9/20/18

Could it be the last time I say down to type was three days ago?  Yes that makes sense, with all the trips I’ve been making to the city for work, no longer having that hour to type in the Sonic break room.  Me, now, in the conference room in the English Department and I feel funny writing. Probably ‘cause I just had dinner again even after I said I wouldn’t, at La Texanita.  Something about that place, I swear.  I feel like I’m distant, away, vacation or just on some Road travel.  Speaking of, ‘bout to give my last talk on Kerouac’s Road.  I have more or less a plan, but not really.  Not at all.  More in the mood to teach than I was on Thursday, definitively.  Already wine thoughts find my head and me in this chair where I’m supposed to be planning.  How will I feel next semester, when I have no sections to teach?  Not sure… I can see there being a bit of sullen bend, but it’s for the better, for me, family, advancing in my writings on tech and life, work, business.  The office new’s given me more than I thought I’d receive in this timed life.  And now, staring at my notes, trying to shed this oddity in the writing act like some old skin.  Skin and sense, through consistency for which I hold no interest.  What else can I “teach”, tonight. Go word by word.  Be in the room with the author, Kerouac.  Need to underline more… have more prepped thoughts.  But then I think I’m so good in the moment I don’t need to plan or write anything out.  That’s the problem!  I say to myself…. Any chance you have to write you should, just as the people in the office are of the habit and forward, entrenched decision to write EVERYTHING down.  Every conversation, every idea, every question, every in-the-moment musing or anything.

Bought an iced coffee in the snack shop, at the office, but left on desk.  Shit, I think.. should I go get some now, in the caf’?  Might keep me up a bit, tonight.  So what, I think. Then I write, till 3 or something then take a nap.  Yes… soon’s I’m done with this entry or revival post or whatever it’s called then I’ll go there, across the street to where I know there’s coffee.  I want to approach the room with energy, the same energy I had this morning in the meeting with T, which we yesterday planned just upon my return from SF.  I gently coerced her to title the meeting the “Beatnik Meeting”.  Exchanging ideas wildly over coffee.  We had that meeting this morning and I was all fire, all storm and storm surge, deluge and decisions, while as well learning from her words.  Again, what happens when no classes at JC?  Then I have all classes on blog.  Easy.  There.  DONE. 

18:30, now.  Coffee, coffee.  Only thing I can think of, see self sipping.  Other than the eventual wine, tonight.

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.

9/19/18

0502

That’s better. Still not 4 but this is the kind of hour I need to wake at in order to get that kind of start in and on day. Today, to be a long one. Starting in office new then driving to SF, then back to office, Santa Rosa, then to class later, 7 to about 830. The solution, not that there needs be a “solution”, as there’s certainly no problem, is to write everything down. What a surprise I say that. But how about actually do it. Not that I don’t, but how about more zeal this time. More singular and definite words, short sentences. More specifics in what I see in the city, on my drive. Where is my voice recorder? Hate using this phone while driving, if you should know, and you should. Not sure why you “should”. Truth, I’m reminded. Truth in the day, these long days. Not sure why it’s on my thinking’s terrain to points of sleep inability. Why am I up? Why am I not asleep right now? What’s on my mind I ask myself. What. Is it the office? Is it the day itself, the drive? Any angst with this new job? I came downstairs to write, hear kids talking and I tell them to go to bed, both in our bed. What am I thinking, this writing daddy, this writer who sees something in the present present. But what. Sip coffee. Not yet. Wait. This hour, the dark of the room and the outside, and everyone out in the vineyards now harvesting their lots. I SHOULD be up. And not just this morning, but every morning. Think I recognized it– It’s that, this. I’m writing a piece on the morning itself, being more tuned in the morning, for it. There is nothing to fear in this day or any other. I have more than a head-start or head’s start on Tuesday. However you write it. I already have the whole day, or have the opportunity to. And it’s not even 05:20.

Coffee. Slow communicative sip, pull from dark puddle. Me, couch, no sound. Awake to have more of day itself. Challenge it. Have it. Know it, already. Beat it at whatever game or field, board it thinks its own. It’s mine, I promise self. All mine. Had a thought of calling tonight’s class, but no I swear to self. Go. Go in tired. Remind them, show them, those enrolled, what a long day is. Teach, if anything, about work. About self. About deciding what the day will say. The day itself has NO say. That’s all us. Me, up now, thank the Craft, not so much collecting or gathering thoughts but being with self. Quiet time, like I tell the babies when they have an unreasonable volume about them at an inappropriate hour or any hour.

39. 40 next year. And still in a search of sorts. Think I found something, actually I know I did, with tech. This new office. A tech company and office and being around characters with more technological acuity and awareness than I’ll ever have. Not that I can’t be them but– No. I can’t. And I don’t want to. I shouldn’t have to. No one there is making me, which I love and more or less can’t believe. They want me to be me, this writer and blogger. They hired me for me. Realizing that this morning could be one thing keeping me up, disabling me from going back to sleep aside from the coffee. This morning I’m 39, tomorrow I will be too, but one morning I’ll be 40, then older and older. Age is only age if its acknowledged and credited. What if I stopped crediting it. What if I decided age is unaccredited. Like some two-bit, hair-brained for-profit college. I can do that. This morning teaches me to only see what I want. To work harder. Just now, I grieved a bit, that I didn’t start writing right when I came down but rather used the restroom briefly. 04:50-something. Can’t do that. Here I am, I’m awake, what are you going to decide to do. Am I “figuring out life”? No. But I’m definitely not letting it tell me what’s possible, what I’m allowed to do. What I’m capable of doing.

Waking early puts you in a different world. In a different role. You’re not yourself, not the same character if you’re used to doing this. There’s a challenge and a stress to it but with concurrent ease, meditation. From where I’m sitting in this house, what used to be my office, I won’t be able to see the sun rise but a gradual lighting and progressive brightness, brightening of the day itself. Which saddens me, but only if I dwell. I don’t let self. I listen to the nothingness heard in my home. Son sniffling a bit, the fridge humming behind me, my thumbs tapping on this phone, its screen. Being in the city, San Francisco, wakes me. Those thoughts. Thinking…. office, drive, walk around city with sales team, meet with them, then drive back…. when lunch? Maybe I won’t get one. Grab something, maybe. On go. No fast food. Haven’t had in over a year and the last time it made me quite sick.

Mood turns. Not sure why. Time rushing. 05:40. Only so much time left. Typo… fuck. My frustration compiles like my pages. What do I want from day. Where am I going with this entry. In tech. With writing. With teaching. With 39…….. Stop. I fracture the inward scold before it holds me, holds anything. Yawn. I’m tired. No I’m not. I’m eager. For the day. For work. For more writing. Speak into phone if you can on drive down. Be careful of course, but don’t fall into a complacency mitt.

More meditation, more questioning, more drawing of what here is now, a month ago in the wine industry doing the same thing over and over and o…… And now, this. Waking before six. A thousand words and for what. What will I do with this. What will I do with me today, these opportunities. The day will tell me, I’m sure. And I’ll tell it something in return– I’m deciding and writing how everything’s to progress and situate. The pages are mine, all of them.

9/18/18

Taking this lunch to regroup

 

not that I need to, but more accelerate in the momentum that I’m in place put for self img_7477today.  Cruised through the to-do I composed, the list that is, on Saturday and a bit last week, and feeling alive this morning.  Just noted that I won’t let the semester stress me, and I have been.  Not sure why.  This is my last, and I will enjoy.  Talking to students, today.  Nothing to rush-grade, so that’s a relief.  Thought this morning on “writing the book on”, as it’s said with so many things, waking unusually early to get more a jump on the day, what I have to do.  What I have to write.  To do yoga and stretch, my pushups and planks.  To see the dark of the room, waking earlier than anyone I know and bringing to fruition more than anyone I know before they’d even have an option.  There’s definitely a competitive edge to this writer, today.

Going to talk to class today.  About the paper.  About writing.  About the day.  The essay… understanding what it is.  Understanding where we are and what we’re doing.  More a meta discussion and ideas exchange…. Seeing me here in this break room which is also a warehouse of sorts right now with a forklift moving about and boxes being moved to one side of the floor then other, driver honking that odd, meek and metallic-sounding horn.  Me smiling in love with where I work now, everything I can do with words in tech.  Tech.  TECH.  Yes, I’m in tech.  My tech revolution and reconstruction you could say for my literary life and being, practice.  Nearly done with lunch, or eating what I brought, but not my literary lunch.  More to write, more to reflect, reflect upon, the poetry of everything I see and hear, one of the guys to my right finding a pingpong ball, bouncing it a few times, walking to the other side of the lift to be sure the driver’s measured and aligned most optimally.  “Safety is the most important thing right now, safety is THE most important thing.” He says.  I note it of course and wonder what’s most important to me right now.  My kids, family, MY business, this business, my mission here.

Still over 40 minutes left in sitting, so I’m not concerned with time.  Not at all.  But running out of observations in this room.  So I go outside of it.  One Ginger Ale in fridge.  My eye on it.  Still a bit hungry after what I brought.  Not letting self buy anything.  Saving.  For business.  Other things.  Life, I guess.  Saving to save as a friend said to me years and years ago.  Not that hungry anymore.  Only for words.  For verses.  That poem I wrote the other night in class, with the 1A crew for an open mic activity.  Looking at the fork’ and the driver and wondering if I could do that.  Never did get certified while in wine’s industry.  Not sure I would have wanted to if I really had to.  In fact tI was pretty vocal that I didn’t want to get cleared to do that.  Could see myself puncturing a box, some pricey case or putting some oddly-shaped hole in a wall, or barrel.

In re-grouping, I’m everywhere in thought.  Eager for the semester to end then saddened by thoughts of not being in a classroom.  But this is where I am, this is what I want.  Wanting to sell the services of this company, speak its language.  Be fully present and learn from what it teaches me.  Thinking I might have to leave… the talking is getting to me.  I should leave, sit in one of those space-age-looking seats just outside the door.  In re-grouping, wanting creative discussion tonight, on writing, on self, on health, on work, on getting what you want, on making something your own.

In one of the space seats with just over 28 minutes left on my time, time for me and if I am regrouping figurine out its objective.  Whatever that means.  I have no idea.  I’m just delighting in the day and the cup of coffee I just made on floor to my left, smelling it but not yet sipping.  Could write forever about this chair, or pod, open-egg seat.  I want to swivel and move around in it, play, but don’t want to look funny.  Had a thought for tonight, on feeling funny about writing, feeling odd when reading your work, the odd relationship even the most practiced writer has with writing.  Finding out more about self in my writing life, my writing practice, why I’m spending my entire lunch break, essentially, and ACTUALLY, working.  Yes on a project for self, but still working.  Find out more about ME as a character and writer here in the first 3-4 weeks at an ISP than I did in the 12+ circular, repetitive, terminally lateral life in wine’s business.  If you could call it a business.  Told T the other day, and a week before that I think that wine isn’t a business, it’s bullshit.  THIS, is a business.  The office, was citing.

In love with this chair, how it feels to sip coffee in it.  Just took first sip.  Not too hot, thankful.  Rest of day, more note taking.  Been scribbling since I git here, everything from thoughts to the time, to what exactly I was doing, to… well, everything.  I write about happiness now, how I find it, or thinking I did.  I left wine’s industry.  That was meteoric in movement significance.  Co-workers walk by, ones I’ve never spoken to, smiling and comfortable, no stress or at least visible.  And me, here, feeling comfortable and eased enough to post in one of their Jettson-y chairs.  There’s something here, for me.  Something.  Everything.  The remainder of my life.  No more jobs, no more applications, no more waiting, no more interim.  I’m home.  Just getting started, at 39.  I have a life to write, that’s why I write about. And everything assembled to resemble and radiate, read from and for happiness.  There… I’m more than “re-grouped”.

9/17/18

0602

Up. First sip of cold coffee. More than ready for today. Monday. A day which hasn’t scared me in years. Now I look forward. Still. It waking at the hour I want. Practice. A fight. A battle. To see that number on the oven clock and write while in its pose. I’m more than fascinated by people who wake early. And, earlier than 6. I’m smitten, a fan of them. A follower. Admirer. I’m the one in the upper deck and back far seats with binoculars pressed to my eyes. But no more. Was, I should have said.

Business.  Building one. 

img_0355What I’m thinking about now, finishing my last little snack. Need something salty, or something.  Not sure.  Shit, I’m getting indecisive again.  Not falling into anymore indecision.  Can’t with business, writing about building one, seeing self as one.  The forward motion has to be the principle motion.  Okay… caved and bought some cheese and crackers from shop here in this multi-purpose/lunch/presentation/meeting room/arcade.  Honestly, this room is unusually impressive to me, and what it contributes to the business and those support it, making everything happen.   I look around and see no one unhappy, no one scowling.  Two guys behind and to the right of me play a game of pingpong, not one of them speaking to the other completely trapped and rapt in their furious and precise back and forth.  Me, my thinking this morning, now, on my lunch where I choose to write about this new job and wha tI see it doing for me.  What I learned before coming in here, about overthought and what it did to me, my writing, yesterday.  How I declared no such occurrence would speak today.  Not even slightly.

26 minutes left in my literary lunch or sorts.  A literary character, with a profuse vino penchant, in a tech company.  An ISP.  There’s something there, and more promising and utterly unlike my blend of vino and lit in wine’s place.  But what.  WHAT.  It’s on the tip of my tongue.  Let it land, I tell myself.  Don’t rush it.  Presenting these ideas after lunch to another manager, of marketing and sales, has me wanting to know what it is.  This, ideas, MY business.  Educating people and showing people, the showing itself, the act, persisting as the educating vehicle.

I’ll walk back into the office as a new character in business, how to grow one.  The idea… right there.. goddamnit, I say to myself, SAY IT!  I’m traveling now between business ideas, potentials and capacities, little poems and blurbs, all short, in my head and I agree with self that if they stay then they see a page.  This office motivates me, continuously, and I find new forms and areas in my creative soul.  Not sure how else to describe it, describe this wine writing identity in the tech world.  In an office and no longer at a vineyard.  Strangely, I’m relieved to not walk the vineyard everyday.  That I didn’t expect.  That, this office taught me.

More notes, the writer takes more notes.  On the guitar character, on the wine he opened two nights ago and finished last night, and class tonight.  Likely I’ll let them go early as I did the ‘100’ section last night, share some ideas, and then go.  Needing a night off, and want to see the babies.  More important than any business venture or effort, attempt. They grow quicker than I want them to.  Time continues to demonstrate indifference with how I see my children grow, age, mature, get more mouthy with me and engage me in debate.  I’m encouraged, discouraged, more in love, then sad.  See Jack and in business at some point, together, Emma too I just think of Jack first as I’ve always seen him as my little buddy, partner in crime, that kind of thing.

Telling the kids we have to go up and get dressed, brush teeth, get ready for day, but I give in and let them have more time.  And I could use more time on the day’s story, this second day of a thirty-day measurer.  What will I be at the end.  Who cares.  Have some time to self today, and I’m thinking after the run go somewhere, to some coffee shop, locally, and write.  I do want to take some vineyard pics as well if I can.  But Saturdays are busy, no matter where you are in the season, so that could prove problematic.  Maybe just down the road, to Hook & Ladder, or De Loach.  Don’t want to do too much driving.  So remain close to this writing studio… needing to take a break, now, go cuddle with my babies, there on the couch and before they’re so grown they’ll avoid writing-daddy at whatever turn they see.  I laugh to self, looking at them.  I’m a dad.  ME.  40 next year.  So now I see the inner-shove for this 30-day project.  Get self as close to what I want for self at 40 as possible.  My office… travel… more wine notes and tastings, blogging and… yes, I need to go tasting today, somewhere just down the road.  I’m thinking De Loach is my spot.  Little Pinot, or Chard, think they make a Syrah of some shape.  But, after a run.  After a run, no buts.  How far will I go.. how far can I go, what distance I can produce, better question.  Haven’t been running as much as the running writer’d like.

After kids are dressed and with teeth cleaned, they draw.  I’m back standing and typing.  Wife on way home from workout and I need to put self in runner’s head.  Will do normal route, then something added.—  Jack harasses Emma by drawing on her sheet, Emma growls and I laugh which doesn’t help.  Ready to run…. Between 5 and 10 miles.  That’d be lovely.  Lovely.  Get some healthy mile count and come home and shower and head out to write more.  Make as much use of the day, this “day off”, as writer and new techie can.  Am I a techie?  I’ve learned more new worlds and specifics, more Newness, at the office new than I ever did in the wine industry’s joke of an industry and business.  I’m a wanna-be techie, I think.  I have a blog, but that doesn’t make me a techie, tech, technically savvy strut. 

Hours after run, 10 miles, then nearly 3 miles of walking, I’m tired.  Kids back from pool and I write as I did this morning.  Jack continues to contribute to his math workbook that he created and designed himself, this morning.  Emma, little Ms. Austen herself on the couch with her laptop.  Would be outside but too hot.  And I don’t object.  Walking around Bottle Barn I imagined my eventual wines, that I’ll make with sister, there.  Just one bottle.  Not too many.  I’m very anti-inventory, since leaving Roth.  Too many SKUs, too many blues.  And, the counting is just a pain.  More than a pain, like a relentless sickness.  That just returns and returns.  Tomorrow helping friend at Idlewild off the square.  Don’t have to be there till noon.  Wife heads out to Train Town with friend and her daughter, so I’m heading to my day and creative missions early.  Take pictures of vineyards and walk around blocks, catch views of harvest if I can.  Definitely heading to Roth, maybe Foley Sonoma, or something outside the Foley book.  Just want to be in wine’s world and valley to do just that.  BE there.  Not working, just being, creating, writing.  I’ll be Kerouac as well tomorrow, but a Madigan model and chronicle.  Writing everything down…

Daughter slides off couch and walks around, dazed.  Can tell she’s tired.  “Emma, you wanna play with Dada?” She doesn’t answer, and I head back to these keys, hear train passing outside, Jack still very much in his authoring actuation.  I ask Emma again, she lazily and with extended annunciation, “No.” Okay, so I don’t feel too bad about typing as I am.  Again feel the depletion from the ten mile run.  Wanted 13.1, but the heat stopped me.  Surprised I got as far as I did.  While walking around Spring Lake, I thought to myself about stress and how so often it coms from trying to control something and not being able to.  So my new resolve, resolution and trenchant view involves just dong what I want and if something blocks me or impedes then loudly amplify ( a word I much prefer to “scale”) demiurgic movements.  All of them.  I watch both babies, Emma now visibly drained, trying to fall asleep on the couch.  I offered to take her upstairs to nap with her mother, and then she revives with no notice.

Just told Emma she’s cute and she took such as an insult.  “ I not cute, Dada… I big guuu’!” I laughed and went back to these keys.  Like I’m in college, writing something just before deadline.  Not editing a thing jus typing and using everything around me to get to demanded word or page tally..  Or a wine journalist and blogger, notetaker, feverish jotter, scribbling more on the wines I last night had, the Italian white then red blend, not Italian like other character, providing contrast valuable.  Both said something to me about my relationship with wine, and how wine’s provided a platform for everything, everything, even getting into tech… the office new.  Wine and I, together out of the tasting room.  And what now… write something.  Wine, writing, running in Sonoma County in view of vineyards, sometimes.  Not today unfortunately.  Just wasn’t in the story for day.  15:39, and I still have a lot to do.  Stating and staying busy, working on this writer’s projects and everything in his writing ways.  Just charged camera for tomorrow.  Not sure why I’m so set on doing photography, tomorrow.  Why not.  See what happens.  One of my secret aspirations is to be somewhat, I guess, a photog.  Never sacrificing the prose, but more pictures.

Kids unusually calm, and me getting tired.  Hope they don’t get frenzied and decide to confederate against the running writing daddy.  Or, I hope they do.  There’s more story and AMPLIFICATION in that.

9/8/18