On campus. About to walk to room.  Emeritus 1610.  How many fucking classes have I taught in that room.   I don’t even think I’m capable of calculating or inventorying.  Notes prepped, more or less, and Kerouac’s book looks back at me, almost like it’s posing, “Again, Mikey?” Yes, again.  We all need answer to our calls to travel and break cast, sever mold, free self from shackles and inner battles.

The American Dream, in this book explored.  Or is it more than anything American?  Maybe it’s just human, me right now in this conference room where I’ve written thousands of times.  This campus, these thoughts, my first term teaching here, fucking 12 years ago.  But I’ve grown quicker, more hungry, with more loving and creative ire.



Starting at Jimtown, as often on a Sunday in my wine life.  Since shooting from pillow and sheet, thinking re-start, and re-write.  We have ever opportunities and invitation for re-writing the story, for starting over if we elect.  Right now, more decisions to be maddened closer to Day HUNDRED, so much of the page stack not yet written, and unread.  So, proceeding forward into horizon.

Thinking of essays this morning, what this day is, essay-wise.  The argument.  The centrality, and reality, manifold duality.  Where I am, Jimtown.  What I’m doing, writing before Week 2 of the semester that wasn’t supposed to happen.  What I’m learning, already—no rush.  In this re-write, I see more.  I’m calm.  There will be certain facets certainly cut off.  The idea of work, what it is for so many.  What it could be, why so many don’t let themselves be happy.  Why they don’t create madly, and let the vessel go to crashing.  Making decisions, this morning.  About everything.  Everything for my positions, for my identities, narratives…. Writer in a tech company, as an Account Executive no less, and me in the classroom.  Write everything.  The new bridges won’t frighten if not allowed.  Everything is everything, and the every-ness of each stretch is connected.

Back room at Jimtown, wine life Sunday but there’s more than just wine and this 23rd day in the project.  But…. Place.  More music, more verse, all opportunity and doors open sing to me, to US, this morning and all days.  Stress is permitted.  In this room, in your room, wherever you are, decide to be MAD.  With your story fiery and tireless, moving to your frame envisioned.  I share where I am and my work story from wanting for others to make theirs completely under their compositional control.  Thinking too much will not lead to creative, will not lead to production and the architecture of your aptness.

Just now, caught self thinking, and overthinking.  This morning is precisely what this “professor” needed.  Readings starting this next week, for the two classes I somehow inherited.  Teaching, and teaching what.  WORK.  For students to not only take ownership of their work, but see it as a self-educating ebb.  In my staying thinking at this table, I wonder if anyone else has ever written here.  And what discussions have been had here, and on what.  Who has sat where I’m sitting, what families have been in this part of the back room, and what did they talk about.  Where do they live, full-time.  What brought them to Sonoma County.

What I do for work, blogging and writing about work, but thinking about more than what’s to be thought of, irrelevant of what the clock was, is.  Dismiss my inner-pessimist, and have the day speak to me.  Where I am, what I’m doing in the back dining room of this market, quasi-restaurant.  9:16, should get on the Road in a bit…. Walk a vineyard, let the clusters help me ideas muster.  For the day, for the week.  Can write anything into tangibility in your re-start and re-write.  Looking at every antique and tool and thing in this room, where I’m working.  Seeing the images, work to itself even if not written.  It, they, assist in compounding and composing character.

Tonight Pinot was

seen and felt differently. There was more. I don’t know how else to say it. There wasn’t simplicity, but something like it. Honesty, approachability, something. It wasn’t Pinot, it was more. Not some fashionable name you just say to say it, telling people you drink it. There was love there tonight, at Mom and Dad’s. Love.

How I’m still awake, moving and alive,

cognitively cogent and coherent is miraculous.  Lively radiant, glowing day in Marin.  Opened Krug Chenin Blanc, poured self a glass which could very well be the capping of night, and then soon to bed. Meeting with Lead group in morning, 7am.  Not sure what will be folded into the meeting, the deliverables as much I hate that word, but my story so far on the B2B side had proven more than enriching, elevating, a prognostication and game of its own.  Keep momentum a momentum.

For the day, I felt no signs of exhaustion till I had my meeting with Mark at 2.  I told him what I’d done, wake before 3 and couldn’t go back into any horizontal field as I started thinking about the day ahead of me.  And now I’m here, glass of white, 8:12, and unsure of how much longer this writing runner and daddy, wine light can be lit, literary, in the day.  Feel like HST in his dash for the dream, American or whatever, and me for my wine Room, or tasting quarter.  Everything I write is work as wine is the fruition of work, the butterfly after all her stages.

First sip of the Chenin and far past the crisp or fresh, pristine beam I think of from the tasting room.  Was thinking about opening the Rose I bought for Alice but then no I couldn’t how could I she’ll come home from her trip ‘cross country and want just that, a cold glass of Rose.  Relax.  So I left it alone.  Mom told me to not bring anything to the Pinot tasting tomorrow night which looks like will only entail parents and self.  Bought a ’16 Davis Bynum.  Not a bad point of pricing, and I’m curious to see what’s sung from the bottle.  Have I had one of these before?