There is no happenstance in patterns.
In YOUR patterns.
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
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…
10/5/18
A Meeting
Now home. Today, sent me. Somewhere. Not sure where. This is more than work. This is more than a job, Sonic. The place where people walk around smiling and talking with each other, where they smile and greet each other and fall into a joyous back and forth about everything. I won’t get comparative, promised I wouldn’t do that in this sitting at day’s end. But today, did something. After my EOD meeting, on several worlds and ancillary topics, a conversation which I was more than merely invested in, I hurried on into the rest of the day and onto campus to give my most kaleidoscopic and axiomatic lecture yet, I think.
Sipping from a bottle Thomas gave me, and I direct further toward and into this meeting with self, me here having an inward conversation, hoping to come to some sort of useful singularity but maybe I won’t. Maybe this is just for the sake of exploration, for setting sail into some new thought stream. Where I’ll land. Not sure. And why do so many focus on destination? I know I do from time to time but even still sometimes we just need to relish and have internal dialogue and mediation on the trek itself… the voyage, the journey.
If I do manage to wake as early as I’ve drawn, tomorrow, I’ll work out while writing. Down here, downstairs, living room, in dark. And if one of the babies wake then I guess I’ll deal with it, I have to. A 90 minute workout, all core-honed, what I’m hoping for. I still feel Sonic’s office around my senses, all five, and the eighth, ninth. This Italian red proposes something different, as it’s something different in my usual sip pattern.
So I keep with kaleidoscope’s shades and telling. Don’t need to be yet privy to destination. I’ll get there…. I will.
Sonic Jot
Next day, the second where I feel like I’m on a rocket ship, just ascending and appreciating altitude. Third day of victory, of production, producing, feeling my life and creative tide just going and rising and taking me with it. On lunch now, peanuts and a ginger ale I bought from shop. Stomach still a bit uneasy from that vegetarian burrito, yesterday. Work today is more than enlivening and exhilarating. I did feel this a couple times in the wine industry, but with no consistency. Can’t remember the last time at Roth I had three consecutive days of pure life and topic ownership. My story becomes its own storm, now. Its own Now. In this large warehouse-like quarter with Sonic everything all around me and everything that Sonic embodies, from the communicative facet to people just visibly enjoying what they do. I’m definitely space-bound. My work is no longer work but something that’s redefined and redrawn and re-purposed my literary purpose.
Walking someone through the office and into this break arena earlier, I could see the amazement and disbelief in her facial shape. How the company encourages its people, how the “employees” are more so investors and partners, family members to the immediate and distant motions. All motions overlap and intermingle, creating a creative concurrency. Their own currency to be exchanged and interchanged… I notice my own face change shape, sitting here. Taking another sip, not needing any real lunch but just the snack I have and everything on either side— left and right, 12 and 6. All these corners and visuals decide on magnifying my manuscript’s physiology, writing new one for this writer who anymore writes about work as he’s embedded and invested in work that binds to his moral and ethic etch.
I’m horribly saddened, honestly, when I hear of people going to places they hate for work. Of course someone could ask, “Why would anyone do that to themselves?” Yes, an easy question to ask, but not so easy to answer or attach any formula. It’s not that they do anything to themselves, but haven’t found their pages, haven’t landed in their story. What I recognize, appreciate and further analyze in my sitting here is that only now do I see. Did I find not only a home, but a topic. A book, and another one. Me, a writer, literary guy, beatnik from the wine industry, now more fiery and eager and moved to words. AT A TECH COMPANY. But this isn’t some simple tech company, or start-up or wanna-be startup village. This, here, the creative is basal, inherent. Expected. Sonic, like a university hopping around in exponent climates. Here, you’ll hear people say how they write everything down. You see other writers here, other thinkers, people seeking to enjoy where they work— More than just “enjoy” it. Live it. Be it. The IT, to it all. What they do, yes, but more who they are. That’ how I see myself.
My story just arrived. At 39. Late? No. Lovely timing. If anything, it’s more than punctual and optimal, just before 40. This place has me forgetting I’m 39, if you should know, and you should know if I’m with your attention. I just fixate on the day, whatever project to which I tend. The company’s name, Sonic, denoting and connoting sound, and speed, something audible, and then I think of course of music and being a literary bloke hear Kerouac reminding me that the only truth is music. Here, in the break room and in the office proper, between enclaves and hamlets of encouragingly and electric and eclectically adorned cubes and desk, you hear it. See, feel, then a sixth and eighth sense. Someone you acknowledge or you think you do adequately but only know you’re there, in it all.
New writer, new vision. New understanding and embrace of purpose. I am writing a book, about this place. More than a place but a dimension, a warp of time, timing. Forgot about the ginger ale, peanuts. Hearing co-workers talk of their projects and ideas while on lunch. They don’t talk about any TV show, who’s dating who, where they’re going this weekend. But work. WORK. It’s not work. It’s more than passion. It’s creative escalation and an impassioned saddle of axioms and projects. Seeing each day as its own book, not just a chapter. This is not a new chapter in my life but a new life, a new armada of books I’m about to write. This day— what would it be about? Learning, something new. Spreadsheet. Yes, me doing spreadsheets. I was deathly afraid of them, before coming here, and up until yesterday still quite unnerved at the thought of toying with rows, columns, cells, formulae. No longer, though. My self-certain, assurance and general fortitude eclipse any anxiety. Moving at a speed I’d deem supersonic, frankly. And I don’t see myself working, I don’t. I see the growth and the metaphysical and ontological model re-write itself over and over, from this company’s thesis. New song, everyday. New chords. New opus offerings and new interpretations of everything around me. And, again, spreadsheets are part of this paragraph, part of this elasticized praise for where I now sit, in this lunching province.
Stomach, solved. Today did so. Cured me of whatever that restaurants plate did. And I forget it, universally. I’m made more healthy and assembled as a writer in tech’s clef and step. Anything past workplaces instilled, left, far in days behind me. Today’s book, then tomorrow’s, where I’ll be at Month 6, and yes I have a specific aim and tangible destination for such. Never did that with wine’s world. I didn’t need to, as no such thought was ever invited or encouraged. The culture of not only writing and taking notes here, but education both from self but colleagues makes me feel like I’ve discovered some cryptozoological wonder, asking myself What is THIS? and Where am I? Imagine that, being not merely in love with where you are, what you do, where one works, but seeing yourself as healthier, happier, more composed as an immediate consequence.
10/3/18
At school and tired from dinner. Just a vegetarian burrito but still feel a bit of a food-tuned slowness coming over me. I ignore it. Chew gum I bought in cafeteria. Have books with me for night but not sure how long I want to stay, to be honest. Just talk to them, tonight. That’s all. Just talk to them about their Plath observations and thoughts on their essays. Not planning anything tonight. Nothing. Everything on sight, on spec, in the moment, bottomless from the bottom of my mind.
Couple minutes before 6:30. Long day, but not really. Woke just before 6 with Jack, started shaving and didn’t have to iron any clothes so I was ready rather readily and with speed that doesn’t show most weekday mornings.
Want tonight’s class to be exciting. Theatrical. I say that a lot, “theatrical”. How about animated, interesting or engaging. You know what I mean. You know what I want from tonight’s session. Yes…. Rubbing my eyes… UGH, I think, Why did I have that burrito? Focusing on moment. My stomach has 30 minutes to digest everything and lose this full feeling. Phone sounding, reps still in field, doing their thing, canvassing. Feel bad I’m not there with them but I have to fulfill this, this obligation, this last semester.
Feel me get into professor mode, what to say when at class’ front, facing all the registered characters for the class I’m meant to “teach”. Work… make it your own. Don’t look at it as a task, but what you’re made to do— NO. Who you ARE.
Have so much to grade and the stack keeps rising, heightening its attack and talk. Another swarm to land tonight. Life of a teacher, adjunct professor or instructor, whatever they want to call me today, this week. How is it that they decide? How is it that anyone or any institution or company can call me something, give a title or identity without me signing off? You might say, “You did when you took the job.” Okay. Though, I never agreed to a title that’s ever-changing, and I never agreed that anyone or any THING can decide when to change it.
Day catching me as it nods into night. Feeling a bit more awake. A bit. Part of me does want to get coffee, but that will harm sleep. And I’m going in circles in this quiet conference room and wasting me time to self, this time to build and collect and prep if I choose to. I don’t. I leave the day’s page blank and we as a class will fill it. Idea by idea. That will be our collective prompt.
Feeling like a professor now. One who will be teaching independently by semester’s close. Tell myself to stop thinking so excessively and I do. I stop and just write, not in the Plath book. Tell myself which quotes to offer but then retract as that’s a promise, a plan, a step back. I just walk into the class being me, lecturing on writing and reading my loved author, and how they see her. What’s their assessment of Ms. Plath and what she notes and narrates through her contemplative turbulence..
10/1/18
New month and new challenges, new invitation. First month, Q4, and for me everything is in a poetic synchrony. Breakroom writing which I haven’t done in some time. The whole day with projects, an interview with a new candidate which I thoroughly enjoyed, emailing someone in company with new idea, and more ideas, more, more than lily going to have to come here early in A.M. to catch up on some addresses as my laptop, the work one, not wanting to agree to do anything this morning. I’m mean to be here, in this chair, in this big lunch room, sipping coffee and not needing to eat as I finished the rest of the sandwich wife made for me end of last week— actually that’s a lie, I didn’t eat any of it last week, forgetting I even had it in the fridge. I felt horrible and swearing to self that I’d today eat it, hoping it’d be edible, not molded or gross or off in flavor dote. And, it was perfect, just what a writer needed to have this sitting. Writing at a tech company. Am I a tech writer? I guess, in some form. Well, now maybe yes. Yes I am. I’m in tech, coming from wine and education, finishing out my last semester at the JC then setting everything, all efforts and projects and proverbial promises in this basket. All new axioms enacted. Both journals at my left, new thoughts let to beget here on lunch hour. Not sure when I clocked out. Not certain how much of the hour I have left. Who cares. Know I have till 1. Which means, 38 minutes precisely.
Was supposed to have lunch with new friend and co-worker in other department, Abraham, in the “MDU” division. Take him to lunch actually to thank him for all his kindness and help this past Saturday, at the event. But he didn’t know that was today, or that I wanted to take him to lunch, something lost in the translation and delivery of my offer. So, Wednesday, two days from now we lunch. I’m actually grateful to the craft to Craft it worked out as it did so I can write. And now, in the field, now more eating out. That lunch I had in the East Bay, Saturday, at the BBQ place on San Pablo was messy, too expensive, non-flavorful, and just upsetting. Should have had a sandwich at the Subway in front of which we parked. Btu no, I had to do that. No matter. Now forward, I write. I’ll find somewhere quiet and jot. All specifics.. who I canvass with, what new I learn of the company and the product we offer in field, about me in my role, educating the reps, and new reps that come to the company. Now, I’m writing, I’m doing what I do, ME, who I am and what I do but more who I am which is what I do.
Teaching tonight. Nothing prepped. So what. And, no wine tonight so I can wake early tomorrow and put to blog an enormous number of pages. And obnoxious slew of page-storming. More of that from me, now, here, and because of here at this office. Technology isn’t technology, at least to me. It’s relating to the community, connecting people, service and in a way the wine industry only boasts it is but never really embodies. No nugacity in my being here. Everything is significant, significantly sown in new Newness, new significance. Two journals on right, me jumping from one idea to the next. W hat this place does to me. Tomorrow morning I’ll wake earlier than early, and do something, get me closer to my end-Road here at Sonic and with my own projects. I’m not promising, I’m affirming I guess you could say, adamantly affirming my affirmations, inward and outward then back inward, inwardly. Coffee, bag, guys over there playing video games, me here writing which doesn’t make me anything, I’m just a writer in a technology pond. I’m humbled and welcomed and fascinated by the contrast.
No poem written today. Still have to finish the 52-line piece I made loud advancement in the other day. Blockage everything out, forcing self into hallucination where I’m deaf, only hear the keys and some jazz, jazz… I need some but don’t want to play any as the fight agains the noise around me is colorfully stacked in reward and gems philosophical. Catch myself overthinking so I look at the first sentence… no poem written today… I’ll change that in a minute, in the closing frames of this lunch break. Everything in this room is poetic, a form of poetry and poetic narrative, music and song, jazz, a jam session of sounds and the people in my head, audience, hearing everything and moving their heads forth, back, smiling, then I smile too right in front of everyone here and don’t care if I’m observed. This new job, how it has me thinking, how it has me moving more poetically-intoned and intentioned than even the SRJC or any other campus. People in and out, debating over what to eat for lunch from the fridge, talking about their dogs and how they have to fill bowls by their cubicles for their fur-amis. More leave, the others keep playing their game.
Snacks at my desk, so I’m not tempted or tampered with by the chips and cereal, whatever else is in this room with me. Solely coffee. Talking, about work and other, this conversation and that— A poem hops into my head, want to write it down but then I get another idea. The office has me furious and lovingly frazzled with pages, ideas for story, more stories, what I want from life and my own story. Nearly didn’t make it here, and I won’t be doing this come Wednesday. But I’m here now, I tell myself. What am I looking for, from this job, from this office, from this internet service we take to communities?
More sittings like this.
More of this.
ME, here.
Nothing dictating how my day
forwards but my own beat and sight.
The Glass
Late, and wine and music, thinking about the day and week ahead. Day off tomorrow from office new but class later. Going to put thinking in mode of close, already for semester. The writing daddy thinking, thinks now, bigger than in past sittings. Tonight, Pinot Noir. Went to winery he just in the last month left, yesterday. He misses it, wine, the industry. Would he ever go back? Fuck no, he says to himself. He says it loud so he can hear himself think it and say it, and feel it more before the next sip. He’ll have his own winery one day, something small. That small little tasting studio and room where people, anyone, can just taste wine and talk.
He closes all the other docs on his laptop. Focuses on his memoir or note or memoir-ish novel piece, he throws more Pinot into his circuitry. And I’m tired already, even though I did manage a nap earlier, and after having some coffee. Guess the writer needed it. Mike looks at the wine, remembers his last days at that Chalk Hill spot, going into the vineyard his last day with the TR manager to do his exit and she saying this is how it should be done as he’d always talk about the vineyard and everything in it, how he’d walk it everyday.
He’d write it. That tell-all. Or something like a tell-all. He wasn’t trying to expose anyone or call anyone out, or do any tabloid shit on his blog, he just wanted to write the wine industry, the bar the glass the towels the inventory. Each turn, jot on a paper clipped by a spreadsheet metal clip-y thing. He looks again at the glass and writes more notes about it, what he thinks someone from, maybe somewhere like, Indiana would say. Some small town Indiana person, now a rich oil or farm behemoth. “That’s nice, that’s like one of those Pinots that tells you what Pinot is, what it’s all about… I’ve had Pinots like this before, I’ve had a lot of them…” He’d heard lines like this, so many times before, someone trying to sound like something, some wine something, an expert or “connoisseur” or “aficionado”, or just a fucking EXPERT. But it’s in his head. He knows he has to write this down. All of it. He sipped the Pinot faster, pour another glass or sip right from neck. It’d changed,
Wine speaking to him in octaves applauded, in his thoughts. Empty glass, full head of wine visions, walking a vineyard again like he did at every wine he’d ever worked at. He doesn’t know where he is in this session, and he doesn’t care. The mocha, maple, cherry and milk chocolate from the wine speaking even several minutes after sipped. He sees himself light up after writing about glass’ occupant, even after gone, even before letting it sing through a bottle’s neck like he were Kerouac. Much to tell, more now later. As a writing daddy ought do. Much anew do.
9/23/18
inward jot
9/21/18
Coffee. Didn’t think I would have any but a nice bloke named Art helped fix the machine. Something with the paper inside he said. Not sure what that meant and I had trouble finding his repairing ability and magic powers but am cosmically grateful for the cup I now enjoy. He had his dog with him, Murphy, a mix of pit and rot and German Shepherd or something. Cute little guy that I though a puppy but really 8 years old. Want a bigger property to have a dog for kids. Working on it.
Out in field today, again. Meant to wake early as I always do but needed more sleep, waking at 630-something then ironing some pants, into shower, getting coffee and wee treat for wife as she has day off, recovering. Me in break room. Saw co-worker who also enjoys Kerouac’s work, walking her dog as I approached front door. Asking her how her morning was and she told me great, woke at 4:45 to go to gym, workout, and here she is. The mornings, I need something from them. More hours, more time, and I have only self to cite for not waking when I want. Prophesying the next 8+ hours. Selling with team, walking around the East Bay today, I believe. Want today to be wild, more wild than any day this week. Written, written madly. Bag on table, person behind me getting napkin from some odd and stray little stack. Writer at a tech company. Love it. Love this place. What it does and what it stands for but I try to find more. Not letting self get breakfast as I did the other day, and yesterday. Yesterday having some croissant sandwich with egg, cheese, meat… felt disgusting afterward. So none of that. And none of the doughnut array a guy who next to me sits brought in this morning. Was tempted. Told him, “Maybe later.” But no. Going for a bit of a literary fasting, ration, penury for sakes of prose today.
An office, versus a tasting room. Then thinking of every job I’ve had, reflecting only now at 39, and where I’m going as I seem to in every entry… Do I want a snack? NO. Fast.. deprivation, a sort of literary and page torture training. What will it do to the psychology of this writer, how he touches the keys, how he writes… what will it do to the book, book? 08:30. 20 minutes about, to collect. People come in here for morning fixes, one man just now grabbing some dry cereal and some cold caffeine or coffee drink to pair. This place fascinates me. The video games, stacked chairs, a jungle of deliberation and fascination, like Duke and Gonzo in the casino, at the bar surrounded by lizard monsters. I look around and see business, me building my story and “brand” if that’s what you want to call it. I just want more, like everyone else. The coffee to me speaks in radiant and radically riled voice and unspoken syllable sets. Going to write everything down today. From today’s poem, poems, to notes on team, the field, sakes ideas, me-ideas, everything around me secures the affirmation of dream-actuality transformation and actualization.
In ten years, I’ll be…. Don’t want to say. By the end of the semester, well, I do want to say. Teaching on writing. Teaching independently. Independent and NEVER dependent on the JC for classes and teaching opportunities. This break room teaches me to write faster, write more, about the coffee and the coffee machine, Art and his dog Murphy, the people getting their breakfast bites, and me here writing like a beatnik having finally found his his IT, moving with supersonic insistence toward a storm of ideological adorned page-forms. Seeing something, then writing it. Living it. Odd embodiment of passion and presence, passion for what’s in front of me and present.
Feeling a but of a famine rumble. Ignoring it. Writing rethought it. If I had something to eat what would I have. Certainly nothing in the fridge. Then what. What do I want. What will I do if this ravenous inner-stomp heightens in any way. Not sure. Just keep with the words, the— TODAY. Today is the IT, the IT of it all. The coup de foudre, for me and this book. Not failed, in any pour, in any sound, in any movement or issue. Today is all any writer should be focused on. I’m here, at work, about to share ideas, about to speak to people, about to learn, about to be more me than the bloody wine industry could ever echo or hasten or hurry. I’m finding not only work here, and nuggets of knowledge, but visuals that confirm the reasoning for why I’m here now.. to work over or about an hour early and diving into pages, a book project.
So many of us fear work. I see that as a decision. I see that as a surrender. What do you want to do for the rest of your life? The answer should always be “Everything.” Try everything, experience everything, WRITE everything. That’s what succeeds in solution, answers, happiness with I think everyone quests. Everything…. “Try EVERYTHING” I started the semester with. And now I the like enact.
More coming in for snack, something to eat. The writer tempted, but I find gems in this starvation and deprivation, a re-allocation of self and functionality.
08:47. Want to be back at desk, soon. Start day. Initial tasks. Notes for field, for me in field, observations from yesterday. Coffee already going cold. I think of last night’s wine. Which one. The Rosé, of which I only had one glass, and the Barbera of which I think I had maybe 1.5. OR two. I deserved it, I reasoned, keeping the 1A class over 90 minutes which made for a 12-hour day, give or take.
Again quiet. Sip again.