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.

At the counter sipping my beer and

watching the Niners-Bronco’s game, I thought of my self in another city, and how that would feel, what I’d be writing if I were on travel.  The beer was cold and just the temperature needed for end of day–  working in my book for what seems like a life, a life with distorted time sense.  Coming semester could very well be the final.  This is my final exam, and I’m intent on acing it.  Writing what I need to to solely be governed by my stream of pages.  It will happen.  It has to happen.  Self-absorbed narrator, so what.  I ignore my momentary insecurity and sip the beer.  Watch the game.  Pre-season but oh well, it’s football.  I miss football.  Even though I’m a baseball guy, I love the game, the run plays, the play with the clock.  But I’m too distracted by the thought of my travel eventual, how music will sound in hotel lobbies, what the people will look like as they pass out of the corner of my eye– my thinking just leads me and in imaginative irrationality.  I need travel.  Sooner than soon. I get quite agitated when people mention how much they travel for work and say so like it’s such a bare.  I don’t get it.  This semester will change everything.  Going to teach like I’m already there, with the finished book, with the travels…  Beer done, young girls on phone, and so am I.  They send pictures and text messages to their “friends” or other others in their lives, I make memoir notes.  I’ve never worked in a restaurant.  Not even in college.  Why.  How.  How did I escape that?  Seems like some mandatory transition everyone has to pass.  An exam of its own onus.  But I’ve never done it.  I start to obsess over and in all these young characters around me.  Bringing people their meals and many times dealing with assholes, hoping for a tip and getting nothing–  and how do they carry like six plates with two arms?  I could never do that.  My job is the writer.  Quietly observing, maybe a bit sinisterly. Watching their rush, their staring at computer screen registers, crumbling receipts, talking to their bully manager who’s such a fucking service expert, then they go to the back to check on an order.  Interesting, I think.  What are they talking about, those two waitresses over there, by the bar corner, near where I was sitting?  The counter, reminded me how necessitated travel is as a writer.  I was imagining.  That imagining need to stop, become actually actualized, become my actuality.  This coming semester, that starts in a matter of hours, really, is the definition of my definiteness.  It need be poetic from pulse one to last.  sure I’ll think about this on tomorrow morning’s run.  Class one, then two, and all the way to Week 18.  “Plan, for once!” I order Self.  Follow-through.  Right?  Yes.  Can’t thank that counter enough.  That beer, the game on the screen, the odd couple to my right, lone chat at left.  All for story’s purposes.  This all is.  Think…  Weather, travel, the organic in expressing yourself in writing… hmm, I think, ideas for day one.  4th quarter, under 2 minutes…


day’s 3 pages


In being a creative, doubting yourself is death.  Plath said in one of her thousands of journal entries that “The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” So, no doubting Self.  Ever.  This is more than some cheesy manifesto or declaration for me.  Another of my favorite authors, as many or probably all of you know, is Jack Kerouac.  One of the first bombs of urgency that he projects at us comes in the inaugural chapters, “The only people for me are the mad ones…” Mad people don’t ever doubt themselves, they just do what they do, and with mad beauty, mad effulgence and placement.  Today is Friday, but not for me, as I work tomorrow.  I’m working today at the winery but I only feel a push, a creative shove that will keep me creating and walking around the vineyard blocks staying motivated, decided.  And what have I decided?  To create, teach creatively, share what I’ve learned creatively.  Frankly, doubting yourself is death to any forward.  I’m not hoping to be a motivational anything.  Certainly not “speaker”, or … anything.  I’m just sharing what I learn.  THAT, is my pedagogy.  Positivity is not optional.  The creative act is contingent upon a dominant positive and yay-saying disposition that visible in all creative work.

My 3 pages today, sharing what I learn as I learn it.  Just now, as I walked in, I saw a cluster of grapes going through veraison, just the beginning stages, very beginning steps toward ripeness.  In my head I thought, “I need to get inside, clock in!” But what I did, just stop, enjoy that moment and focus on and enjoy the varying shades of green, deep purple and light purple, that purplish-pink, light red.  I took a couple breaths for me.  Yes, I’ve written about breathing before, but those breaths just outside this building (house, actually), made me feel strong, confident, dousing doubt in weight more mightier than itself.  It was like those burning stars Kerouac talked about in that part of ‘Road’.  Burning, Roman candles, wanting everything right then and there.  The feeling followed me in here— and I sit here a creatively animalistic mammoth of this new teaching mode.

Another lesson from this morning:  Graduating.  The act of graduating is not just in school or academic contexts.  You move from one page to another, one geography to next, moving upward hopefully and not in an exhaustive lateral.  Two students of mine, past ones from just this last Spring, are currently at their school of transfer, UC Santa Cruz.  They’re excited, you can tell, eager to start the new Newness before them.  I know what that feels like and I want it again and again, again, and I can get that, I tell myself.  No doubt, I can get that.  The next step is teaching myself to teach more creatively and go as far outside the conventional box as your mind will let you.  And this mind will let me do whatever I want.  It’s my biggest ally, supporter, like a wandering cheerleader entangling and untangling my anxieties and insecurities.  At this new age of 37, in fact, it’s quite eager to hunt down and kill the self-doubt if it ever steps into sight or some subtle tangibility.  It’s more than an enemy to my 37 mind, it’s a bouldering threat.  But we’re not afraid.  And, if you feel something coming, some doubt or challenge, or collision, get in front of it.  You’ll love how you feel afterward.

I know, “You said you weren’t going to try to be some motivational anything…” I’m not.  And if I sound that way I apologize.  I’m advocating a complete absence—no, VOID, a total VOID—of fear.  Fear and doubt work concertedly, often.  If not all the time.  You feel a fear of something, then you doubt yourself letting the fear trample your ardor.  Or, the doubt morphs into a ravenous fear.  Just stand up to it, all of it.  What’s the worst that can happen?  You fall down, you lose once or twice, or a dozen times, but you again step and step, move forward.  Again, please understand:  THIS IS JUST SOMETHING I’VE LEARNED.  I’M NOT A SPEAKER ON THIS SUBJECT.  But I can share.  I’m a sharer.  Maybe an over-sharer, yes, but I’m intrepid to the point of not caring, just putting my thoughts out there knowing my inner-pushes and motivations are to help someone that feels self-doubt.

Plath and Kerouac both had their doubts and troubles, demons and challenges, blocks and bumbles.  But they created.  They brought themselves out of their nay-saying maelstroms and wrote, put books together, added to their stories with unbridled withstanding.  I learn ever time I read ‘Road’, or ‘Bell Jar’ or some other Plath work.  This is a dance, with me and literature, my story and paginated steps back and forth and teaching myself that I can teach myself and learn with more vocality than I did when in college.  I will graduate.  Soon.  Be in my travels, sharing more positive pulses and peregrinations with anyone who’ll listen.

If this were a Pass/Fail course, I wouldn’t even see the word ‘Fail’.  What is that, anyway?  Who invented that bloody word?  Like those grapes outside I come into maturity, finally, at age 37.  I’m not old, but I’m definitely into life, deep enough into the story where I can’t and won’t and don’t see failure.  At all.  I’m like the cluster outside that’s standing in the way of aggressive sun rays, saying “You don’t hurt me, you can’t burn me, you only add to me…” Or something like that…  Lost my train of thought, enjoying a couple breaths at this desk and staring out at the vineyard.  Oh yeah.. the Pass/Fail thing… yeah, who’s to say what’s a failure?  You have all the time in the world to get what you want.  Yes, tomorrow’s not promised, I get all that.  But I don’t think like that.  The urgency is here with me, and that’s enough.

Enjoying the steady, slow, accommodating beginning to my day, with the outside vines, inside this house with my coffee, no ringing phone, my projects for the day cued up.  The day teaches me something else, even more crucial in value than the breathing outside next to my car:  ACKNOWLEDGE YOU’RE ALIVE.  ACKNOWLEDGE THAT YOU CAN GET OUT OF YOUR CAR, BY A VINEYARD, AND BREATHE.  Yes.  Like I’ve said and written on my blog I don’t know how many times— ‘You know how many people in America would kill for a view like this from their desk?’ True, so I need to slow down.  I offer you do the same.  Just try it.  Move a little slower.  Don’t worry, the self-doubt and fear won’t catch you.  If anything, I’ve just recently found, this makes you more impenetrable as a person, as a writer and creator.  This day has also taught me that you can’t create when you’re negative, or in a mood or funk.  Last night, a disagreement with someone only weighed on my thinking, and I tried to write but only paginated word-sewage.  I hated what I wrote.  In fact, I deleted the whole piece, close to 500 words and I never do that.  Enjoy the steady, smile, be positive, and enjoy your writing fly and you away with it.

Goals…  I am in no way an authority to talk about goal attainment.  Goals, I only just the other week developed a methodology which makes goal satisfaction more seamlessly embraceable.  So I won’t even write about my “methods”, if they’re even “methods”, but I will say play with your own methods… see what works for you.  Goals are great.  They’re there to touch, to enjoy when you reach them.  In fact, if you have some goal obtainment practice you want to share with me, believe me I’m all ears, eyes, senses and thinking.  You teach me, you share with me, I’d be timelessly indebted!

‘On The Road’ taught me to just go.  Don’t think, just go.  Do.  Overthought is writer-death I always share with students.  And it is. It’s goal-death as well.  Just bloody try.  You won’t fail.  In fact, what others so hastily tag as failure is really character assembly, and addition to Personhood and thought fortitude.  Sal and Dean had destinations but more importantly they had a penchant for the journey, the travel, the Road.  They were high on ‘The Road’.  The Road was the pursuit, not some city.  As with writing and being a creative, we do have our deadlines and projects, the manuscript and tangible we rush to complete, but it’s the process and practice that keeps us positive, keeps us mentally live and more immune to self-doubt and fear, those horrible pessimism anchors that love submission.  Reminds me of this George Bernard Shaw quote for some reason, where he says, “You see things and say, WHY? But I dream things that never were and say, WHY NOT?” Just get up and go, right?  No meditation or measurement, just act, just create, just run, just write, just live.  Overthought in many realities is the offspring of self-doubt.  So, no thank you.

Happiness is the path…  I remember a friend in college, undergrad, fellow English major always used to say this.  Think it was a quote from Buddha, I think.  But, I’ve always remembered it, sometimes say it to self while driving Dry Creek Road to work.  I’ll get out there and walk, let the day and the vineyards teach me more.  I have more to learn if I’m to forward as a strong creative.  When out there, I’ll take pictures of what the vineyards tell me.  I’ll let the atmosphere and stage’s character instruct me.  I have no reason to doubt the self if the vineyard’s promulgating me, supporting my curiosities and scholastic rhythms.  I know graduation’s near.  Where am I transferring?  The world.  The whole planet.  Writing in spots you wouldn’t think to write… a bus stop in Zurich, a field in Norway, a café in Egypt.  Travel isn’t a goal just to be a goal and to travel, just to tell people something trite like ‘oh I travel a lot for work’.  Annoying when people say that, like they’re so burdened by the flights and the hotels when they know so many would love to experience what they are.  I’m on a tangent, I feel…  I’m just motivated for graduation, to my next campus, passing to next stage— out there.

After my walk in the vineyard with a co-worker, taking dozens of stills of clusters and the canes, the rows and soil, irrigation lines, I’m not just ‘moving’ upward, it’s become a sprint.  And, I just realized, maybe this goes beyond instructional and matriculated containment, maybe it’s life, the life of a writer and style of life (not necessarily ‘lifestyle’) of a truer than true writer.  Thinking and brainstorming on a separate sheet of paper from the Composition Book and I know that my first travel is close, that assurance and coated affirmation, coated in assurance from what I see around me in the vineyard and this very office, that what I want is right there.  To live madly, having any self-doubt so far at my 6 that it dissipates, halts in any memory or semblance of existence.  The walk was the topper, icing on cake, cherry atop, whatever cliché you insist be inserted.  It’s there, here, now, with me.  Like visual music and poetry.  We can all have what we want, all of it, I’m just now learning.

You know who, or what, or more so who is the motivational speaker today?  This vineyard.  That one across the street from us.  All the patches and stretches and blocks I saw driving to work.  It’s more than motivating, or “inspirational” for me.  It’s the Road, it’s the Roman candle, it’s a story that doesn’t stop.  Happiness with exponents with exponents.  Today’s been like that day in the semester where you know graduation is near and you want to conclude the term stronger than you have the others.  You’re strong.  The feeling is a cosmic intoxicant.  you can’t get enough and you wouldn’t if you could.  In fact, the thought of it leaving you or getting your fill frightens you, but emboldens you.  You’re going to pass to the next campus and stage in your self-education and edification in ways that you’ll yourself want to study, repeat and repeat repeatedly.  You’ve acknowledged that you’re alive, your life is being written, by you—  Before you say anything, I’m not in motivational mode.  Not at all.  I’m in assurance mode, or affirmation morphology, speaking to myself and sharing what I’ve learned and what I’m realizing about myself and what I’m capable of, with you.

Creativity is life.  My life.  If you write or draw, take pictures, make music, make wine from the grapes out there, or express yourself with and/or through anything, then you’re lively with an alive liveliness for which you should compliment yourself.  Keep creating.  you’re far from that doubt, now.  “Huh,” I just thought to myself, I may have a goal strategy now.  And if not a rock-solid strategy then certainly a thought of one.  That’s a start, right?  I’m passed what was, forgetting it completely no, but moving past.  It’s part of the writer’s past, which is essential otherwise I’d have no present nor future.  We creatives ramble, which is precisely what I’m doing right now, a consequence of condensed inspiration, the atmospheric nudges from vineyards, views of vineyards.  Always coming back to those grapes, the canopies, the leaves and extending canes.  There’s life out there, self-life, self-education, my newest self sense.

from today…

Certainly more understanding and connection with vineyards, where I work and what I can see out that window right next to my desk.  I finally did get that last walk in, taking a look at the veraison taking place in the Petite Sirah block.  Couldn’t help mySelf from taking loads of pictures.  Think I took more than I needed to.  Now I’m home and wish to be there, at work.  How many can say that?  Colleague in office said we’ll go out tomorrow morning with the office camera and shoot more stills of those rows.

Another lesson from the 21st was to use what you have, don’t look for New, even if you have to.  And this is only instruction for me from the day, not meant to discourage anyone from trying new things, or even telling myself not to try new approaches or attitudes.  What I’m referring to is getting another part-time job, or adding anything else onto my plate.  Mom the other day said “Make what you have work.” I just need to be more creative, I could feel that vineyard telling me.  And so I will.

Opened a 2004 Cab from a Sonoma Valley Winery, and although it’s lost much of its might and palate plight, it still very much interests me, and urges the creativity from this creative that wants more.  “What?” You might be thinking.  “I thought you just said no more New…” True.  I’m inferring more for my family, for me, more money coming into the home, and more travel (which wouldn’t be too arduous as now I’m not traveling at all).  I need more, more adventure and more trial, more material, more story…  The solution lies in the creative.  That’s how more will happen.  Being on the road, seeing the world and writing about it.  I will admit, though I don’t want to.. well…  I’m sick of certain facets of my writing.  My ways, consistencies in creating.  I need to change, DRASTICALLY.  This is difficult for the writer to concede, but I do.  Another lesson from the day, in this light and much to my assistance, is to work project to project, work quickly so it just gets DONE.  At my desk, I always make a list, and go straight down the list, item by item.  And there’s never more than 5 items per day, I would say.  In the past with my projects I make daily lists and there could be up to 12 or 15 yapping targets on it.  Today showed me, with situated and succinct intent, that my old methods need to die.  I sip the Cab, this nightcap I just poured myself, for a brief celebration.  There, done.  Didn’t last long… have to laugh with wine, its relationship with me.  When a wine connects with me, it really connects.  This ’04 is definitely showing its age, its exhaustion, but it’s an experience drinking it.  The wine and vineyard from which it was sourced is teaching me— don’t overthink wine, your writing, or ANYTHING.

Understanding… more of self, what I want from life, how I’ll get it.  Breaths, breaths here in the home office.  Celebration, and I don’t need any more wine.  Would love a glass of water, actually.  And, a look at those pictures again.

Still learning…

More creating…


Ready for class, more

or less, but I drag myself from one word to another, tired from day and swimming in the pool, under a sun which wasn’t intense so much as it was always hitting me.  So the writer’s a bit burnt, and tired.  Sipping the cinnamon-sewn coffee I brewed at home, a double which I’m almost at the end of.  Bloody hell.  Now what do I do?  Just breathe, talk to the student.  You have to 500+words above prepared.  No, nothing to hand back, but no big deal.  Just teach, have fun, enjoy class— “Have a good class,” as so many say to me.  And I will, all possible snarky returns I could here type, I appreciate the thought.  I will have an outstanding class this evening, this 3rd day of my 30 project.  And where am I going?  Further into a consolidated chorus of ideas.

Going to bed when wife does this evening, and in my running clothes.  Tomorrow will certainly test the writer, waking early to run then rush-readying for work, and while at work working and in between wine-related breaths prepping for class.  But if I can just get the timing of everything right, get it to a flawless form, I’ll be closer to my travels, those books I’ll write while out in the world, the world that’s actually ‘the’ world.  When you’re in the same spot, seeing the same thing, doing the same thing, that’s not ‘the world’.

Keep moving, I tell myself.  Any parent knows how this feels, when you have to work but are tired and don’t want to be at work but just want to be at home with your babies.  So here I am.  In such a spot.  Want to do some reading tonight, some cleaning of the office.  Wrote on my makeshift notebook the other day at work that this 30 project very much is about change, real change of character, showing myself I can change, and instituting a staying change.  Not just saying I want to be something and live a certain way and doing nothing to acquire it— live it.  No, I will live how I want, a writing traveling, poet, teacher, runner (REAL runner, I mean).

Tired, more than I was a couple minutes ago.  What do I do to wake self?  Think… think…..  what can I do?  How can I jazz myself for class, be more excited and forget how bloody tired I am?  Make it part of your routine, tonight.  Being tired, how you snap yourself out of it.  Ask the students what they do?  I’ve overthinking this, as I so many times do.  So, done, solves.  Sip my coffee and feel a phantasmagoric jolt in my stationing here in the conference room.  Not in the mood to be in my office which isn’t even my office but that shared bloody office for the adjuncties.

So quiet in here.  Love it.  Can I just stay here?  Can I go to the adjunct cell, take a nap?  Can’t lie, I am honestly thinking about it.  What if I just let them go tonight, have them read, hold an office hour which no one will show to?  No… I want to teach tonight.  I’m a REAL teacher, one who throws ideas so rapidly the student can’t help but be inspired and if not inspired then certainly interested in some what.

If you work in an office,

then you know.  There are those times when you finish something then have to findimg_4607 someone for the next to-do, but you can’t find them so you go to someone else then they tell you to go talk to them, but you can’t find them, whomever ‘them’ is.  So you keep yourself busy, or look out the window and think, make a couple notes to yourself if you’re a writer like me then try to move on…  Keep busy, keep working or you’ll go mad.   Which is right where I am.  Can only look out the window so many times.  Do I have anything I could edit?  Any blog posts for the winery I could do?  Just note to self.. build that new journal project.. just keep busy so you don’t go crazy.  Do you know what I mean?  If you do, let us know.  How do you keep your sanity in an office, no matter your view.


me:  6/27/16

Adjunct cell.  Planning.  In NO mood to teach.  But I drink the coffee in the tumbler, the same coffee I made last night, yes.  Could use some more, actually, one of those iced coffee drinks from the bookstore, but that means I’d have to walk all the way over there.  No interest in doing that.  No interest in being in that bloody heat.

Again, have to entertain myself in class, make sure I have a good time then the students will.  Or, should.  Have to record grades still, print out a poem (Dickinson, I’m thinking), jot down a couple more thoughts.  Seriously just not in the mood.  Have to snap out of it, and NOW.  So…  that Dickinson poem…  Printed.  Just walked into the conference room to get to mail room, department chair there, I say hi he barely acknowledges.  And that’s just my point.  Onward…..

Here in the cell, I celebrate that this will be the last Summer I teach.  And Fall, I’m hoping to only teach one class.  Or none.  Would love to be on the Road by then and lecturing fucking everywhere on writing and blogging, on story telling, about my book and my blog—  Getting up more than early tomorrow morning.  Going to be a long bloody day, to be sure…  Hot in the cell, unexpectedly.  Is the AC working?  Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s busted.  It’s gone down before.

Printed role sheet, saw chair again, not a word, not even a “Hey Michael, how’s your class going?” And yeah, he always calls me ‘Michael’.  Hate that…..  Still have to record grades and post plan to blog, then prep some other questions for class, again to make it fun for them, yes, but myself as well.

In an adjunct cell, but soon I’ll be aloft, free, traveling.


me:  6/21/16.  Tuesday.

I can just feel today over my head, ready to take a shit.  Not sure why, I mean nothing bad’s happened yet today, it’s just a feeling.  The ‘Check Coolant’ light came on in that fucking Passat, there was a line at Hopper (no surprise, and that’s my fault, as I keep going there knowing it’s going to be a shit-show).  So a mood me befalls.  I have to pull myself out of it, I know.  I’m too old for this.  This stress, this worry about money, dealing with the Passat.  Money would solve everything, I tell myself, but I know that’s not entirely true.

Tonight’s class:

“I will not take ‘but’ for an answer.” -Langston Hughes

1 – Reading:  Identity

2 – Writing:  Identity

3 – College:  Identity

4 – Freewrites

5 – Reading from Short Prose Reader

6 – Argument vs. Story, can you have both?

7 – Technology, balance (‘I Think, Therefore IM’)

8 – Short Reaction Approaches… quotes, explanation, thoughts, personal experience…..

Should be ready for tonight’s meeting.  Only Night 2, so I’m not too worried.  Woke this morning at 6:20-something.  Way too late.  Woke before, at 3-something, as Jackie fell out of bed in his sleep, poor bloke.  I of course shot upstairs to check on him, put him back in bed, J saying “Thank you, Daddy, I love you.” Almost started tearing.  No, I did.  Went downstairs, remember looking at the clock and thinking, “I should just stay up, write…” But I didn’t, and I’m glad I didn’t ‘cause today’s going to be a long one, and only the first of these T/TH stretches.

Teaching… everything comes back to teaching, a lesson, self-education, some accrual of knowledge.

writer with 2 computers, in the office …

Tiring.  Another coffee.  Soon lunch, where I’ll work more for tonight’s class.  Again, not that much to prep for.  My head’s in more places than I can manage…  But I have the weapon of breathing, and awareness that there’s only so much I can do, right now or at any time.

2:40.  Hotter than kettle fury outside.  Jumping back and forth between projects here…  Yawning, sipping water, may have to switch to coffee.  The day so far has been kinder than I thought it would.  Maybe that was just my usual pessimism, earlier, don’t know.


10:17PM—  Home, tired, but wanting to do nothing but write.  Hearing my wife speak about how volatile it is at her school, and how certain teachers are saying the climate at their institution is changing… and people wonder why I won’t pursue a career in education, try for the full-time/tenure track scam.  Never.  I’m happy going after what I see for Self, like my sister on the Road, being invited to offer counsel and opinion within my purview of passion.  So much on my desk again, the atmosphere of this home office reminds me to consolidate, to simplify, minimize, and don’t stop writing the expressions of a writing and tirelessly working father.  I’m home, I shouldn’t be stressed, and I’m not, this writer’s tireless, and I will free myself and my wife, my family of supervisory grip.  Our family trade, operation, in the creative, publishing, media and everything else telling a story, is our only concern.  The only “supervisors” will be us, true Autonomy.  Need another glass of my ’12 Merlot to celebrate, rejoice, elevate further in this story and

at lunch

subsistence in what I self-sustain, growing and reaching for the sun as the vines do.  Pictures at lunch, walking in that Dry Creek heat, then retreating back to the office much I didn’t want to.  Shouldn’t say that— not that I DIDN’T want to, just that I needed time to walk, stretch, breath, meditate, collect, introspect… but I had to work.  Fine, they recognize me as a writer and professor which is much more than the other dimwitted wineries have.  Kenwood, only seeing me as something to barely be seen, just a number and fucking clock-puncher.  Russian River spot, so spun and suffocated in their own silver-spoon-ed-ness that they often times, or most of the time, wouldn’t even be there.  One of them would act like an owner, but then go off on some business trip to sell wine, or so we were told, then come back to office for a couple hours before skid-addling off to who-knows-where.  Like I once wrote, the wine industry is so desperate to be taken seriously.  I finally do take it more seriously, because of Dutcher—  Or rather, it’s Dutcher I take seriously.  The industry still has quite a bit of selling to do before I even lean at a buy.

that hill, those trees, those vines …

Today, rather kind, I must say, after an incredible meeting with my 100.  So please forgive the way I started this entry.  I was seismic this morning, an irritable fault just eager to quake.  But I’m home now, saw both babies, now I’m composed, about to adimpleate my Govino with more vino, become truly nonpareil.  This is a poet’s night, with the air conditioner adulating (relaxing the writer, complimenting me after my endless day), wife in other room watching her “trashy shows”, she specified.  The words I collect, like that student tonight showing me all the quotes she writes into a notebook.  I need to be more singularized.  Why don’t I?  What am I doing.  No more, even if I want.  If I get an idea for a new project, blend it into this log, or blog, or log.  Hate the word ‘blog’ again.  But I’m a blogger.

The wine now syncopated, jazzlike in its perambulation— perfect palate suddenly contrasting earlier impression.  Think I angered it.  Why did I do that.

Looking again at the lecture, or more so plan, for today.  Freewriting.  Writing freely.  Writing for freedom… Acquiring freedom as a result of writing.  Not just some precursor to an essay, like they want to impress upon or just flat-out teach students.  There’s more to freewriting.  You’ll be liberated.  I, will be liberated.  And in Italy with my sister, or maybe meeting her somewhere else on the Road.  A writer and winemaker, intersecting in sakes of devoted doctrine.  Wine, literature, thought, history, aggrandizement—  Soon.  Then I’ll really be free, no ‘buts’…