Back from Novato meeting.  New accrued knowledge on fiber install and voice offerings for prospective clients.  Hour and forty minutes left in fast.  When back from run, I’ll eat something.  Thinking one of the sub-par sandwiches from one of the refrigerators, this building’s or the other.  Or maybe I shouldn’t run today.  Take the day off.  Think Bill, the COO, also a radicalized runner, does on Wednesdays.  If I do, I could do back-to-back 7’s Thursday and Friday, which would put me at 27 for the week.  I think.  OR…. Do 5k today, then 7 and 7, then I’d be at 30 for the week.  Like that better.  I don’t know.  I’m going to go out, but not even close to an hour’s worth.

Decided I’m to stay late tomorrow, and come in for 2 or 3, maybe 4 hours on Saturday, after my visit to Aperture Cellars.  The workload isn’t excessive, I merely need to schedule every hour, all days.  Use Sonic Calendar for everything.

Thinking some water is needed.  No more caffeine.  Cut back on caffeine.  MY GOD, I have too much of it in my system.  Natural energy and beat, not something coaxed by the product of beans, some somehow-justified chemical. 

Seeing, the only thing I should be doing at this desk, is generating revenue and prospecting new business.  Expect my entries from desk to be shorter, curt even, seemingly less interested though the fervor and fire still is very much intact and kept.

8:32

11/13/19 – Day Three for the second pass at 100.  In a mood this morning.  Coffee helping.  Was going to go to sbux for the usual morning latte, but traffic on Stony Point was more monstrous than I’ve ever seen, so I immediately rules NO, turned around in the street off to right, not sure its name, and headed to HQ.  Meeting in BMK at 10:30, then back to office.  Have two proposals to work on, really 3, then have speakers group at 12:30.  Somehow have to find time to grade.  Should I not run today?  NO, you need to run.  Just don’t do one of the longer routes.  Maybe 2 out and 2 back.  That would bring me to 17 miles for the week, I believe.  Growling inwardly as I didn’t wake early, no shock.

Knowing now, from work, I need go further into my truths, into my narration, I’m now understanding, looking at the clock stare back at me with numbers 8:36 AM.  Much to do in day, but I’m turning off the boat’s motor, and letting natural gusts encourage my travel, production this morning.  Really, I don’t have to move intently till 9.  Have 22 minutes.  5 hours left in fast.  16 hours, this one.  Stopped eating early last night as I was tired, done wit the day, decided to be lazy and watch one of those Paranormal shows, a mistake, rather than take notes.  Just little notes, that’s productivity.  Why didn’t I do that?

Questioning self and wondering what’s at the end of this 100-day dash.  I know, and I see it, I merely need practice and tie-in more discipline.

Grading some small works from 1B class.  Letting go of the stress and mood of the morning.  Set appointment to revisit a site in Petaluma.  Going to come into office on Saturday, finish some contracts and get better arranged and organized at desk.  Now, 4am is not something I wish to do but have to.  There is no other practice for a writer and business blogger like me, to know my Now and free self of moods and nay-saying twits around me that only complain and devote energy to citing what’s missing and wrong with everyone else rather than assemble more sight and beat in their own narrated place.

This project, this new bunching of 100 days where I’m to study each step in my character carousal to his There, to what he sees and needs and dreams, me here thinking that I’m thinking too much, and that if I were to wake at 4am how so much would be solved.  Not feeling too much of yesterday’s 6.3 miles, or the day before’s 7, so I might try for 5+ again.  Not sure, but need time to collect.  Not stress, be in my story and lead my one-man militia to liberation.  Sonic….. if I didn’t have Sonic, if I were stuck in a fucking tasting room still, I don’t know what I’d be writing.  Never mind that.  I’m here, seeing IT.  The IT to it all, all this… what I’m writing, what I’ll be speaking tonight in class.

Cup 1, done.  Time for another.

4:07.

Busy day, and I love it to its crucial and intricate bits.  Ready for class, and leads meeting tomorrow morning.  Run planned for tomorrow, early.  Thinking another 10:30-er.  Want between a 10k & 7.  8 if I’m feeling crazy.

Not much to write except for some new contract types I learned, visit to business along Bennett Valley Road, wanting to surprise Jackie at his school, say hi and give him a hug, but I had to get back here to desk and take care of what was needed.

Snacking on some cereal I had sequestered in drawer.  Didn’t write out lecture for today, so just quickly jotted notes.  Going to talk about book, writing… need to do something different. Think much the reason I’ve become disenchanted, or disengaged with teaching, or anything, is because of pattern.  Pattern is poison.  Do more than switch it up, as people say.  And I hate when they say that.. when I, say that.

Talking… learning, about how THEY learn.  What they want to learn.

All that’s left to do for me is EOD, and a couple other shifts and arrangements, re-arrangements.  Teaching self again to write without thinking… freewriting, right?  Supposed to be FREE, even of self.  So… free self of self.  What?

Day NINETY

No dressing up, no pretend, nothing fabricated or costumed.  I’m a writer, blogger.  And now I generate significant income from such.  HOW.  All the principles that Sonic instills in terms of narration and prospecting, and NOT SELLING.  As writers and bloggers I feel we wish and hope so much for something to happen rather than just convincing ourselves that we’re already there.  Don’t act like you’re doing it, just move in that form and frame.

Have to send out a contract this morning, or re-send it rather.  Then will be out of office visiting prospects.  Shit, should have risen early from pillow and sheets.  Woe of my life’s row. Ways to make it happen are beyond obvious, so why don’t I embrace and enact them.  Good question, which isn’t much a question but more a statement.

Quiet in office, two trainers and other AE not yet here.  Babies coming home today, and me getting impatient.  With what.  Everything.  Don’t I tell myself and can hear others telling me, ordering me.  So…. Keep moving.  Fear no error or folly or simple mistake.  Just keep deciding, realizing, actualizing and materializing.

Putting $10 in envelop in desk drawer.  No cash.  Saving.  For what.  Business.  MY business.  Turn a blog into something like this, like Sonic, with everything it is and speaks and connotes.  How…. By making a book out of everything… a book on production and productivity, a book on taking notes/notes to self, a book on selling but not selling, a book on marketing, and office atmosphere, management…. Budgeting, and empirical business. Not sure where I am in the hundred day project I set before self.  I’m estimating late 80s or early 90s.  The goal of the project was to be on autopilot, and I more or less, I think more—definitely MORE—am.

Still don’t have 2 fiber appointments.  Goddamn it.  Went for my run, somewhat honored meal plan in that I didn’t lunch out but I didn’t touch the snacks I packed.  Two fiber conversations on calendar in the next hour and 23 minutes.  Can I do?  Start calling….

Finally, an appointment in Marin.

November in 2 days.  Back to the NaNo project, and Joe’s story.  Or is it my story, being sick of my thinking and my pauses and self-strangling lulls, stalls, falls.  Over wine tonight, and Game 7 of the Series, I’ll be swarming self into this book.  I’m not going to say the title, much I want to, but you know what my attitude is.  Get a bottle of something nice, break budget.  Fuck the budget.  Write about the wine from sip one to last…. Bring your verse to the page, the screen, the book.  The attitude so many have with wine is the wrong one, taking wine out of wine and making it more about score, not the gentle zenful complexion and song wine denotatively and connotatively submits to a sipper.

…but it was my stupid ways that earned me the flimsy thin piece of Orwellian paper (more like tissue, or something from a detention center, some napkin or bathroom roll).  Then this devil laptop running an update and fucking up everything I had.  Again my fault.  Both were my fault.  And the wind they’re threatening tonight, not yet here.  Reluctant to be satirical or snarky as that’s what made me feel a clownish knob a couple days ago, me making fun of the wind predictions and angering people on social media and just not sitting well in the writer’s composition.

Ordered a pizza.. think guy is here.  He is.  Wait….

Have pizza.  Dinner break.  Paired with a Rose first and then the Zin I opened night before last in El Dorado Hills.  Have to let certain things go, if I’m to materialize a manuscript arrow.

Learning that thought is a snake you have to tame.  Exercise it too much and you’re struck, incapacitated.  Tonight I get Kerouac, I get Hemingway, Hughes, Plath, and Coltrane.  Not concerned with direction coherence or even sense.

Playing at the park up and then down the street, down a little hill,

I’m definitively into my zen tilt and happiness takeover and project.  Sipping Rose in a plastic cup I found in Mike’s cupboard I think about wine and what I want with it.  Again.  Kids unaffected by this, this evacuation.  To them it’s a getaway, a vacation, something that has no flames, or threats, evacuations or dangers.  It’s fun.  They make it fun.  Actually, no, they don’t MAKE it anything.  They just see opportunity for enjoyment, to relax and play on that slide and those swings.

Not going into Sonic tomorrow, and I feel guilty, but then don’t.  I want to and need to be here with the babies.  Write. Get out of my comfort zone as much as I hate that phrase, but that’s just what I need do.  Saw a bench at the park or rather just in the not-too-distant distance in front of and on the side of a large grass field that you might think is used for polo but I think it’s just a grand and nearly overwhelming grass field for kids to play on.  Soccer, chase, tag, what be.

This house I could see as an office, or some property I’d own for either a rental or just an office.  Rather big for just an office but it’s what’s smattered in my inner sigh sense, blogging in here for weeks, just locked in and forcing self to produce a book from the blog.  The blog has to come first, and the realizer and readier for whenever I’m stuck or feel I’m recycling the same sentences, is the Now.  Write the Now.  Where you are and what you’re doing.

Jack and Emma watch the Grinch, one of the dozens or hundreds of versions, and eat some Cheerios from a red cup, the kind you’d see at a frat party.  Jack spills some and I tell him to pick it up and he tells me he will after he comes back from China.  I laugh a little but try to be serious and then tell self fuck that.  Have fun with them.  Be one on and of the playground.

I need to play more.  Not think so much. Not work, but only create, write, stay up late and pepper the manuscript’s streets with verse, pages, my phylum of music.  Keep pushing these keys and refuse to let self stop, the wine tells me.  Don’t allow distractions, obstructions.  Poetry is the vein, the blood, the beat, the blog, the Now ME.

Playing with the wine, the pink puddle in the plastic cannikin.  Turning left, seeing Broncos play Raiders.  Thinking more of my office.. what I want in there.  Anything that antagonizes, promotes, encourages creativity, bringing something to life.  This bought with Sonoma County wildfires plates a dose of déjà vu that I wasn’t expecting, to just live and write wildly and edit nothing.  Kids getting restless, and me too.  To finish this fucking book, and light MY story on fire.  Several fires.  And be so lovingly monstrous that it can never be extinguished.

Cuz F This S …

10/27/19

Again evacuated.  2017 on repeat. Up since 3-something-AM but I’m now awake from latte and writing this in Haley’s room.  Melissa’s little cousin now not so little in Med School.  There’s something everywhere, I know, but I think I’ve had it with Sonoma County.  And wine.  Wine people and the industry of course…. Driving here just after 4am, thinking to self this is the first day of the remainder of my life.  Meeting a man earlier, 90-something (93?), and realizing that I will no longer edit, censor, hold back, but be more profuse with happiness and elevating echo.  And poetry.

Writing about blogging, blog about writing, everything on blog… embrace more and tell more the role and “title” of blogger, what it means if anything.