No nap, today, fought against pull and push to do so. Thanksgiving over, wife out shopping at one of those shopping special eve whatever’s. Me, home. Wine. Just finished glass of Claret. The night passed with such cruel progression. Indifference. Babies asleep upstairs. What movie do I watch, my dilemma. My life’s trouble. Think of how fortunate I am with my family and to have such family, to be sitting where I am, here on this we seek to shed, new one one the way… Day of giving thanks, I need to show more giving of thanks, being thankful.

Tonight, I do intend exploring more wine. No aim to wake at 4am or 4:10 like this day. No. I may actually just sleep in. I will. What do I mean, “may”? May have to punch out. Take the night as it approaches me, describe and translate it, or in such order reversed… then wake tomorrow with more thought. More story. More ME. Tired now, forgetting I’ve been up since 4-something. Think 4:10. Has it been that long? Yes. It has. Me, that writer. Now. Time to Self and I sip wine and be here, writing. A writer.

Does the writer want apple pie or Chardonnay? Both sound like they sound, their own precise appeal and connection. I’m not torn between both but urge to be curved by both, somehow. 9:08. Feel like bed but I won’t. I can’t. But more, I refuse. Why can’t I be a human, just have dessert or drink wine. Is it that complicated? Are my thoughts the hinderance, the block and or impediment? I think it may be just that. Not in any kind of a writing swoop, and I can’t figure anything of it out. How does pine figure. What type a figure be me, I, this writer.

I feel like I’m not doing a thing, while doing too much. A mess. Should have taken a nap.

I’m awake and working out.

Did first hold right before five. After that, push-ups and planks. Some sit-ups. Not really counting, just wanting to keep motion continuous. Set stop watch, not a countdown. Just keep the motion motioned, what I’m telling self. 05:12.

Conscious of the noise and mood of the morning. Everything I do on this hardwood or just wood floor make a sound, loud thin and audible. Like an airy crack, or crackle. Wife leaves for her workout offsite. I start coffee. Vowing tomorrow morning with the day off I’ll go to gym at 4-something. Not only enhance the shape I’m in, but start a new way, new story. Yes another promise, more so though a plan than remark avowing anything.

Can already feel the little I’ve done. In legs from hold, abdomen from pushups just a moment ago tallying 100, and arms from planks and pushups. Time for coffee.

Didn’t post thousand words from last night before class. Will today from whatever coffee spot I can find in the Sunset. Sight 1 for day is that, coffee and composition in the City. Second, hit a few doors with the reps. Then, a poem while walking whatever avenue we’re on. One of the views yesterday from 28th and something, I just looked out at the ocean like I saw something or someone in it. The air’s olfactory makeup told me to keep walking and keep watching. Feeling some goal or aim, some aspiration or creative desire sprint from San Francisco, for me. And if it weren’t for Sonic I wouldn’t even be there having these observations and reflections.

05:31. Waking this early, a badge of sorts. Hear son move around in his bed, and if he wakes early and breaks this sitting, I don’t mind. It’s part of the story. Part of the story but the whole of who I am– writing daddy getting in whatever time I can to write. At work at my desk between little addresses of some spreadsheet, or organizing, or prepping for some meeting. The subject is me. The story, each page, and I never need be sorry.

The workout, over. Me on couch in qualified dark, fan light overhead on my dim setting so I can have some isolator writer mood in here. I keep forgetting it’s harvest right now, and so many of my vino people are out there, right now, pulling clusters from rows and into bins, into a gondola pulled by tractor, a driver up early and away from his family, doing what he needs to them feed.

05:36. I feel like one of them, right now. One of the early. One of the characters they defies law, the expected, that doesn’t sleep in. They can’t. Their minds won’t let them. Mine won’t let me. At all. This morning I’m alive with Sonic and supersonic thoughts of speaking, words, fearlessly sharing ideas from one city to next on work, business, writing everything down and so many say that and never do and if they did, my god, it would not only help what they do but wildly and poetically shape their business and their place and placement in it.

Could go back to bed even if a writer wanted to. Hell, even if my body and functioning orders em to. My thinking’s of a beatific defiance this morning, and only accepting sentences. As a workplace, Sonic tells you to be more of you, it challenges me and how the wine industry never could– Telling me to not only keep doing what I’m doing, but intensify. AMPLIFY. Diversify. Play with form as you do in poetry, poet. And more. More.

05:41. I ask myself where the time went and nowhere, nowhere. It’s still very much presented and around me, present. Gifting me with this couch and all the musing I need for a day in the city. Will I wake as early tomorrow, or early as I have written… I have to. I know how I’ll feel if I don’t. I know my mood if I won’t. Set alarm, every movement today for tomorrow’s early steps and words, lines, however many miles I run on tread or however many reps I finish. Not waking early, and I’m citing hours like this, is in no way literary. Writers don’t sleep in. We can’t sleep, for the most part. We deplore rest, and idleness. Just laying in bed and scrolling, sitting on couch watching a show, or just hanging like a coat from some hook, some executed prisoner from a tight meanly knotted and enclosing circle.

05:47. I love this. I do. I don’t have to think about what to write. It’s right in front of me, blatantly. No sun or suggestion of it through the glass door to right. This is true morning to me. When the sun steps and straight lay stands communicating with the world, its day. It’s started. The day is off and you better find a way to catch it as right now you’re surely not ahead if you haven’t been up. I’m here, knowing I’m ahead of the day. Time again, my topic. Twelve hours from now, I could very well be in traffic. On 101 somewhere. San Rafael, the Novato narrows, Petaluma. Somewhere. I have twelve hours to do something to my story… I do it. Start the timer. 12 hours. Get to work and collect in writing for a bit, then attack tasks. Reps get in before ten, so we head out early. Quick, this Friday. My writing will equal, rival, buzz by pacing.

Son definitely awake. 05:52. I could get a stet in day, again. Teeth and shower, dress, pack, take stuff out of bag as to bring laptop for written lunch and be lighter while hiking the SF streets. Keep the motion motioned. To halt is to fall. And I can’t. Not this close to 40.

Diet for day… Coffee, only healthy snacks, no full meals till dinner, and then do note to lightly eat. Speaking of my beloved coffee life… I sip…


Leftovers and red…

Wine never needs to frame complicated. Wine should never direct prolix. She’s inviting, approachable, narrative and affectionate. What’s surrounded by curved glass reads a presence, a prophetic face and storm of versifying lines.

After a day, working, wine waits, debates her approach to me, my life and day and immediate room. The room, now, connotative in resonance, assurance, a perceptive seat. I’m at a table with her, being instructed, listening,eating leftovers and coaching me on Now, this doesn’t have to be layered or codified, and sort of sophisticated set.

Haven’t touched this glass. But the visual and nearness has me. Inward recite, and known night, thrown toward a lone vinified light.



IMG_1754Writing Freely, here in home.  Done with procrastination.  Don’t think I wrote a thing yesterday.  Today, taking day to bring Jackie to dentist later and—  Focus on me, just for a second.  Have no idea what to write and where to go with this freewrite.  Chickenshit thing to confess, or concede, divulge, but whatever.  Made self another cup.  Morning, me… emails from work coming in but I ignore than for the time.  I need removal, just focus on my writing and the blogs and where they’re taking me.  Who knows, really—  But I do know.  I will only have it one way.  Driving back home I thought about wine and recording everything that I have since managing the Roth property.  All the tastings and private tastings, drives and walks around the property, harvest… the smell of ferments in the warehouse, sounds of pumpovers…. The value is the experience, and the experience is the value.  What I mean….  The moment is what instructs and enriches me.

Confabulating internally about wine and the emails that come in, which I couldn’t help but respond to.  Managing this property has certainly revealed strengths in my character I wasn’t sure I had, and even less certain of perpetual actuation.  But I’m doing it… I’m doing it, and learning as I go.  Yesterday’s count illuminated that less is always more advantageous.  Simplification… that is what begets efficiency.

Starting to get hungry but I won’t let self rise to fix something quick.  Stomach, little roar… “Shut up!  I’m working!” I tell it.  Me out in the vineyard, walking and looking at grapes and the way the sun peers through the canopies, telling me to keep walking to not stop, ever, stay clever and know that all is poetic and lush poetry for me to translate through my own sharp jargon—  More pictures, learning about what’s around me, my personhood, character, story I want to tell.  I’m writing freely, FREELY… freer than free.  On my own clock and at my own pace, one thousand words at a time.  I worry sometimes that thousand-word jots and standalone statements, pieces, might be too much for modern readers.  Well, too bad.  That’s what I’m doing.  That’s be like a winemaker making big, mammoth, commanding Napa Cabernets from somewhere like Howell Mountain or Rutherford lightening his style ‘cause some magazine called them too aggressive, or someone, or maybe a good collection of someone’s in the tasting room implied ‘This is too much.’ Too much?  Too bad.  This is me, this is what I’m doing, and I’m doing for me but more than me.  For we.  All of us wanting more sense of what’s around us and getting to where we know we belong.  Avowed, on my first trip, where it’s to, I’ll but a new notebook and have it full by journey’s end.  Even if it’s some 24-hour turnaround where I lecture in Southern California or something and come back home to work.  I will record every detail of my first journey… this is all for travel, and writing about wine and people out there, beyond the county boundaries of Sonoma, Napa, Mendocino.

Having to leave not too long from now to get little Kerouac, bring him to dentist then back to school.  My meditations become an horribly tangled clew, and the writer has not a clue what to do.  No the rhyming isn’t intentional, I’m not trying to be cute.  I’m at a loss, but in the loss there’s a win, elevation, aggrandizement.  Sip coffee and put cup back down on floor.  Hear the air purifiers upstairs.  Almost a month ago, those bloody fires and namely the Tubbs which drove us out of our home just after 02:00.  But here I am with my inner blaze that won’t fade.  Utterly apodictic this morrow, with my camera at left and coffee at right.  I’m back to work, FINALLY.  And what’s my truth… simplicity, as I noted earlier, and remodeling.  No backpacks, one pillar.  And why is that given its own “pillar” in the remodel?  ‘Cause all they, the backpacks, do is encourage clutter… gathering of stuff, of shit, of CLUTTER.  Simple, light, FREE, the now-Me.

People outside, talking about something, right outside house, not sure about what but it bothers and disrupts me for some reason, wholly tearing my concentration away from the buttons, from this page.  I think of Kerouac and how he actualized and decided his direction—  Seeing I don’t write about him as much as I should.  He said “The only truth is music.” Not sure if I hit it word-for-word, but he most knowingly intoned just that.  Truth, Music.  Why am I not listening to music right NOW, in this home office that used to be an office but now serves as more just a dumping ground for stuff, shit, things, shoes, bags, backpacks, wine…. Doesn’t matter, I’m nomadic a writer— love my music so I catalyze a track…. “To Young To Go Steady”, Coltrane.  Not sure if the typo’s intentional, ‘to’ rather than ‘too’, but who cares.  Why do I have to be such a goddamn writer all the time?  Just write, dream, think about your travels and the boys on the crush pad and their ever-tireless playing of music and they move tubes, move tubs, barrels, fill tanks then drain tanks, take samples, press skins, barrel-down.  Alway music at the winery, always.  Absolutely certain in my reality.. wine, writing, capture, messages from the vines to me be there sun or no, I’m always going to be out there, out there in thought and in geographic tangibility.

With Coltrane’s piece ending, so does this first thousand of day.  Talked my way out of a stall.  From not writing yesterday.  I have to wake earlier, bloody hell.  Wake at 03:45.  Why is it so hard?  Why can’t I just roll out of bed and type some weird shit and get a couple thousand on the screen before having to go to Jackie and help dress Emma, help with lunches and getting out door on time, driving across town to two different classroom colonies?

Off to write other pillars…

Espresso in the shade

at Lancaster. First time working here in over 5 years.  My aim today is to dominate everything I do.  Have a literary lunch that will change my life— wow this espresso’s strong, made by one of the winemakers.  Ready for day…hear woodpecker behind me blended with traffic sounds from Chalkhill Road.  This winery, probably more than the others, changed how I saw myself in the wine world and its industry,  

Cool in shade, little breeze.  Hear puppy on crush pad barking.  He barked at me as I went around back to get into building and see if the TR mgr was here.  She’s not.  I’m early as always.  Sipping espresso in the shade.  Wanted to scribble in new notebook but left pen in car.  No interest in getting.  I shouldn’t be writing right now, I realize.  But enjoying where I am.  Looking around, breathing the air.  Breathing the same air the birds are.. me, with them, one with them on this one property.  Used to call this “AV Winery” in past writings.  Now I want the name known.  Where I am, what I’m doing, what I have to thank for where I am.  Me now– that lion in the crest.

‘Nother sip.  My god that is strong.  Want a machine like that in my eventual-office.  This side area is perfect for my lit lunch.  Shade, trees, umbrellas and the sounds of cars looking for their next winery.  Maybe this one.  Here in AV.  Leaning back into wooden chair with left leg at 90’ angle over right knee.. meditation, collection before day.  Today.  MY day.  New day in this wined story.  Who knows where it will go after today…  Man, I can’t believe I’m actually here.  Back.  Full-circle, or something.  This is always the part in the story where something shifting happens.  Where the character is furthered somehow.  So how?  What happens next?  Guess I’ll have to wait and see, right?  I hate waiting.