from a journal

…close on another term at the JC, I resist the close, notion of closure.  And so should anyone in a similar stroke.  In the first paragraph of the book, the reader is convinced to consider the idea of Newness, growth, new sights and meditation, collection. Seeing more of myself as the boy, Santiago, even as I approach 40, with the hear being my ideas. My collection of Nows and what happens why my travel continues.  Thinking, thought, pages, notes.  With my grading done, I look over the incepting paragraphs, with the boy using a book as a pillow, literally resting his head and thoughts on another’s thought, thoughts.  Travel in ideas and a resistance of the stationary, staying in one spot.  With my studies, mind you.  Kerouac said one day he’d find the “right” words and that those assembled words would be simple.  I’m not concerned with simplicity or complication, but movement.  I’m focusing on my read and the lessons of each paragraph, traveling with Santiago and seeing what we see, together.  In this read, or re-re-read of Coelho, I’m re-writing my life, my aims, the aims I had in senior year of high school, announcing them several times in fact, of being a writer and professor.  Where on the travel, in the journey, about my syllabic and paragraphed trek did I stray?

The idea of comfort in a book, ideas, rest and even sleep but sleep that isn’t at all a state of dormancy.  The boy on the floor, with the bigger book is me, I see.  Is all of us, or should be.  Knowledge, thought, reading, writing, should always be in the main character’s scene.  And if not, then a puissant pursuit of something, even if you don’t know what. Maybe it’s just the pursuit of pursuit, having something to seek.  On the first page, we have a kindship and care for the boy, and his heard.  Why not? Why not want to see where he’s going…

…what Pinot we’re going to taste, of course, but more than that.  What he’s been thinking concerning his wines and how his philosophy has changed on wine since the last time we tasted.  How has mine changed.  How has all this changed… more than wine… my life, what I do for work, my teaching, my writing, my health and running, now I have a daughter.  When we met, I had little Kerouac, and that’s all.  Don’t’ meant it like that, but I had one baby.  Now, 2.  Wine is family as so many wineries and wine people say when it’s really some sales bullshit ploy they profess.  You can tell I’m especially lively this evening, even after all the wine I’ve tonight and today tasted. Need to work, need to write for wine’s thought, my thoughts on wine.. and what I think on wine, presently, but I need stay about her province.  In all respects of her respect and realm (and I hate that word).  It’s true, though, do note.  I’m imbued so, proved code.  That being to wine and the vineyards I always walk, that I have to walk.  Nearly every day—or, days I can.  Drove to AV this morning a bit early so I could stroll along 128 and watch the new vintage take its shape in front of me, like some galaxy forming, like some book being written by one of my followed penners.

Walking in the cave before day starts, and I don’t know what I’m looking at.  Something different, something more.. something.  Wine and I have a different dynamic between us.  I hear it, she, speak to me but I’m confused in my thoughts, and how I think, in the thoughts themselves.  The first time I noticed wine and what it, she, is when I lived in San Ramon.  And I’ve told this story a thousand times to whomever will listen, but that bottle of Blackstone Merlot that Mom suggested I buy…

from a journal


Friday.  But you know my opinion and stance on Fridays.  So what.  It’s Friday yes and to some that’s something, but I don’t care.  I’m working tomorrow, and the next day, the day after that.  I’m a blogger, writer, writer before a blogger and always noting something, so days off are days of others, not me.

Resolving to not spend any more money, today.  Not one penny.  What about lunch.  I need something to eat at that time, always do.  So what do I do.  Use change.  Yes.  Get as many quarters as I can, that’s lunch.  The quarters don’t matter, today, this meaningless Friday.

At the coffee spot same as yester’, with a 4-shot latte and the back table all to self.  About 40 minutes to self before I have to get to office to be a professional.  Professional.  What.  I’m learning.  Educating myself closer to 40 I get, knowing that all I want is the world, every Road I can find, any wine I haven’t tried, and sip and scribble overlooking a street, a canyon with a river somewhere in Switzerland.  That’s my most vocal and mobile and noble of “goals”.

Every morning should be this, time with self.  Friday or whatday.

Kids eating

breakfast, starting their Sunday with admirable intention and discussion.

Jack makes himself a checklist, writes a story on legal sheets.

Keep forgetting I’m at a winery, today. What does that mean?

Made self a list, after reading Jack’s.