08:39.  Had FaceTime call with wife and babies…

miss them all, especially the babies, and my little girl with that self-understood smile of img_6459strength and goals, wanting to learn and touch everything around her (And throw, too, which I’m working on…).  Onto cup 2 for the tireless writer.. and everything need be documented.  Want to write more about my character, Kelly… thinking about her a lot these past few days, her life in the city and working in that office for the ad firm and never really being allowed to dwell in the creative.  Why, why she wonders and gently broached the topic but never gets any answers from management.  Her friend Sherry having her own creative outfit but no work for her friend, which kills her.  But what can she do.  They’ve been friends for over 20 years, since they were in preschool.  Both in their mid 20s and looking for their story.  Sherry closer to hers while Kelly technically knows but is blocked from attaining what she really wants.  But only in her head, and that’s where my novel starts, I guess… or sequence of stories… young artist needing to work but not liking her work, trying to make the best of her work but blocked even from doing that, by management.

These fires will only empower the wine world and animatedly bolster our businesses.  I know it.  That’s the attitude I’m embracing going forward.  Tempted to go for a drive now, but…. No.  Stay put.  I mean, where would you go?  Go go to Olivet Road, maybe, then to Guerneville Road and around RRV.  But what would I shoot?  Guess I won’t know till I get out there, right?  Later… not now.  Thinking a tasting’s called for, for today.  RRV, yes.. then maybe… don’t know.  I just know I have to stay in my wild wine character… write everything.  Carry my little black journal with me.  Looking at the notes I took the other day, before and after Justin came over— husband of Melissa’s friend.  Keeping it together, he was, but barely.  I poured him some of that first SB, New Zealand made, and we talked.  I gave him some of wife’s socks, shirts, a couple pairs of shoes for his wife.  I would have given him some of my wear, but he’s a bit bigger than the writer, so all I could offer him was my ear, wine, a hug before he got back in his car.  Taking notes of this all, not to trivialize but so that I adequately grow and learn from it.  People losing everything they have, had.  Kevin and I on our walk last night, seeing the fire actually touching our block here, by the mailboxes, even charring some of the fence behind wife’s friend Amanda’s place.  I keep telling myself I’ll stop talking about these goddamn fires, but I can’t.  What does it have to do with wine?  Everything.  Community.  Life.  Enjoying the moment and learning from the moment, and understanding the moment for its autonomous importance.  Life could change, in far less than ‘a heartbeat’.

Song ends, and onto a new one.  Need my office.  Need an office in the city.  Yes, SF.  See what my character sees, maybe go there three times a week.  Work from home and take what I produce here, bring it there.  Monday, Wednesday, Friday.. in the city.  Rest of time up here in wine country.  Need to get camera from car…. Got images and a dollar in quarters, dumped into baggie of coins.  Think the writer needs more coffee.. why not.  Keep the party going.  Will stay here while the cleaning crew does their thing.  Disport myself with Kelly, her story… supplementing her income by working in a tasting room in the financial district, one that pairs wine and music… she learns more about wine than she anticipated, starts drawing bottles on tables, hands holding bottles, pouring wine.. her art takes a new direction, yes, but tells new stories…. She sips wine in her studio apartment on a street I haven’t determined yet, sketches her last shift.. everything about it— the slimy businessman, probably late 50s, inviting her to his office so he can pour her some “real wine”, as he put it.  Kelly starts keeping a sketch journal, quickly jotting notes below some rushed illustration…

Thinking of my babies, up there in Sac’…. Have to work nothing short of obsessively while they’re gone.  Had the temptation to switch to coffee last night, but didn’t.  Why not.  Didn’t want to fuck up my sleep.  WHY NOT???????????  Should have stayed up all night, let the echoes of the wine fade like the smoke over San Miguel, Coffey, Autumn Walk, and work.  Well I’m here now, working.  Working and telling the wine story post-disaster.  This “disaster”, though, could be an anomalous mitzvah.  It is, as I’ve intoned.  Giving me all this time to write and taste however many wines I have and will, build new stories and approaches to wine.

Need another cup.  New song, new sights… wine, the vineyards.  I will be out there.  Before filling my little demitasse, I stare at it.  Yes, the obvious metaphor, wine and life, but I take a moment and all the moment sings, taking the moment for the moment it is.  Nothing is more ‘wine’ than just that, that act.  Not connecting the moment to anything necessarily, or even analyzing it.  Just accepting it, welcoming it, letting it speak or not speak to you.  This is Zen, this is composition of Personhood.  The cup tells me to back off, think about the day and what you’re going to do— the Kelly novel, notes for her, what she’s drawing… she doesn’t even live in wine country, and was raised on the Peninsula, and is wrapped and kept and told by the vineyard blocks and the bottles she pours in a way I could only hope to be.  My character in competitive quakes with MY character… huh, interesting.  What psychology.  Feeling like leaving now, walking a block.  But I can’t.  Would be constricted by time.  Need limitless time, for what I want to do today.

Home and sipping the Longboard Sauvignon Blanc

img_1968Jesse gave me the other day.  Don’t feel too pained from run, but a bit tired from day in sum and the dinner Alice and I just had.  Only had two tacos, shrimp, but I don’t know… I’m tired.  Tomorrow back in room, and have to force self to take more tasting notes, more crazy wild wine writings.  Speaking of writing about wine, I didn’t expect this bottle to be as animated and innovative as it is.  Sauvignon Blanc never riles me, honestly, but this one is.  Notes of lime, melon, pine, mint and rosemary, a little stone-something and… salt?  This wine has me thinking, thinking more about my place in wine’s world and what I’m doing in it.  This is a bottle that you’d have at a table, with family, or by yourself like me now, writing my musings on whatever I’m doing tonight.  Tomorrow the week starts, and who knows what will happen.  OR, I do.. I will do what I did on my run today, just keep going.  Yes, I stopped at 8.5 miles, and I wanted to get to 13.1, but I had a well-pushed jaunt.  I got out there, when all I really wanted to do was be lazy and take a nap on the couch.  Just keep moving.

Wife said that soon she’ll be in bed after her long drive up from the city and I’ll prep for Tuesday’s class, put a little more in the book.. my Kismet Cuvée.  Want to “educate” people more on wine, and what they should know, and what they “should know they already know.  What’s that?  Themselves.  Too many times people come into the tasting room and say something like, “I don’t know the right language” or “I’m not sure what the proper wine words are, but…” Wine is personal.  Wine is US.  Wine is not meant to be complicated or even “sophisticated”.  When the fuck are people going to get this?  I’m speaking too harshly and unprofessionally, I know.  Just what’s on my mind.  And again, I’m from the literary world, not this wine industry, and I have to constantly re-calibrate my tone and word deployment.  I’m working on it, I swear.

Had a Sauvignon Blanc at the restaurant, paired with those shrimp tacos.  Just asked the waitress, who was sweet and amicable and eager to get us what we asked for, to bring out whatever SB they had.  I should have asked which it was.  Probably could just go online and find out, but either way it was a gracious pairing— quixotically complimenting all flavors and textures, notes and sensory dotes.  But I too find myself getting tired.  May be headed upstairs with wife when she finally walks up.  Miss my babies.. have so much material to go through from today.  Better wake early tomorrow.  Get writing done, go through pictures on the camera, and do whatever I can do with a quiet morning base.  Will put coffee leftover in tumbler in fridge.. was he upstairs making the funny noise that unnerves me strangely.  Need another glass.. notes, lectures, books, all on mind.  Dominating my concentration.  But my concentration breaks, when I see my phone light up from a message or email… should turn that fucking thing off, or destroy it.  No, can’t do that.  But I should certainly have it out of eye-shot.  Need that glass of SB, finally.

last 3 dayz

Done with Chardonnay, now to decaf and those Star Wars cinnamon or ginger crackers, my son’s.  You know you’re a dad when you feel guilty about eating them.  I do, now.  Sip the Peet’s ‘dc’, and…  so much calm, Matterhorn tranquility.  Coffee and I have a relationship that alone could give way to a docking monumental of memoirs…  Two of the Star Wars bites, and I think about the day, that group of 100 or whatever it was, just sipping wine, and so fast we had trouble keeping with them.  the bride-to-be was elated with her wine country panoramic, and me just pouring but acknowledging and appreciating their day before the ‘big day’.

Atmospheric light down here, lower than usual, and I get tired quicker.  Think I heard J upstairs jumping around, so I’m at that part of the parenting play, I think to myself before having another swig of this de-charged coffee.  And I’m glad it’s de-, rather than avec.  I need this Chardonnay out of my system and with a certain tempo—  The writer only wants to now relax ad be lazy.  I’m done with the Chardonnay, remember?  MY mind goes everywhere just days before Summer semester, and I think I heard the back neighbor ry to drill something, or just boldly and blatantly drill something.  Would love to have more of the Chardonnay, but if this is a memoir or diary-pull I want it to read as me not a saucy.  I’m pulling this coffee cup, of de-charged bean to my lips so I can out-even.  Would love more of these crackers, or cookies, whatever they are.  Parents can relate, how I appreciate and take advantage full and fulfilled of this late eve Friday quiet.  How I chug this de- in order to rid self of Chardonnay’s wake.  Trying to be more ‘wake, more conscious and elevate to what’s venerated from the wine, from me, from this moment.

Picking this up in morning, this entry, hoping I wake at, I don’t know, like, 5-ish…?  Guess I’ll see.  ‘nother sip of the de’, and I deliberate, decide upon things, certain choices and avenue that will bring me everything, that wheel a place where I check with no one for a thing.

Time to study.  No more writing.  I’ll make a U-ie after I wake, come back to this exact fucking sentence.  My vocabulary can keep with my chameleonic and kaleidoscopic code and carrousel— have eight minutes to raise or reach..something.  I’m a mess right now, this writer, wanting the Road and travel so bad that I—  Stop whining, just do.  So I tell students this:  Make a list of your stresses, study and love them, then try to sell them, however you want to.  Be crEATive with this.  This is a paradoxing and parasailing with these guys— think my calling bed is calling now and I have to accommodate, provide and wherever the work and word.  And rain, only motif—  Who are, what person you vote for, and as long as they support the tax laws and other certain renderings…

 

Leaving the above paragraph as is, errors aplenty and all, so I now know, no more sipping wine then writing.  To my credit, I did have a cup of decaf, ad those Star Wars cookies or crackers or whatever they are.  TODAY—  French, and a ton of it.  Starting with the phrase ‘trente jours’, or  thirty days.  I’m not doing one of those trite and useless 30 day challenges, but I am going to take a 30 day sample of my life, the same way I many times do what I can “measuring runs”, see what I do in a certain time, or distance.  Like my last run was supposed to be a 13.1 measure run, but I only made it 11.33, which told me something… train more!  So… today, day 1.  The intention? See what happens.  30 days in the story of this writing, the one writing it.  Sipping real coffee, as per my normal routine, not as much stress in the house as this is Saturday, a day off, kind of, for Ms. Alice and little Kerouac.

It wouldn’t be banal to have goals for this 30-jour sprint, would it?  Okay…

1 – be FLUENT in French by 7/18/16

2 – Compile a book, nonfiction, prose, any length

3 – Run 13.1 twice

And that’s all I’m listing for now.  I know me, and I know that I could just keep listing and listing and wishlisting away.  And having too many targets would nullify the intention of this 30 day measure.  It has to be more natural than coaxed.  Now, stop talking about…..

Feeling amazing after the throws of the coffee.  Should get in shower soon, try to get out of here a bit early.  No private tastings scheduled for day, far as I know, which saddens me a bit as I’ve developed quite and acuity for the private pouring atmosphere and narration.  Not only is it a perfect way to pocket cash, but I can speak of the wines in a more thorough and expansive fashion.  Yesterday was going through a tasting with some people from New York, and one of them commented on my use of literary references and poetry in the personification of the, I think, Rockpile Zin.  They loved it, and I shyly thanked them, but realized that I didn’t realize I was speaking about the wine that way.  Then I understood, and understand, it’s just WHAT I am.  A literary character in a business, the wine business, and how I speak moves bottles as no one else orates that way about the bottles and what’s in their glassed borders.  I have something.

J’s waffles are ready, but hot so I have a couple minutes to write, letting them cool in the toaster, and slow, so it’s possible I have up to 2 minutes of words.. my sagacity for day:  “To suppress free speech is a double wrong.  It violates the rights of the hearer as well as those of the speaker.” (Frederick Douglass).  I need to be freer in my writing and speaking, care less like HST.  Ugh… if only I could have this whole day, or at the very very least the 8 hours I’m to devote to the winery, to just write, build my story, contribute to my ‘trente jours’.

***

And this next day, 6/19, day before semester starts, Father’s Day, I feel off, and odd.  Sip coffee downstairs, no one up yet but of course that will change at any moment as I’ve so many times noted.  No run last night or this morning obviously.  Should do some push-ups after I wake a bit more.  Toward the end of yesterday, was hit with a meteoric mood, and not sure why.  Some of it extends to this morning as I said, but I can’t clearly discern its origin.  If I think back to the end of the day, it started a bit after 4.. but what directed and motivated it?  No idea.  Just have to forward move.

Going to fast most of the day, since I’m not running.  I know it sounds like lunacy, and it is a bit, but it’s just my method.  I’m surely not endorsing anyone starve themselves.  And I don’t view it as starvation, but purposeful abstinence.  I know, just convenient wording, right?  But that’s what I’m doing.  I will eat, but just at day’s end.

Having another sip of coffee, picking cup off floor.  Makes me nervous, afraid I’ll drip or worse spill onto this laptop like Kali did at work, killing the device.  No big to a work computer with no personal writing on it, but if that happened to me I think I’d seriously consider cyanide.  So now I’m sitting on the floor.  Yeah I could still spill, maybe, but there’s not as high a liability so close to the cup, not having to lift it in such a dubious and chancy way with my fingertips.

Hear someone stirring up there, more than likely Jackie.  So he’ll be down here any minute, and—  I’ve written this before.   And this is just what I’m trying to break with the trente jours project, pattern and predictability.  So do something different.  What—  Write a letter.

To whom?

I know.

Will in a second.  New reading partner possibly and ways to see how others read and what they read.  This character is younger than I, but with the same ire and desire to change habit, do things different and improve Self in certain ways, one is beginning with a reading project.  Character came to the winery yesterday, with book and a blanket to sit on, enjoy a couple splashes of wine while reading.  Eager to see where this association goes, what the character reads and how they react and how they react to my reactions.

Morning aloft, Jack is definitely headed my way.  Time to switch modes.  To father mode.   On Father’s Day.  And just like that, so swift and definite, the session ends.  MY time, ends.  No mood surfacing, just a realization.  What being a Father is, partially, I guess.  Just wish I could wake earlier.  That 4AM war, not a war at all, as the hour and the alarm clock always win, enjoying me going back to sleep and not following through with my inclination to battle the hour, wake when the alarm goes and write.  But I’m here now, 6:46AM and one coffee in.  Doing the best I can, a writing father.

me:  6/2/16

Cathy just left with babies, dishwasher running and chugging and roaring, and me at the desk trying to get in day’s words before leaving for winery.  This morning’s been one certainly of the writing father, trying to find time to write, barely able to wait for his time at the keys— Creativity, expression, life, who he is.  For the next 8 hours I have to be someone else, on a clock, assigned a life— one I don’t quite mind, as I enjoy being at that winery, but I’m just stating the reality to Self in hopes it’ll motivate me to the Road.  Everything back on desk, clutter… need more time.

Student posting she woke at 3:30 or 4-something to write.  I filled with envy quicker than a backyard pool during a hurricane.  Sip coffee.. move quicker, but how—

Have about 20 minutes, as I measure, to get this sitting into the word-count-realm I want.  What I want from today:  STORIES.  Nothing more.  Just stories.  Not wine knowledge, not clubs, not tips or some new connection which will do nothing for me.  Just stories.  I concentrate in the studio’s enveloping silence to hear self recite— does this sound like poetry or not, or something I could read?  Now that the house is empty, mine, I forget about the pattern, the constructions and constrictions, the adjunct life.  Then ideas for lectures dash at me like I’m a wounded gazelle enclosed by hyenas.

Allergies attack, and I shrug it off, keep typing, hoping for some thesis to this sitting.  And I think it’s simply that I get to have the sitting itself, these words before the day ignites.  Another person I know posted that she was up at 5-something to run, or work out.  And what was I doing?  Sleeping.  Incredibly frustrated.  Think of that trucker student of mine who wakes every A.M. at 4, as that’s what’s needed, there is no option.  He has to be at that truck base or launching site before 5.  He doesn’t show, he doesn’t have a job.  That’s what I’m facing as a writer— if I don’t change pattern or consistency, with everything from when I wake to how I write, how I live, how often I run, then I lose my job as a writer— my LIFE, as a writer.  So today punctuates the change.  Remembering the HST words, about life getting “immeasurably better” since being FORCED to stop taking it seriously.  Indeed.. thesis garnish for day, and perhaps forever, ever.

This quiet in the Autumn Walk Studio is opiate-like, truly drugging, sending my thoughts everywhere, into an optimistic spin and serum.  I drink and drink and drink more till I forget I have to drive 30+ minutes to Dry Creek.

7:31.  Should leave now, but I’ll cut session at 7:40.  Then head to corporate coffee brothel, Starbucks, get something with those birthday gift cards, then enjoy my music all the way to ‘the crossing’.  Interesting I work at a winery with the word and thematic anchor of a ‘crossing’ in it.  An intersection… a confluence… a blend… an overlap.  Now, at 37, there’s definitely a crossing, one of caring and playing by rules and the other of being happy, free, not caring and loving every blink in the writer’s day.

note, side:  Where did all these pens come from?  Huh…  Mom yesterday advised that I put down the pen for a bit, just live, be happy (not that I’m not).. to just enjoy the day, and my family.  She’s right, no surprise.  I actually didn’t write for much of yesterday.  Certainly no thousand word sessions like this.  Went wine tasting again, this time at Benovia, where another Michael helped me through some amazing wines, convivial a chap he was, while I took pictures of course and a couple notes on the Chards and Pinots, and just felt like I had an actual day off.  Imagine, a day not working.  For me, not writing.  It was like I was another character, one I loved and wanted to better know.  AND NOW, I write in my thousand-stride, ready for the day, feeling HST-ish, not giving a shit but very much giving a shit.  My former “student”, more ‘colleague’, who woke this morning at 3-something to write, taught me something—  To live, to be a student forever, that I’ll be young forever, and that this 37 number is such a bloody contrivance and sour coinage.  I’m me, a writer, teacher, and I will live the way I see, envision.  I do what will get me There, wherever There is.  If you know me, it’s on the Road.  This morning while washing my face, looking at Self in mirror like I liked the bloke, I said “Madrid”.  Then, “Spain, I want to go to Spain.” Not sure why I said that, and yes I did aloud, but not so little Emma would wake.  A whisper.  To me.  A secret plan, map set out, a mission for the writer which will begin with research today in the tasting room, reading about everything connected to Spain, starting with history and food, beaches, wineries.. everything.  I will be a thorough Spaniard when I land.

7:42— shit, have to leave.  Will return when at winery, I guess.  My attitude changes, headed for nihil, a nihil habet, something.  But I block that attitude, and remember, I don’t need to be in any mood, as I don’t have to care anymore.  MY defense is happiness, grinning in the face of any suppression.  Oh this feels lovely, and I credit Mom with her counsel, my student for posting what she did this morning, and Mr. Thompson for telling me it’s okay to not care if you’ve been so forced.

I have been so forced.

Now I use my own forcing qualities against the negative, any frown or orders.  People who make policies for policies, who want me to write their story and not pay me appropriately.

This is getting good, I whisper to self, another secret:  Italy.  This of course from Katie telling me the other day, in the backyard on my birthday that she’s going to Italy on some winemaker research trip.

“I want to go!” I thought.

Huh, I just might.

English 5, officially done.  

And it was just as I thought, saddening.  Three of my more diligent, and yes favorite students, stayed back with my, one of them gifting me a one-sentence-a-day journal.  “The Happiness” project.  So excited to start it and she, ’N’ explained her rationale behind getting me the journal, with my focus on and emphasis of singularity and standalone sentences, and that every moment is a standalone piece.  We all talked, entertained a book club, and writing group, sending each other pieces here and there…  We don’t want the term to end.  And like I wrote the other day, it doesn’t have to.  Just wrote my first sentence:  “Teaching, teaching makes me happy.” Seeing a new place and value in being a teacher, and it’s a direct precipitation and fruition of the English 5 class.

With the day’s remainder, I’ll run, write, hopefully rest— oh, but the 1A class meets at 1.  Sooooo…..  I should leave here at 9:30, get home and launch from house, come home, shower and rest, and maybe eat, then off to 1A.

Now sipping the coffee in the tumbler, what I made last night.  Had a little of the coffee from the ‘traveler’ from sbux, what I picked up this morning at that godawful hour—  But it wasn’t that horrible, I have to say.  One of the ‘5’ students, ‘J’, who usually never raises his hand, said when we re-grouped to discuss the in-class writing we did this morning, to one prompt particularly, addressing the early hour we had to meet today, said he was up at 5AM anyway, carrying over from the night before with writing and editing energy.. “Creative juice,” as he told me privately, “I was up late working on everything already, you know?  So I just picked up where I left off,” he cemented.  So where is this writing teacher ‘leaving off’?  With an amazing experience teaching, more motivated than ever that this is what I am, what I’m designed to do, and I will write my entire career as an educator.  Always ask my students, “What are we walking away with today?” For me, for the semester: “To finish the piece.  To follow-through with my aims… acquire that scene of me on the Road, teaching, traveling, exchanging and developing ideas with eager thinkers.” I was taught something this semester, how to teach better.

(5/23/16)

I could do it right now.

Just before 4.  3:53 with precision.  And I’m going to let myself fall back into sleep.  What is the remedy for this, this 4AM war?  Back at work today, for what more observations.. Fighting self to stay awake, typing on my phone, laptop in other room, don’t want to walk over to study and get it.  Could wake Jackie, or further antagonize him if he hasn’t already fallen back to his sleep.  Just transported him to our room after he called me in for a quick change (too much water last night before bed).  I was laughing as he chugged his water, saying “watch dada… One… Two…. Three…” Counting every sip.  Tilting his head back quick then calling off the number.  Don’t know why but I found it hilarious and could’t hide my giggles so he kept doing it, me knowing I’d be called at about this hour for the change.

3:59 now.  Think I’m a bit more awake than I was a minute or two ago, but sleep still appeals.  If I had even one sip of that coffee in the tumbler, that I made last night, I’d defeat this devilish hour, but then would go into the tasting room bitter and loathing self.  OR, I’d feel a victor, knowing I finally beat it– well, for the second time, but ONLY the second time.

Almost erased this whole effort, selecting the text then copying to see where I was, word-wise.  Why I hate typing with my thumbs.  This isn’t writing.  But I did write something, right?  I mean, I do see words above this line.  I’m a verve away from rising and tipping and toeing over to the coffee, taking a couple deep pulls of its matter, its dark expanse into my curvature.  “Could do it right now”…  I did, I think.  I don’t know ANYONE who’s done this, certainly not doing this now, at this hour, with the urge to at this quiet hour capitalizing on savory silence, this consumed by and dedicated to their pages—  too tired to edit.  I did it.  A few words at 4, actually starting before.  And in the phone, so stealth that even I forget or don’t realize I’m actually doing it, IT, my It…  The writing life I need to perpetuate, so this can’t be the only scene, doing as Sylvia and Ernie did, be on their level, me being read in the same American Lit classes as them– ma parole, could you imagine?  Have to be extra careful with these thumb pushes, be sure I don’t erase my words’ advance into 4AM’s ground.  Can I save this, my progress?  Should be writing by hand, ink and sheet while with pillow and this red blanket on the couch.. That’s what Sylvia did, scribbled with coffee before her kids were up.  Just one skips all it would take…  But I’m afraid of how tired I’d be later…  This 4AM war is not for the week writer, the idealist… This is for the fighting writer.  The hungry.  The one who wants IT.

Taking a wee break to look through messages, social feeds, other shit, now having to use restroom, maybe get a little further into 4’s territory– hear that word, territory, in my head with British inflection…  Terri-tree… Sounds better, certainly more interesting.  Short bathroom break–

Was told recently this is a fool’s errand, aiming to rise at 4 to write, that I need a good seven or eight hours to sleep, rest, collect or whatever.  That would be what it is in the mind of one who doesn’t write, always wished they would have tried to live this life, enjoy the luxury of judging me, those with my aims.  What IT is, is what I have to do, this is the only in the day I can experience such quiet, peace, and I’m doing IT right now, sub rosa, no detection–  4AM didn’t stop me this morrow. Maybe if would have had Jackie not had all that water, who knows. But I’m here, now, with my sentences and visions.  The only fools are the ones who judge us, make their jealous so visible that they are more blinded by it than us that actually write.  No errand, this is a mission, in a campaign much larger anything the self-knighted judges could ever enact.

Breathing…. Deep like a wave. This time, mine.  If I have just one sip from that canister, just one, I could reach two or even three thousand words…  But word count isn’t what I’m after with these harsh hour sessions.  It’s the act itself, the substance of It.

Now I can go back to some sleep, some rest before the eight hours away—

Heard someone at a neighboring house start their car, go to work maybe.  On a Sunday?  That’s what I should do.  Just get up and go to work.  Before going to work.  This, my IT, is my call, labor trade practice craft—  No pedestrian errand.

(5/22/16)

me:  5/4/16

“May the 4th be with you,” I know.  I love Star Wars as well, so happy 4th…

This morning, I woke at 4, but it took me a bit to start writing.  Started at 4:40-something I think, and didn’t go back to sleep after alarm pulled me from peace.  So I count such as a slight victory.  Woke this morning to rain, on drive to sbux, decided to treat Self to a 4-shot mocha and not my regular and less price-pounding large coffee.  Giving Self 20 minutes to write, and edit and post.  Zen in this adjunct cell.  I’ll be out of here soon.

Don’t see myself opening any wine tonight, nor getting any beer from Whole Foods or the store on Piner & Coffey.  I don’t want to start any descent.  I’m ascending as I wrote last night.  Tired of normality, tired of the same shit day to day.  NOW, finally, I write like I don’t care.  Cuz I don’t.  HST said he was finally able to really enjoy life after he was forced not to give shit.  Well, that’s where I am.  And not in a vengeful way, a precise and productive way, you could say.  Since day one of no alc, Sunday, I’ve been quick, productive, speedy… a true entrepreneur.

Today in class, this morning for their draft sessions, I’m going to have them consider Voice, Structure, word and sentence variety, and evidence usage.  Should probably write that down… Comp Book.  Can’t cuz that would cost a few seconds reaching into bag then pulling the Comp out, flipping to proper page (blank one), then finding a pen, writing it all down.—  Shit, did it anyway.  Wrote notes and the points of the workshopping rubric—  See?  I love teaching, I just hate the adjunct game, what it’s done to me and my thoughts on what I’m doing, how I see myself.  Need a quote for the day as well.. what?

Found Faulkner quote.  Now with less than 5 minutes in my writing allowance.  How?  Time is a bastard of slimy carnivorous bastard asses.  Should get to room early, write thoughts and notes as they come to me for the session.  I’m going to lecture a bit today, but just not care how professional or academic I sound.  Today is about the students and their writing, and feeling comfortable with their writing, proud of it, eager to submit it.

7AM.  Less than 3 left.  You know what, I’m giving myself ten more minutes.  More than sanctioned, more necessitated.  Stopped timer and reset to fresh ten minutes.  Hear someone in hallway.  The full-timer down the hall.

Just thought:  Have them write an assessment of what they brought to class, their writing style.  Take notes, take notes on the notes—  Feel the caffeine already working, looking at the Faulkner quote of “Don’t be a writer. Be writing.” And I say to myself, “I AM writing.  When people think of writers I want them to think of me, or cite me, or, and, cite how I’m always writing, always jotting some idea.” The rain outside is meant, intended and designed for today and this climb of mine.  To Total Wellness and my travels, the books, notes, all.  Staring at my keys, I remember how I felt last semester, driving to fucking Solano and even more putrid Mendocino.  No sense talking about it, as that will NEVER happen again.  No more freeway flying, ever.

ONE THING I WANT FROM TODAY:  Satisfaction.  Of some higher form.  Could come with the writing, parenting, fitness/health (if I can find time to work out today).  Something.  And I mean a truer than true and VISIBLE satisfaction with my Personhood and embraced character.

On Writing:  written journal.  Start with the Comp Book.

Wrote for students, “If you want to be a decided writer, you have to decide.” And by decided I mean DETERMINED, DEVOUT… committed, with character, you have to “be writing”.  One of the many Literary qualities I find to the Star Wars films, the original 3, is Luke’s fervor and drive to be a Jedi.  The same is true with writing, I’m finding at my old age.  I’m learning, I know now, I’m again a student of what I teach and the people I teach.  Savory cyclical sense…

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The adjunct thing, what kind of thing, a con a soap opera, a mess, an everything and a fruitless nothing pit at once. So I’m stopping. I’m teaching, is what I think, what I tell myself and how I’ll see it. Just teach a class here and there. MY career is writing, and I guess wine, I guess. And blogging, reporting my life to interested and relevant and engaged readers, although modern readers are rarely engaged. But the adjunct wheel receives no more acknowledgement from me. And I will not, I REFUSE, to be one of those adjunct who continues to bicker and complain and form into some argumentative and grieving porcupine in some halfwit newspaper or publication or blog. Life is far too short and since the passing of Uncle Ross I can only focus on life and live for him, for Grandma, for Mo’, for Nana, Aunt Terri, and everyone else who separated so soon.
In tasting room today and run after.. more steps toward total Zen and Wellness and more material, more Life, more to record and report. REMEMBER: talk less and write more. “The greatest happiness is to know the source of unhappiness,” Dostoevsky said, and when I don’t write and I don’t have time to write I become ravishingly discontent. I’ll bring a book with me today, more than likely the Kerouac Dreams, and note, certain words and thoughts and characters that come into the tasting room and what they say to the wines they sip and to each other, to use behind the bar. Again, all material, and all for my pages, that makes me happy. The fact that I’m only an adjunct at the JC, and that I have towers of papers now to grade and students coming up with excuses as to why they didn’t have their submission ready and why they need an extension (one of them), in no manner adds to any pleasure for the writer. So I move on, into more writing and into more projects, this ever-written novel and novels and reportings and recordings of what I observe.
I’m not ‘supplementary rather than an essential part.’. I AM the essential. And with this fervor and fortitude I depart…..

(5/22/15)