6/25/19

At work, feeling more than invigorated and fiery with this promotion.  Sales, selling, speaking… now everything culminates, much I hate that word.  Getting done starting tasks, committing to 3000 observational words for and from day.  Idea for day, Knowledge.  Get to know the person in front of you, even if you already know them.  Listen, listen more…. Study, again, observational.

At my desk, ready for the day in a way I’ve never been.  But I calm, compose, collect, settle and assemble attitude and sight for what’s next, in next hour.  Want to work in slowing down in idea delivery.

9:08.  Writing notes to self and even more in exploratory mode, mood, mold.  Drive down to SF, thinking, speaking into recorder.  Envelope to tasting room, or just studio.  Where I write and self-publish, blog and develop what I develop, bring more to life.  Creative Room….  Just got a call from a scammer, claiming to be from the Social Security Administration.  The recording claimed my number had been suspended due to suspicious activity.  Wouldn’t a live person want to tell me that?  I pressed one to speak to the next available “officer”.  A gentleman came to the phone and asked for my name.  I asked Shouldn’t you know that already?  He said no.  I said I’d wait for something in the mail.  The guy then said he’d inform the sheriff and the arrest warrant would be issued have a nice day hang up.  I turned off phone, and laughed my way back to my desk.  I thought and am still thinking about it, from a writer’s perspective.  Shouldn’t you write a better plan than that, a better script, story?  And all due respect to scams stretching from other countries, don’t you think the accent kiiiiiiiiiiiiiind of gives it away?  They’d benefit from my instruction, a small or larger writing seminar, creative writing effort and intensive for scammers.  I wasn’t sold.

Then thinking came back to here, Sonic, selling and what I’m about to sell for the B2B division.  Still laughing, and if I’m not arrested in the next couple hours, I’ll keep jotting jots on sales approach and tone, word selection and deployment.

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Brentwood, CA.

Lunch for a bit even though I ate on drive down.  Just more time to self, sparkling water and music in this building.  Not bad… café rock with bit of elevated tempo, female vocals, has me thinking of Road travel.  Driving somewhere distant.  Utah, Colorado, Texas, North Carolina, New York.  Saw this documentary about a band, this kind of rock from what I remember, touring all over the country.  Can’t remember much about it other than when they landed in New York for a gig they came alive in a way they didn’t at any other venue.  Tried looking for it just now but could find it.

Need more music in my life, much more.  And there’s already quite a bit, as you might know from reading.  More, though.  Why not more. Why not universes more?  I’m falling into a loving place, more loving, with my character, with who I am as a writer in wine.  Not going for any word count, here.  Just listening to the scene, stage, me, this track.  Work… what I do versus who I am.  Everything now intersects with loving steps.

I’ve only written here like this once, months ago.  Sitting at a tallboy table in a side room, different feel to it all.  My break, my time in the day to take time from the day for MY day.  Postmodern recipe for realization.  Challenging self to write a song while canvassing with team.  One short, but not so I’m at a loss, or someone listening would be saying something like “That’s it?” Like with some wines when you taste and you’re left wondering, “So what am I supposed to think about that?” Wine finding a foothold in my literary and musical life layers.

Vineyard, me in a wooden chair, old, sipping a bright white and remembering the envelope.

6/20/19

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Decided on the breakroom for lunch, not one of those thinking pods.  Not hungry, so I won’t be distracted by food, and I think I’m good on caffeine so no coffee.  Chewing gum I took from my neighbor John’s desk.  Relax, meditation, thinking of this whole envelope to tasting room, or winery, or vineyard story.  Where I am in life and not that I have to plan how I want to be remembered or anything that morbid or depressing, but I’m definitely in the mind of ‘here and forward’.  So, here an forward, putting more in that envelope and not be tempted to ever take anything out.  Touring with my wines and writing people’s reactions to everything I pour.  Other day pouring for those two girls and how their favorites were mine as well and how that one wine brought a decided direction to our interaction.  Wine is not only in my story but IS my story.

The ’07 Dutcher  Crossing entity with which Jesse and I interacted at dinner the other night, telling me so much and reminding me why I am where I am, what I’m doing with wine.  How I want that ferocity and form, character and charisma in the bottles I pour, what I make from my vineyard.  Honestly, I expected something to be off, but the Cabernet thieved its own muse, which gave me a book title idea and shoved me into more wined realization.  We poured, Jesse and I after the waitress poured just a tasting room amount into our glasses, appreciating the olfactory steps from the bottle to our senses and were startled.  One sip, after glass tip where I could only notice a sliver of color decline and I’m still not completely certain I saw any, stunned.  We both were.  We shortly thereafter talked wine business and what we see in our soon-days of wine life. We talked about wine brokering, but that’s not really what I want of course and I don’t think he does either.  The wine spawned new thought, new direction. What’s in that envelope at home, the days onward.

Breakroom where I can’t break.  I can’t just read some magazine, or even the book from Father’s Day I was given.  But then I think of the title, Destiny Thief, and I notice more intersection.  Can barely wait for the tasting room, Sunday.  Seeing that Room as mine, how I discuss all wines, my favorite of course but more, more, more wined story and words.  And they are MY words, even if people take not kindly to them like my sister the other night when she thought I was referring to one of her wines, the three vineyard Zin blend, saying it was reductive.  She said sharply and with stern ire “It’s not reductive.” I corrected her and specified I was addressing the Sbragia Petite Sirah Dad opened.  She apologized, but continued to dispute my observation, which is her right.  I moved on and examined the wine more.  Still, still with that slow musty circular sense.  Either way, like with the two girls from Lancaster, there was an interaction from a singular wine.  That envelope, at home, will bring more of this.  More books, more muse and pages to thieve.

 

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5:41am

Capitola, CA.

Parking lot above the police station, suggested by a police officer just a second ago when I pulled up beside him, barely able to speak from the effects of the cold or whatever I have.

More than awake and ready to dominate and control this race. Will get coffee somewhere in Santa Cruz not Capitola when fine.

Will start walking down street and toward start in a bit. Right at 6….

Good thing I double checked. Was in wrong spot. I thought it started in Santa Cruz not Capitola. So here I am. Saw coffee spot driving in. Boardwalk in front of me, some rides, lights, those pointed rooftops you’d see at an amusement park.

5:59. Leaving car. Get bib, then walk around. Hope they have somewhere for my keys. Hope. Should have bought one of those belts, precisely for keeping your car key. Mom’s right as always, as she said the other day– I need be better prepped.

Just saw two women runner walk by.

Leaving car.

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5/17/19

Too many kids in Starbucks so had no choice but to take the expensive, or more pricey route at Toast Eatery.  Place with a diner feel and a cute menu cover with a smiling toast piece offering a thumbs up.  Know I’ll regret this, or cite self for lack of discipline after.  Or I won’t.  I won’t. I need a new writing seat.  And hear I am.  Ordered the Denver om’ and a coke.  Asked the chap what he thought of the Denver.  He said it’s good, he loves it, one of his favorites.  Of course it is, I thought.  Well, mine too, no matter where I go.  Day elevating even further, knowing I can’t control how many people come to the door for the Reps.  But, I can offer insight, instruction and encouragement.  Realizing at this table against the wall I don’t control much.  None of us do.  And instead of fighting, love the fact that control is figment.  Imaginary.  Enjoy and write from the absence of containment.  And what we call, perceive as, control.

Pleased that I go to lunch alone.  Writing.  Feel my essential and immediate poet here, more than if I were to even find a seat or small wobbly shifty table at that juvenile den Starbucks next door.  Writing in SF as I want to.  Sip coke set it down. Hear something in the pan.  Either the peppers or onions to my Denver.  No idea.  Early tomorrow morning up for even in San Mateo.  Where I’m from.  Years and year ago, last, at Serra High School.  Can’t help but fixated on time and what it’s doing, how it moves with everything involuntarily moving with it.   It again, I let go, stop tries to tame and or tackle it.

Prince’s 1999 on, and I thing this is 20 years ago he sings of, and even earlier when he wrote and recorded.  This diner, designed when.

Plate here.  Small break.  Keeping screen on…

Simplistic appearance but a shapely cosmos of flavor riles and tells, turns and altitudes.  I’m refusing to let anything of me fade, none of my aims by addled or maladopted.

Taking momentary away from plate.  Thinking about driving back to Santa Rosa.  When do I leave.  When do I wake tomorrow morning.  Pack all running effects, tonight.  Tomorrow morning should be for me, more than for anything else.  Clothes out, write a little as soon as I. Up.  About waking early, before anyone else.  What earlier hours do to vision and understanding of the Now, of the self.

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