarky as that’s what made me feel a clownish knob a couple days ago, me making fun of the wind predictions and angering people on social media and just not sitting well in the writer’s composition.

Ordered a pizza.. think guy is here.  He is.  Wait….

Have pizza.  Dinner break.  Paired with a Rose first and then the Zin I opened night before last in El Dorado Hills.  Have to let certain things go, if I’m to materialize a manuscript arrow.

Learning that thought is a snake you have to tame.  Exercise it too much and you’re struck, incapacitated.  Tonight I get Kerouac, I get Hemingway, Hughes, Plath, and Coltrane.  Not concerned with direction coherence or even sense.

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10:04

So…. I keep moving.  Looking through leads and sending emails.

12:14pm.  Sending emails.  Tacos to be delivered to office, other building, just after 1pm.  Moving and not stopping.  Have list prepped for tonight, projects and writings, what be.  Gym is closed and I’m not running with the air quality as it is.  Pushups, sit-ups, weights.  Want to change workout habit and pattern anyway, going into 2020.  More muscle building focus, a little less cardio.  LITTLE, less.

Eating Lucky Charms cereal.  A box was on the counter in the kitchen along with all the other generous placements from Sonic employees, supervisors and management.  Can’t remember the last time I had this.  Sweet, but useful here at my desk, holding the writer over till the tacos arrive.

Now what.  What do I do.

12:52.  Tacos should be here, shortly.  After lunch, focusing on assembly further of the collective conversation.  May bring work computer home with me.  Not sure, not going to think about it.  No thinking, none.  Just movement.

May stop at Jackson’s and have a drink there.  Am going to work out tonight, but weights, pushups, sit-ups, leg dips if that’s what they’re called.  I see life as a blank page, today, like Kerouac noted.  Work should make one happy, provide further purpose, not be see as something menacing or demonic, consuming and corrosive.

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Just move, I tell self.

Not a matter of thinking, or overthinking.  One of not doing to the degree I know I need. This fire scene, the smoke in the air and the drive back from Sacramento, yesterday watching the kids play on the swings and slides climb those bars that look like ladders or bars or a blend, and now today, home, work tomorrow.  Life is waiting for nothing, certainly not for you.  No thinking, and when you catch yourself thinking, stop.  Actually, don’t stop, just start moving, start creating and writing till the thoughts are fizzled by action. Quiet on my street, uneasy ghost-town feel or sense.  Feel face, need shave.  Reminds me of 2017’s fires when nothing was of a symmetrical send.  Nothing.  Writing on couch …

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Playing at the park up and then down the street, down a little hill,

I’m definitively into my zen tilt and happiness takeover and project.  Sipping Rose in a plastic cup I found in Mike’s cupboard I think about wine and what I want with it.  Again.  Kids unaffected by this, this evacuation.  To them it’s a getaway, a vacation, something that has no flames, or threats, evacuations or dangers.  It’s fun.  They make it fun.  Actually, no, they don’t MAKE it anything.  They just see opportunity for enjoyment, to relax and play on that slide and those swings.

Not going into Sonic tomorrow, and I feel guilty, but then don’t.  I want to and need to be here with the babies.  Write. Get out of my comfort zone as much as I hate that phrase, but that’s just what I need do.  Saw a bench at the park or rather just in the not-too-distant distance in front of and on the side of a large grass field that you might think is used for polo but I think it’s just a grand and nearly overwhelming grass field for kids to play on.  Soccer, chase, tag, what be.

This house I could see as an office, or some property I’d own for either a rental or just an office.  Rather big for just an office but it’s what’s smattered in my inner sigh sense, blogging in here for weeks, just locked in and forcing self to produce a book from the blog.  The blog has to come first, and the realizer and readier for whenever I’m stuck or feel I’m recycling the same sentences, is the Now.  Write the Now.  Where you are and what you’re doing.

Jack and Emma watch the Grinch, one of the dozens or hundreds of versions, and eat some Cheerios from a red cup, the kind you’d see at a frat party.  Jack spills some and I tell him to pick it up and he tells me he will after he comes back from China.  I laugh a little but try to be serious and then tell self fuck that.  Have fun with them.  Be one on and of the playground.

I need to play more.  Not think so much. Not work, but only create, write, stay up late and pepper the manuscript’s streets with verse, pages, my phylum of music.  Keep pushing these keys and refuse to let self stop, the wine tells me.  Don’t allow distractions, obstructions.  Poetry is the vein, the blood, the beat, the blog, the Now ME.

Playing with the wine, the pink puddle in the plastic cannikin.  Turning left, seeing Broncos play Raiders.  Thinking more of my office.. what I want in there.  Anything that antagonizes, promotes, encourages creativity, bringing something to life.  This bought with Sonoma County wildfires plates a dose of déjà vu that I wasn’t expecting, to just live and write wildly and edit nothing.  Kids getting restless, and me too.  To finish this fucking book, and light MY story on fire.  Several fires.  And be so lovingly monstrous that it can never be extinguished.

Cuz F This S …

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