Love.
Appreciate.
Them.
My boy’s morning saunter…
Love
When home,
kids.
They assign new songs and sense of everything in my story.
Knowledge
in those faces. The little humans that look to me for lesson continue to show as my most rewarding instructors, ever.
Family.
My truest of pieces, and peaces.
As someone who obsesses over work,
and what work he has to do, what I have planned the next day and the remaining hours of this day, I am honestly with nothing. But I make myself write. One student tonight saying one of her goals is, was, is to wake at 2am to get ahead in her studies and I assume write a little as she does write poetry and write in short lines, short stanzas, pieces that span only a page. And I say ‘only’ out of awe, that she does so much to a page in only a page’s pulse.
Was nearly too lazy to write anything tonight. Told self, “Just a hundred words, per blog.” But I can’t hold self to that. Should I do what this student plans on doing? Should I set alarm for 2? Isn’t that the time of the artist, the writer and poet? Didn’t I read that somewhere? On my lunch today grading papers and writing in the Sonic journal as this goddamn laptop didn’t want to let me use it. Of course, now, I do push the buttons and have a note in my writing normalcy.
Finish the fucking book, I tell myself. Like my son said tonight as I poised to make his bed with new sheets, “GET TO WORK.” I am. I say the same to self.
Sip the Barbera I popped last night. It, she, more calm. Me the opposite of anything tranquil at the moment. Working in the home office which isn’t as common as I’d love to tell you it is. But, WORK. Work. What I write about. Force self to write when I don’t want to. I do write about wine, but that’s not my only onus and thought light.
Now, I’m like a train with this, these writing thoughts. I, not failed. Not failing in my aims. I won’t allow that. No one should. Why would you. You are here, once. And I’m not addressing the fact one only lives once…. I’m speaking to myself and you, that where you are, right now, the opportunity and life invitation to bring a project to completion is singular. You see it once.
You are a train, if you wish be. Some unknown animal of fruition, bringing works to an offering stage. There are only stops that persist acknowledged. So acknowledge none of them. I see so many of these speakers and motivational-who-be’s profess all this counsel but don’t consider the most apparent reality… the audience member has to decide. They only elect to act if they bring themselves to movement. Tonight I could have just as easily poured this red from El Dorado, sat on the floor of this home study, went on phone and scrolled through some photo pour. No. We decide to draw, paint new plausible for our Personhood. Decide to move, be alive, mentally, alive, wildly alive in all movements of your steps and actuating saunter.
What work does for and to the character is animated in divinely lucrative chant. Dodge the task, never. Distractions and suitable sanctions to project-dodge are terminal. The panacea, always, is preemptive production. Never, labor deduction.
10/15/18
07:11
Kids ready, completely.
Easy morning, so far.
Long day, class after work.
Ready for each scene and thought block.
Opened something I shouldn’t have, but who’s to say I shouldn’t.
I was in the mood, I was curious, I know what I wanted and the bottle was opened. Just took first sip. This month, I finish the re-write. The re-organization of certain story attributes. The wine agrees. She tells her truths in rhythmic and rhymed roads, and I follow, wanting to taste more wines… project, now, build cellar. Write about every wine I taste, even if I’ve tasted it a thousand or so times like the Roth offerings. After tonight’s dinner with family, only sipping that Sbragia SB I know I need to taste more, more wines.. tomorrow with wife in Healdsburg, the J Winery in whatever town that is… I’ll buy pragmatically. One bottle for cellar, one for immediate, or proximal greeting.
House quiet, babies asleep, perfect for this bottle. Not sure why I felt guilty opening her, but I don’t any longer. With the visuals of travel in my sights, more necessitations of exploration deconstruction of certain oeno-universes mandate themselves on page. I look right at glass, swirl a coulee times, not too forcefully, and wonder what the wine says, thinks of me, wants to say, would have been in five or ten years later had I not.