Interesting start to

img_3408this morning, thinking I had to be at a meeting at 0830 only to learn I didn’t have to be there at all.  Which serves as a boost and a boon, giving me time to write right across the street at the winery where I’m based.  Retiring… my first taste of retirement, from the wine industry, its slow-moving and barely-communicative facets.  No more tasting room, no more pouring for other people.  I will miss the words, though.  What people say about wine and how they say it, with that tone to their voice.  Like I wrote a while ago, I’m closer to wine and even its industry by writing about it, and leaving physically.

Retiring… to focus on teaching and generating ideas with student, philosophy and pedagogy, writing practice and journal habits… and business, and fusing my literary life and presence into the business world.  Writing and blogging and holding observations in esteem, as they build character, Personhood.

Yesterday leaving the winery early to write.  That’s always my first impulse and inner-shove when I have free time.  Write.  Why then lately has writing given me such a shake, been such a challenge and near painful to catalyze?  Have to write though it, I guess.  As I always say to students and write in my entries.

Going through past entries, where I was stressed about something in the wine industry, or in life, or with teaching, with something.  Find it interesting.  How from day to day we’re all the same character but there’s some sharpened corner, refined angle, or damaged dimension somehow.  I’m learning more, while aging.  That’s certain.  Even now, with no music on as I usually have, I only hear the building’s natural sounds.  I think a little wind from the other side of the wall, outside by trees, and the winery’s tanks and, or, pumps on the crush pad doing something, dinging and whooshing, making some released air clunk-sound.  I’ll share some of this with those registered for the classes I’m to teach this term, and some notes I’ll just leave here on the blog, or in a drawer, in the Burgundy journal.  Only two days away, when I see students for the first time in months, having taken off the summer.  Glad I did, as it taught me that I need a drastic momentum shift.  Something New.  A renewed ME, new story and pages, a BOOK.

No meeting, but I meet with myself.  With this page.  Just felt a chill, a bluster of terror that I couldn’t write anymore.  That either I forgot or I’ve lost some intrigue or interest in and with the act itself, or something.  But it’s not true.  It’s not me, not the present… nothing of what you’d see in me right here typing in someone’s cubicle.  Not sure if she works here, anymore.  Work… what we live for.  What I feel I only do.  So why not have it be not just something you love or are passionate about, but plainly who you are.  You’re a winemaker… you’re a writer… you’re a teacher… you’re a doctor.  Yes, it’s your job, but it’s YOU.  You own it, you own you… you own your onus.  Have a meeting with yourself, see what transpires.  Write it down.

Following my own instruction, I write it.  “I. AM. A. WRITER.” Learning more about me and why I am where I am, what I’m doing.  Letting the immediate scene and observational pattern teach me as to what next do.

8/18/18

New.  Today.  More than a new day, but a new….

Photo on 1-22-18 at 12.36 PMDon’t want to say journey, but certainly a new Story.  A new device, a new creative license licensed especially for me.  The world gifting me more ideas and sights, conversations useful.  No more overthinking, I tell myself in this cubicle.  No music, like when I run.  Just the sounds of the tractors out in that field clearing and preparing a field for a new vineyard.  Listening to everything, studying everything.

Out of the wine industry, finally.  Not that I’m bitter, or over-eager to get out, it’s just time.  Very much time.  And for my writing and travels, how I’m developing as a writer, this is what needs to happen.  A new field, not so much a new job but something NEW, an exploration and new flight.  A bridging of what I do here in the wine world, but with more dimension and facet, more intricacy and creativity-beg.

Older I get, I find work so funny.  At times frankly hilarious, if you must know.  Why… well, just what w put into it.  How we see it.  How so many of us want to get out of where we are, our job/jobs, but do nothing but grieve.  We let the work, the JOB, have control over our senses and actions.  With my new assignment and story, I’ve made quite clear I refuse angrily to allow such.

This day… like yesterday… strong.  With no fear.  Nothing getting to me.  Have a meeting in 19 minutes downstairs but I’m going to utilize and weaponize every drop of this time to self.  The cubicle I’m in, have to laugh.  Not only does it make me think of Napa, ‘the box’ as I called it (office where I made calls for wineries for tailored sales campaigns), but how so many work in these things.  I couldn’t.  I just couldn’t.  And I won’t.  Not only is that a choice, you could say, but a conviction.  A functionality in my character.

Saw a picture this morning, one of those Facebook reminders, of me 8 years ago talking to a then-reality TV Show chef/contestant.  Eight years ago, I said to myself just after brushing.  EIGHT.  Time as wife cited this morning passes without caring how it harms or saddens us.  Today, NEW.  NEWness.  Enjoy…. And I will.

Hear those tractors.  Wonder what they’re doing.  My friend Chris downstairs not the crush pad frustrated with barrels and how many there are, how the barrel company crew is over 30 mins late.  Again, work.  What it does to us, shapes our moods and voices, conversations, how we walk and what ripples through the day.  I sit and smile in this cubicle.  New adventure, new words, only accepting elevation and happiness.  Life, its lessons, not waiting for me.  And they don’t have to.  I’m here, already learning and noting, present, recording, writing.  I, not failing.  Time won’t let me.  WORK, won’t let me.  The new ME, definitely not allowing any back-steps.

8/10/18

Some random Cabernet

I bought off a winemaker based in Livermore. Might be my only glass, being so tired from yesterday’s event and all the speaking today. Just swore to self that this sitting would be the one that does something. What. What? I ask the Cab. I provoke one sip and it doesn’t answer. So I’m done for the night. Clocking out. Not sure I deserve to.

Short fiction, me now. 

One of my characters littering his studio floor with sheets of short verses and poems, some haiku streams and anti-form pieces.  He gathers whatever he randomly picks up from the floor.  He reads them lightly, not wanting to find any errors as he knows he’ll be tempted to re-write or somehow correct.  Each poem should be a snapshot and taste of the Now, he says to himself.  Right at 5pm, he pours himself a white blend, something from Anderson Valley, and reads some more from the past 8+ hours of scribbling.  He has something, something to sell, just from a day.  Pours another glass, writes another page.

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…be low on the communication volume, if at all known past what I write and post to blog.  I’m camping in…. Working.  Now that I think, I will message her, just let her know I’m off for the day and ‘if you want to talk I’m here’, something like.  Overeagerness of course could contaminate my chances but some constant conversation, concise and to the point if you would could only be more demonstrative of my candidacy’s validity, oui?

My French.  On the day’s list.  Haven’t studied or practiced in some time, too long.  Met a lady the other day that told me she learned, years ago, all on her own by getting together with other French learners and French speakers.  Starting a project, today.  “J’y vais…” which just means ‘here I go’.  Name of the project.  I’ll pick a word, later.  No now… argent.  Money.  I’ll learn word by word, if I can.  Part of today’s productivity plan.

Wife calls me from New York City where her sister has some lunch meeting or event, and wife watches all 4 kids.  Missing them, jealous of their travel, saying to myself, “See?  Even my six year-old son and 2 and a half year-old daughter are traveling, in New York where Kerouac and the gang were.  I need to write faster, not be afraid of anything, certainly not in the wine industry, I just stay educing and moving into the 12, the forward…