Latte. Again the only one in bullpen as phone trainers leave. Technical Trainers, I think is their actual title. Headed to San Rafael, in a little over an hour. Notes, today. Only aim. And put each note on blog or into some something-spere. Aujourd’hui, que du bonheur…. The only way I’ll move and perpetuate my story. Last night offering writing prompts and instruction to a friend in another department, feeling a bit not so much hypocritical but flawed, or not aligned with what I was assigning, if that’s clear.
Committing self to a standalone piece before leaving for SRafael. About what… about opening a shop, of some kind. A stationary story. Don’t want it to be about wine, I know that’s what everyone expects. So I want to do something different. Maybe a fishing shop…. Fishing equipment, like the stores my Uncle Stevie used to take me to in Summer, fishing north of Sisters, Oregon, or in Sunriver, or along whatever river that was where we took the guided tour, escorted by a guy who wrote a book about fishing, fly fishing I want to say. I’ve never lost that visual, and remembering the boat ride down that river, stopping at certain banks and casting into the moving water. The singular piece has to be about something like that, I feel. Something where someone does something that does something for other people…. Like a teacher, or a fitness coach, or instructor.
Love this part of the morning, in the office, and when the morning is shaped this way, with little sound and little intrusion. Ransacking my thoughts for anything that can be in the story…. Me teaching, that one semester where I taught seven classes across I want to say four campuses. Of course, I know now, no way to live. But I have done it. That was in ’07, twelve years ago. Like more than eternity, a endless galaxy and time, solar system of time. Latte waking me, think my solitude is about to die, as my friend approaches bullpen. No… someone else passing. I’m in a condensed and confined area, here, and can’t see who passes. All the more reason for me to be out, as I wrote yesterday. Need a vehicle switch, I just remembered, so I can charge my phone but also listen to something other than what’s on the radio.
Now I think the story should be about wine, a wine shop that also stands as a tasting room. One that locals flock to on weekends and make it a point to visit during the week, to make the week more tolerable. You know what I mean. The story is dialogue-supported and commanded, like a script. But not. Character has tasting room/shop in downtown Windsor. The first year was a struggle but now in year two the matters are different. There’s talk, there’s magnetism, there’s a place where people depend on what the place provides aside from the obvious wines and their taste patterns and easing effects. He refuses to be a business manqué, the same way I will not let myself be that type of penner.
Looking back at the writer.
but designing. And if you’ve stayed or parted from the design, you put yourself back in it. Don’t scold yourself. At all, much less excessively. Go back to your sight and self-promise, actuating your fire and story. Collect, breathe, calm. There’s another scene soon to start.
planning for the next should
always creatively catalyze.
is narrative maze.
As mornings are at times harsh,
observations becomes more poignant,
thoughts more assiduous.