Leftover pizza and prospecting thoughts.  What do I do now, to change approach, modify practice and perspective.  When I first started this position the director told me it’s like dating, and to go on hundreds of dates.  Agreed.  Need more dates, and I need more than just dates.  Much of me feels I need propel and speak the brand on my own, but then I think I need even more than that, even.  And if not more than that, something in addition to, or address some quality within what’s already present.  Possibly overthinking, in fact I know I am.  Just keep the conversation alive.  Going to return to certain commerce chambers, and people I’ve met.  In office today, but get out more.  Be mobile, be seen, be instrumental in awareness.

Other thoughts…. My next sale, how to speak this brand, and a removal of all stresses and self-set blocks.  How to liven the day.  Any thoughts?  Not really.  Not at the moment, with this pizza and ice water.  Grade papers, quickly.  Then write letters to prospects, to connections, people I know.  Maybe I should do that, just make a list of every fucking person I know.  Not practical, I know.

Pizza done, little time left in break.  Wondering how to approach rest of day, other than maybe one more cup of coffee, some scheduling of events or some meets somewhere, something.  Needing to get my energy level to more altitude.  Only reason for its depletion is from overthought.  That’s it… easily.  Just overthinking the fuck out of everything.  Going back to desk….  People walking in and out of this break area distracting me and pulling me from more purposeful prose.

Back at desk.  Voices around me but it gets me more into character, and thinking of how to speak Sonic to prospects… what’s in here, this creative and varied form of identity, present in our interactions.  Forgetting about it, for a minute.  All of this—sales and prospecting, emailing and canvassing.  Remember what one of my sales Leads, when supervising the Field Sales Team, said when offering insight to one of his Reps.  He said, “What do YOU love about Sonic?….What kind of person are YOU?” That’s what should be in the conversation.  I’m not one for scripts, at all, yet I somehow find self longing for a script, or some template.

Detaching self for a bit, so I can refocus myself with more sense and vocal.

19 minutes more left in break.  And what do I do…  Fill calendar.  Live in calendar.  Stare, at calendar.  What have I spent money on, today?  Starbucks in morning for wife and I.  And that’s it.  Didn’t get a sparkling water at lunch as I was tempted to do.  Good.  I can tell this entry conveys my mood, but I’m re-writing.  NOW.

…me going to Bottle Barn and picking her from the shelf with no method.  Wine writing, I have to do this for the rest of my life, going forward from this altitude-spoke age of 40.  Then she told me to stop with that.  Age is an idea I’m choosing to value, to embrace and allow shift concentration mid and post-sip.  Stop, she ordered.  And I  more or less did.  When the last glass was done, I saw I’d finished a book, or something that was manuscript-mimicking.  Life, she professed and etched in my against the counter positioning.  She told me to be like Sal and Dean, just get out there, see what the wines of the sphere want you to write.  They’re all her, they’re all a result of this Pinot.  Two Kings having me feeling royal, or nt royal but with a set set, Road and story I need maintain and perpetuate.             While washing out the glass, she continued her track, more animated than when I was actually sipping.  Singing and smiling and bewitching, connected and narrative.  Sense of the spell and magic she was writing, that the vintage wrote and that she was translating.  Taking nothing away from the winemakers that helped in the shepherd of fermentation and making sure all levels were where they needed to be, but the alchemical arrangement and symmetry, the subtlety and voice, play of the grape is what persisted.  In a typical piece of wine “prose”, I’d just have to write some obscure and nearly-uncomfortable deconstruction, and slap a score off to the right or left.  Perfunctory, having no place in her hue or sequence of any sentences.  And yes, I may be rambling, but wine is about wander and more the Road than the stop…


Office getting quieter.  Many gone home.  Staying here to get head start on tomorrow.  Desk a little bit more organized than before.  Only a little.  Well, maybe more than a little.  Set three appointments today, which isn’t bad.  Was hoping for one more, but I have tomorrow and a new set of prospects to hit. My approach to my agency is connectedness, conversation, helping others convert and grow their business.  There will be a return, I know.  Thinking about how the day started with my late start and rush to a meeting, having a meeting after that with one chap in business and explaining what he does, me writing in my head ideas for my practice.  Mothing of mimic, but from the unintended encouragement of the conversation itself.

My P-O-Z Agency is all words.  That’s it.  All language, communication, the poetic hand in business.  Little over 20 minutes till I leave.  And before I do, more notes to self.  More notes for the meetings I have queued for tomorrow, one in morrow then one at lunch.  Keeping the motion not only constant but ravenous.  Hungry, a constantly present and pursuing atmosphere and phantasm.

As the office quiets, I want more.  I want to explore more of this—where I am and what I’m doing.  The decision to leave the wine industry and pursue something different, something new and an equation to solve, or play with, explore.  Just see what happens.  That Newness, the new experiences craved by writers.  And that’s what this is, do note, a writer, of wine, wandering in tech and the internet’s frame and dimension.  Not so much to find something, or maybe it is, but to observe and learn and keep observing and wandering.  I’m in a stage of my story where there’s more life in what’s around me, the seemingly plain and mundane, that I ever before estimated.  This office, this company and its collective voice and steps, its BEAT, its music, has done such.


Sonic tells a different story.  And more than telling a story, it has a reassuring presence and octave in everything it does.  From general customer and client relations to the ongoing life in the office, there’s always development, there’s always a way to elevate.

Sonic reminds you of your creativity and encourages more exploration.

Find myself tiring again, just after 4 (4:16).  Waking for this morning’s lead group meeting taxed my sight and sense and movement.  Better now, but still feel the slowness about me.  What to do now…. Notes for tomorrow, or not.  Knowing where I’m going in terms of walking around and talking to people.  But writing, what do I write… when do I have time, anymore.  No excuses, I know.  Even when this tired.

Keep with the harvest analogy, if I were in a vineyard at 4am, or earlier.  There is no option but to move, keep moving, and no matter how drained and surrendered I am or feel or just plainly am I have to continue in steps and escalate where I can.  Why Sonic is more than “a fit” for me. This creative enclave promotes and prompts more movement, more reiteration of where I am and why I’m doing it.

Had to get up, walk around, outside and get some real air.  Not sure it woke me any more, but I’m here and I’m still moving.  Hungry now, and just yawned again.  Harvest… harvest…. Been up since 5 but so what.  Still have fruit coming in, ideas, things to write.  So… the tired is just ignored.

from a journal

Class.  Not many left this term.  Am I upset.  A little.  I’m here, though, and I’m moving…  They don’t care, the department, the full-timers, the administration and certainly not those shiny high-tower pig trustees and the “board” they form.  Getting to the office this morning I can only think about that, even this morning when both kids were rioting and protesting everything around them and in life all I could see was the classroom last night.  Going over how Black Boy ended and what narrative means, tossing ideas from one side of the classroom to the other.  That’s my place, but now not.  And not the physical of it, but what it embodies, the classroom—thought and freedom, liberation and ascension of self and more toward what you want from life.  It’s more than learning for me, more than reading a book and answering questions, more than essay assignments.  It is the classroom, but not.  Not at all.  It’s where you feel your story deciding itself and with you certain directions.  No idea what I’m saying, post-kid upheaval, but I’m seeing them get older and myself get older and everything moving forward, and moving faster than I am right now, this morning.  So…. The students, their notes, this one student taking notes and highlighting in different highlighter shades, little marks as to bring her attention to one point and another.  I’m more a student than them, I often feel.  This morning I feel like I’m behind in a class, or something.  Like I need to make up something, get credit for something I’ve missed.  Is it not having a class?  I mean, does it bother me that much?  In a word, yes.  But then, no.  I’m relieved I won’t have to go to campus and walk down that outdated hallway and to the conference room that looks and smells and feels and then again smells like something from the 80’s.

When I saw myself teaching, in high school when taking Mr. Sullivan’s Creative Writing course, I didn’t see this.  The adjunct thing.  I promised myself I wouldn’t write about this anymore, but this morning I’m wondering why… why can’t I have what I envisioned?  You can.  Just with different framing, I guess.  I need to assemble self, snap out of this, snap out of it quicker than quick. I need to re-write this present, put self in the classroom—What if the students were reading this?  I think.  What would they think of the character, Mike, what he’s feeling now? What if I were reading, while I write about me reading but then more a reader than the present writer?  Clear, Mike needs to shift a few masses and belief movements.  Be more free and wild, FREE in his writings, teachings.  And just ‘cause you’re not at an institution anymore does NOT conclude your teaching, academic, thoughtful life.  I’ve said all this to myself before but not with this sharpness of zeal.

Before beginning my workday, typing here in the breakroom as I often do, I see the syllabus.  The day, a class.  Hours 1 through 8, and past.  What happens in each?  I’m not going to write it out like an actual syllabus, but in sight I have certain points I have to hit…. Shit, more of the promissory notes.  Just be in moment, retreat into writing so you don’t have to retreat as the JC is.  And yes, they are the ones retreating, not me.  They don’t have a section for me, and that’s the push I needed.  To fall further into these pages and offer what I offer to students with more encompassing edge.  Getting caught up.

Richard Wright, and reading his book with students, has reminded me of the self, and what it can do for the character, how things can be reshaped when you request such of self.  However many meetings I have remaining with English 100, I’m set to spring into a more rewarding and exploratory angle of my book, books.  My frames and stories and settings, senses.  Everything around you is there not so much for a reason, but for furthered reasoning and so you can punctuate and self-prove in your own reasoning.  So, there’s no more scheduled classes for me.  So what. I schedule my own. MY, OWN.  The way I speak in the classroom, now, will be the way I write, the way I note and decide more knowledge for Self.  SRJC will determine NOTHING for me. Why did I ever feel upset about not having a class, ever?  This isn’t the first time.  Past terms, I’d nearly, well, not so much beg but much closer to begging for assignments than I’d ever want to be.  Calling and asking if something had opened up, if there were any sections that somehow I could fit into my, at the time, wine industry life.  Now, at the tech company, my schedule is more predictable and more aligned with ubiquitous work models and weeks than the wind world.  Means, I can only have a single night section.  There isn’t one, and I move on.  That simple.  No more thinking about it.  Only notes on today, and what I want to learn, what ideas I want to share.  And that’s how I’ve always seen “teaching”, as a genuine and humble sharing of ideas and not some tight accordance to a course outline and reaching a word count for sakes of reaching it, a number, a count, a contrived demand.


We need to see ourselves as answer mills, that we can get to destinations with principle autonomy.  That overthought and wondering which way to next turn and whose permission do we land to move…. Just stop.  Stop.  You are your best educator, your most excited and lively, hungry student.  This whole matter with the Junior College is only a matter as I’ve made it a matter.  What if I stopped?  What if I halted?  What if you just didn’t give the momentum to what you do?  What if you saved it all for yourself?  All the angst would be axed, all the stress would stop.  So this morning, let’s promise each other, to catalyze our own revolt, our own re-write.  For ourselves.  No department, no office, no institution, nothing on outside.  Here we are, and we move.