My family should be here, but they’re not. Some could say this house shouldn’t be here, but it is. On the side of the San Miguel tracks, there are no thoughts like this. The houses are gone. Couple seconds ago I was bothered with the prospect of taking a cold shower. There are no showers being taken on that other side, or along Coffey. So I humble, I silence, I meditate and conceive what’s before me, a writer of wine.. so much life and in that life there is less than “little time”. Wine isn’t just about celebration, it’s also about appreciation, acknowledgement of life and how invaluable it is. That morning, Sunday, with the winds at 60+ MPH, and smoke notes and visible glowing pieces from a structure or structures floating our way, pushed by those gusts, I had no idea what to think. Had to remain composed for babies, show some strength or sternness. The quiet broken by the train and a car driving on our street or the one over. Don’t want to be here, but I should want to be here. I have a home. East San Miguel can say nothing such. Try to enjoy what’s left of my coffee, in my Coffey Park studio/home/base/heart where wife and kids eat, sleep, play, love and learn and grow. My coffee cold, but not like the shower. Now’s a time to write, record, be quiet like the house. Don’t think about work, business, selling, wine. Concentrate and somehow measure and inventory how lucky you and you family, your street, are. I write this on the floor of my bedroom, sipping coffee, after a shower, collecting musings and measurements. The sound void does sting, but it as well sows, sews. New visions, scopes, hopes, decisions. For me, family, the story’s entirety.—. Fuck, why were we, am I, so lucky?
Can’t think like that.
But I am.
The loud quiet here begs it.
Decide what, to not
do that, be that, be like them–
Path self-carved. Immense.
in home, briefly. What does he do? Sip Chardonnay, brainstorm. How to build this business… with words. Use what you have… wine. Teaching. The Chard I’m sipping now, ’14 Sonoma Coast, Roth of course, telling me to not think about anything. But rather, imagine. Delight in rich daydream.. which I’m now doing. Seeing Self with family on back deck of the Carmel house, listening to ocean, in front of fire pit (yes I want one of those at the house), just focusing on moment. So now, here at the Autumn Walk Studio, I do the same. Me, on couch, legs crossed– and I confess I write this on my phone, which I hate. Chardonnay calls me. Says it has something else to show me. “What?” I beg. “Take a sip and I’ll show you.” She says. I do. See me running, on mile 5, looking out at the waves as I try to lower my per-mile, see a gull playing with some plants that ashore bumbled. “You’re almost there.” She says.
Again focusing on and appreciating how zen-soaked the Studio is. Even when wife and babies get back, I’ll force myself to see it the same. What to now do, go outside and have some red, watch the neighbors’ kids be kids and play freely, immune to obligation and grownup restriction… freely about the block with mechanized vessels and t-ball stands, bats and balls and other stuff that was not around when I was a kid– yes I’m at that age. But fighting reality is senseless. Embrace, and reverse- or re-engineer where beckoned.
Now daddy sees. Everything. Quiet is cure.
Circles. Thoughts and laughs
And trying to keep Self young.
How am I doing. Do I want
To know? What’s the benefit to
a blank page singing to me while I idiotically overthink the next Road–
and do… no escaping the story.
There’s nothing that changes the narrative except you… so, just DO.