Not writing anything for book, today.  Everything’s for the blog,

blogs, then later study.  8:43.  About to brush teeth, then launch.  Somewhere, to take pictures.  Photograph and trap the vineyard.

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Did go out and shoot a vineyard, after driving a large seemingly never-ending (never-ending in terms of my indecisiveness, not so much the drive itself or the Sonoma County Roads) loop from Coffey Park then into Windsor and Healdsburg where I stopped to use the restroom at Oakville Grocery and get a sparkling water, then back to my home zone then to Olivet where I shop what I think are older Zin vines.  Went for a run which was anything but impressive so I won’t even bother giving it page life, then home for lunch and shower and nap.  Got a cold brew which I never have, from Starbucks and now I’m here on campus.  Ready for work.  Ready to intensify and angrily demand this transformation of my writing and teaching life.  Have some grading to do but not going to bother now.  Now, in this Now, I think of where we’re going, what we choose, the decisions we make and the results..  How we interpret those results, how we react to them, and what’s entailed in that reaction.  Why do we complicate when really we ought simplify?  That’s what this transformation I seek is much about, consolidation and a certain containment of identity.  My backpack, a commanding and telling symbol in this effort, right now with it filled with papers and books, and change and pens, a couple journals and who knows what else.  Tomorrow I won’t bring it to the office.  Leave it home.  Identity, Self, our stories…. Sipping the nitro slow and with a specific caution as I’ve never ordered it before and even with the handful of sips I can already tell it means to shove me somewhere, to not so much motivate me but order me to stick to my own order.  To decide on my Now, where I am.  In this conference room.

For a second, I pretend I’m him.  In Paris, not in this conference room, and younger than I am now, just watching people come in and out of the restaurant, or café.  I see one person, a young woman and she’s a student, I can tell.  With her notebook held by left hand and occasionally in crook, and a small backpack.  She sits down at a table by the window, after ordering.  Not sure what she told the older man at register, but I’m guessing something light.  And I’m guessing she won’t be here long.  Or maybe she will, I don’t know…  Away from my vision, I just think of Hemingway’s writing, his discipline, how when I speak of him in the class what he would have to say were he there with me.  I’m in a conference room, I’m not in Paris, and I’m assuredly and humorously not Hem.  I read, though, and react to his scenes, on hunger being healthier and everything looking “better” as he said when you’re hungry.  What does he mean by “better”.  For me a writer and thinker, I can only think more usefulness and more value for page.  In noting all thoughts and all feelings and observations for day, I embrace the conference room.  No students in here with me.  Though, I’ll be in the classroom in a matter of hours.  Just under 4 from now, if you need know.  Sharing ideas and hearing their ideas and observations of Hemingway’s text.

On the drive this morning, seeing all the evidences of the recent rains, how bright the greens are, especially with today’s sun and elevated temperatures, I knew I was taking the long, overly procrastinating route with unintended intention and meaning.  To see more of where I am.  Sonoma County.  To gather thought and measure how I’d approach the day.  Now that I’m in the day, and here on campus in this conference room knowing this will be my last semester here for a bit if not forever, the Stanford visions come back.  What is it about that campus?  I even thought of the university this morning I think while turning left onto Eastside Road.  Part of it’s the walks I used to take with Dad around the campus, and of course surviving what I did at the Children’s Hospital, but there’s something else.  Something….  The research culture or the cafeteria, shit I don’t know.  But I want to speak there.  I want to teach narrative and nonfiction, journal writing, THERE.  There is my There.

Can feel my heart accelerate with frightening reassurance, writing that last sentence.  I mellow and measure, smile and type on.  Nearing 40, and yesterday’s whatever it was I felt on 85 and 280, dead.  I’m re-composed and my composition in character and immediately liberation flashes new theses and doctrine.  I smile again, with no one in this room, books all around me.  If we don’t have something envisioned, a vision that is ours and only ours, then our story ails by the day.  I won’t let that happen, I thought soon as I woke from nap.  Now with this new coffee type I’m intimidated to again sip, but do anyway, I sense my heart provide a new beat. One to which I recite and ignite not so much a new plight but sight.  I see where I’m going, or do I.

I’m a teacher, but not yet the one I wanted to be when in high school.  That’s okay, though–  I become so bored with my writing I’m tempted to delete everything I just wrote.  But don’t.  I start a new story.  Don’t write a sentence of it, physically, but read it in moment while typing this.  I can see the book on a stand, somewhere.  Would I buy a copy of it?  Maybe.  Sure I would.  What’s it about.  Everything.  How’s that for an answer.  One minute he’s talking about wine, the next running, then teaching at the JC, then wine again, then kids, then working for a tech company that makes him more a writer than he ever was before, then some other shit.  That’s the book, mine.

3/11/19

Had quite the nearing forty panic or maybe even anxiety on the way home from Monterey, yesterday.  7:43 now back home and here by self, I just think about that drive and why I felt that way.  I have not a single idea, to tell you the truth.  Then, I know why.  Just can’t assign it words.  Has to do with what I do, where I am.  Think I may be getting tired of Sonoma County, though realizing that could just be a symptom of or associated with the travel urge and thirst.  I thought, Transformation.  Now is when I transform into the writer and teacher I’ve always wanted to be.  Since I had such ambition senior year in high school.  I start with this morning, with this beat, with this kitchen, this “day off” which I won’t let be anything like a day of nothing done.

I charge my camera.  Last night before bed watching a documentary on Africa, and deep reaches of Africa and the wildlife.  These shots and video stretches where the animals were seen in their most truthful talk and motions.  I want to take something in, down, with camera today.  Of course first I think of the vineyard.  But where do I start.  They’re everywhere, here.  No longer feeling that restlessness I did on the drive.  Ambition, hunger, looking for my moveable feast.  Where do I start.  I don’t pressure self.  I think of now, this quiet, the counter…. Me.  In the car I kept thinking singularity, focus, an extension from the man’s remarks after my speech on Saturday, that my energy was unlike anything he’s seen I merely “needed” a bit more centrality.  Is he right, or is this who I am.  Or, does there need be realized a symphony of both characters.  No more panic, no confusion, no questioning self and second-guessing self.  This morning, another start to ME.  Transformation I guess you could interpret, but not doing much with the original character.  ME.  Here the poet who wants the same thing as everyone else.  More.  Not so much more money although of course that’s be welcomed, but  more movement, more observations, travel and exploration, wonder and wander.

The feeling comes back, just like what I felt merging onto 85 from whatever.  I need to move quicker, I need to not be so careful, I need the travel.  Don’t pressure yourself with finishing a book.  You’re closer to 40, but so what.  Don’t shoot for the wine world, anymore, anything in it, even your own label one day.  And teaching at the JC, I need to move on.  And besides, I want to teach yes if you could call it teaching but in more locales, to more students.  I want to see other campuses.  I’m quite exhausted of SRJC and the same parking routine, walk up the Emeritus stairs.  The smell of the rooms, the technology not working.  I want those rooms I’ve never seen, the campus quads full of students, not just the after-work and commuter passers.

7:55.  Feel the coffee molding the character it hopes from me, today.

 

Move quicker in thought.  Today I take pictures.  Not so much to be a photog, but find something.  Thinking Alexander Valley, near Robert Young, or more toward White Oak, Soda Rock.  Maybe just go after the entire valley.  Transformation of character—be out there, out There, seeing everything and observing whatever I can find in the rows.  The closer to 40 I get I’m noticing myself losing a bit of urgency.  This, frightens me.  And, angers me.  Today I re-write the character into one of a more angry or near-angry tirelessness.  I need a measure, I realize.  Yes, I find self thinking of word count.  Can I fit in 3000 words, today.  Yes.  You have the entire day.  One thousand for morning, another for photography and journaling what you find out there, then one last k for end of day.

Should have written more in Monterey.  Was difficult, though, with the babies.  Had chance the night we went out for dinner and when back in Inn room wife offered me some time to self, to go to lobby and write for a while.  I, tired from drive down and skirmishing with kid ways and playful and then not so playful defiance, surrendered to exhaustion.  Where I was.  Had a glass of the Truett GPS blend, then fell asleep next to Ms. Emma.

Now  grappling with how I start the day.  Want to get a run, somewhere in.  Around noon, I reason.  That gives me about 4 hours for other projects.  Talk about overthinking, yeah, I know that’s what I’m now doing, right here at the counter.  Pictures, thinking of taking pictures of the vineyard at this stage in their development as characters, then writing about it.  Should leave the house before 9, head to AV.  I think I know where I want to start, but I’ll finalize destination when I get there.  And maybe write in the rows, looking at the sleeping stubs, the mustard where I can find it which is everywhere right now.

This has nothing to do with a proximity to 40.  At all.  This is ME, overthinking and wondering if I should do this or if I should try this, if a book is what I should focus on or if when I speak I’m too much this way to that way, to too too whatever.  I stop woth that and settle in now, the Now where I am at home.  I remember when I’d walk outside the Roth tasting room to take pictures in the SB block, I wouldn’t overthink anything.  There was nothing to think about at all, really.  It was just me and the vines.  That was the IT to it all.

8:10.  When done with this first set, I’ll get ready.  Throw something on, not think about it much.  Thinking I won’t head to AV, with the distance involved.  Maybe just down the Road, to Olivet or something nearby.  Wherever there’s vines.  I just need to be near a vineyard.  That will impeach this unsettled shape in my senses and character, literary shape.  I’m letting this happen, I know, this approaching 40 uneasiness and uncertainty, nervous note set.  The transformation is to stop it, entirely.  Embrace it, I suppose.  But, STUDY it.  Note all its notes and beat.

3/3/19

This.  This morning.  This is for you.  This is yours.  You have the morning, day, week, month, everything you want by deciding so.  Candle going, at laptop’s side.  Meditation with latte.  Wife deciding on snow gear for kids, upcoming trip.  Me, with the candle, something never near me when writing, seeing more Newness.

Fire, tempting me to try new avenues and expressive streams.  Morning, a bit sluggish from last night going to bed late and after dinner and wine with wife.  Melissa on couch listing prices to me for their snow trip approaching.  Tahoe.  Morning telling me to write faster, morning telling me to write more in Germany Journal, map how you get There.

Kids should be home, soon.  More photos of them.  Their steps in life, my story, the story itself.  More thoughts and considerations this morning than I forecasted.  What do you want? I keep asking self.  Above everything, not citing health of me and all near and loved, travel.  It has to be travel.  Every continent.  As many cultures as I can see, feel.

What’s the plan, wife asks, for day.  Good question.  No plan.  And maybe that’s what needs to be.  Life isn’t excessive deliberation, but deciding more in what’s already present.  Yesterday, not in Field with sales squad, I replayed repeatedly the walks on all streets.  Blocks.  Districts and meta-districts.  Truly wanted to be out there with them but couldn’t as that would’ve been day 6 in a row.  Which I don’t at all mind, but is against Sonic’s stances.  No quarrel, only putting myself there with them, imaginarily.  People in San Francisco, the battle to find a parking spot and the daily inner-problem solve of where for lunch. The plan for today is today, to not plan but to live, talk to both babies, ask them questions, learn from them.  Being with them is the demand satisfied, wanting them to teach me, instruct me how to get to those travels.

 

They already have, but I need more.

Morning thousand for book done.

Day 15 of the 100 day shift.  In office, or close, by Day 100.  What happens in the office?  Everything ME.  Creative… blogging and writing and photog, video production, wine and education and wine education.

 

Done editing video.  Didn’t edit that well.  Guess when I have my office I’ll need to somehow hire an editor, or bribe them/pay them with wine.  Either way, it’s done now I need to post.  Would rather write.  Hungry, tempted to just get something for breakfast but no.  I write about the fast, the restraint, the deprivation and what it does.  Right now I can feel self get a bit agitated, but I laugh it off, have another coffee sip.

 

Eating nothing till lunch.  At 2.  I’ll get a sandwich here, sparkling water, maybe some chips, healthy ones if I can locate.  Sun Chips are healthy, aren’t they?

 

More and more I thinking of writing in strong and liberated, liberating steps.  Freewriting yes but more than that.  And I just noticed this computer didn’t underline ‘freewriting’ in red.  Says something to me.  Or maybe I’m looking for that something to be said, conveniently analyzing what I typed.  The freer you write the freer and healthier you are as a writer.  It’s about freedom and composition and the freeing nature of composition.

 

2/27/19

Second to last day of month.  See what today delivers.  New obstacle thrown in story, may have to cancel meetings and go to field.  I’ll see.

 

4:44.  What a day.  In such a gloriously luminous, loving and enigmatic way. Everything done.  Just finished lunch a bit ago.  Took it quite late as a result of consecutive meetings.  Not  much in writing today, I know.  But it couldn’t be helped.  I should be explaining it to self or apologizing.  Today could be written about, singularly, as a narrative or story or lesson, lecture, something for me. Like a longer note to self.

Today’s taught me to be more versatile, flexible, maneuvering in day-to-day, also to hold self to aims and visions.  To embody what the aim truly is in all its facets.  I’ll write about it, today, when on campus.  Won’t be keeping them long, note.  I need more time to write.  I mean really write.  Finish this goddamn book, Thought.  Thought… and what it is what it’s meant for why be in it, why have it be so integral in your functionality as a Human.

2/25/19

2:55.  The exhaustion is there, from being up late with Emma and then again early this morning, but after a meeting with SB and this newest cup, black coffee, I’m revived and alive, seeing new lines and pages just in the next hour, before class tonight.

CPR/First-aid training earlier.  4 hours worth.  Didn’t know if I’d make it through that but I did, mostly from coffee and certain addresses in the man’s teaching spooking me a bit.  Enough of those thoughts.  In fact I haven’t thought about it, at all really, since leaving that room in the other building.

3:08… Me, an essayist.  Finishing my essay on visions.  Holding to that idea rather than just having a list of “goals”.  You have a vision to which you not just subscribe but imbibe, thoroughly believe and intimately conceive.  You want no pause or reprieve from your vision, what you see for yourself, see yourself doing.  I’m finishing this bloody essay, tonight.  1,001 words, my aim.  Objective.  I’m stubborn in my character aim of essayist.  Singular pieces.  The drive to Brentwood, here in this office and working at this company.  Okay… something’s definitely taken me, thoughts in my cognitive channels and inner-storms.

Vision of self, where the self is headed.  Your visions, more than mere wants or simplistic wishes.  They’re not wishes at all, nor dreams.  The visions are assurances.

One reason why Sonic works as a business and employer, as a business entity, is much from their support of employee visions.  What they want, and how they want to attain their aims.  Something I’m not used to, and I’m not using this place as a platform or bridge to get anywhere.  Destination’s not the objective.  What’s being sought here is what’s already here and its proximity to me.  I’m building from where I am, me the essayist, me the teacher, me the most ME I’m able to free.

2/23/19

Santa Rosa, Ca.

Sonic.net.

 

Wrote another thousand for book idea, or effort, or whatever it is.  In dark here in office, writing and collecting listening to Coltrane of course and easing into day.

This morning, much more eased and agreeable than yester’s.  Onward, with coffee, music, poetry, THOUGHT, reasoning what I want and how to get there, to my There.

About 20 minutes left to self.  Then into role, mode, actuation and actuality of one working on a Saturday.  Will be in city tomorrow with family for little Kerouac’s birthday.  Excited to not have to drive, walk around the streets with no other intention but to do just that.  Think we’re hitting the Exploratorium and I don’t know what else.  Either way, the writer needs just such a day.