from a journal


Jimtown Store, Alexander Valley

Two days.  Not even sure why I do the countdown anymore.  Who cares… don’t want to dwell or fixate, fix or focus on that.  Writing at the JT Store.  First such sitting in ….. how long.  How long, ever, I wonder, with time flying by me as it does.  Wife upset she didn’t wake early to workout and me not happy with my continuing late wakes.  Going into this new year of my story… 1, no fear, of anything or anyone.  2, less editing and less thought, just fucking release all writings.  All writings can be sold.  3, 4am is GOD, and you WILL NOT be unfaithful to her.

I wake this morning getting into shower hearing my babies be silly as they often are in the morning call to me and play basketball with one of those hoops you hang from your door, Jackie’s that he received as a gift last xmas I think,

This latte… costing 8 dollars as the young chap behind the counter was nice and accommodating and I know that if I were him I’d appreciate a nice cash shove. So there you go an $8 latte.

Call intruding on writing but I don’t let it.  The morning, the latte, Jimtown, Alexander Valley and all the vines enjoying sun which reminds me I brought my camera and am committing self to taking some pictures, somewhere either close to the store, that vineyard across the street or near Lancaster, down valley.

2 days.  More writing, 4am or death, books over books, over more finished manuscripts.  Thought of the plan to just give all my writing away, but then no… I need to sell works just as my studies masters did.  Why am I afraid to sell my work.  WHY?  Why are any of us as Artists afraid to live from sentences?  Isn’t that what we want?


9:11.  Getting ready in a bit to leave and launch into vineyards and take pictures of the vines that call out to me, that want my attention.  Which ones do.  I have one block in mind, close to Hannah’s property, across the street.  I’m even more compelled to cruise through vineyard blocks and just note what I see even more than capture it with some fucking lens and button.  What do I mean ‘even more’?  I’m a writer.  Not a photog.  This room, this back area where I imagine people eating breakfast or brunch, or just stopping for a midday beer or glass of wine, from far away like the people I met yesterday from Southern California and those from the other week from MN.  Everyone comes here and it blows me away.  Travel, the vines and this room tell me, travel… get out of here.  Go write about other rooms, other varietal blocks.  Photograph everything, write about it.  40 is now alarmingly close, and if something in my practice doesn’t alter, then I circle.

Yesterday tasting that 2-barrel Malbec, remembering why I keep coming back to wine, writing these essays if you could call them that, these entries, keep returning to the tasting room much I criticize it and its industry.  There’s a mystery and then the obvious, a helix heavenly and promising me to write this book and finish it then begin the next one before this one ends.  This book on thought, how so many of my thoughts precipitate from wine and barrels and my days at wineries, how now after all the industry battles and downright wars I’ve fought against the machine, I’m immediately free in the tasting room, at the winery, in the vineyard to do as I need to, as the books demand… more stemming from MY personal legend, or narrative, nor notes.

Today hosting a Napa winemaker, from one of my favorite Napa wineries that I can right now think of.  Know my approach, and know what I’ll talk about.. the wine, maybe, but life, why we’re both there, at that moment, in the philosophy of the Now, the narration constant and present.  I’m not planning or preparing for this tasting, I’m eager to talk wine with someone who writes in wine as I write in and from, more toward my own voice closing in on 40.


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.


In office.  Busy.  Keeping self.  Aims for day written in head.  Run.  Send kind notes to as many characters as possible.  Last day of reg term.  Already progressed further than I thought I would have by this point in day. Relieved to be in office, frankly.  Latte, caffeine working.  Poetic and moving, speaking to self through poems and songs from drive till now, starting when I took the Stony Pt. exit from 12.

Using what I note on Leads and Reps, and into my own story, self-instructions and education.

This place uses the idea of “action items”, quite a bit.  Part of me thinks it’s a bit trite and stale as an idea, but I just thought, “Why not try it out?”  My item for day, FINISHED PIECES.  To SELL.  Think about it, I say to myself, what if you could sell every piece you write? Hmmmmmmm……

9:59, don’t want to run.  I’ll try to make myself.  TRY.

I’ll be a poet laughing at day’s close, just as I was yesterday with Jack.

Constant creative.  DIY, but more than that.  Write and create and speak from everything.  Creative opportunities.  Everything, every break and in-office effort is a creative opp’…

12:43.  In running reality, clothes.  Going to head out.  Not concerned with rain, at all.  More than enough energy.  A bit hungry, but ignoring.  Will eat when back.

Launching in 10 minutes.  Go slow, start slow I mean, I tell myself.


2:28.  7.5 miles.  And I feel nothing.  Not overheated, of course it’s raining and cool.  But still… only pain is in right heel/achilles.  Not much appetite.  Sipping sparkling cherry water.  Feel amazing, but still feel nothing.  Could I run the rest, the 5.51 or whatever.  Easily.  Need to stretch out right leg, so whatever I feel there doesn’t build and compile, lead to anything else.


3:52.  Now feeling a bit of tired from run.  Sipping coffee, working through it.  Wondering what to do for rest of day… of course plan for tomorrow, which I already have but can always do more.  So I will.  Now.  Measure my productivity and write it and self into more productivity and I’m starting to hate that words.. So what then.  Projects.  Books.  Everything around me to be written., composed and positioned, angled as I need not so much as I like.

My stratagem is the day itself.  This office and this desk, the 7.5 I ran rather than eating or scrolling though some feed on my phone, or even writing.  Ephemeral, ephedra… echo echo.  I’m dancing in my own head, on this last day of the semester.  Should plan for that too.  Have them write, something, anything, as soon as they come in, or as 7pm lands.

4:18.  Coffee nearly done.  Know what I’m doing for class. Feel a bit of soreness or strain in calves, and starting to feel a bit hungry.  What to do…. Snack here, get something at JC?  Look at this, look at me… overthinking to hellish bellring degree.