note

img_9196Less than 30 minutes left of my 2 hours to self to write.  Listening to different music now.  No more Hutcherson.  Not now..  Eating a bagel after taking a break.  No I didn’t nap, though so tempted.  Looking left, receipts from yesterday.  Stressing me out…  Loose change on right.  There has to be some symbol in that I’m just too goddamn tired to figure it out.

Need coffee.  HOT coffee.  No more of this cold nonsense from the tumbler.  It’s lost its allure, its life and flavor anyway.

24 minutes left.  What if I called in today’s classes?  What difference would it make?

Turned heater on.  Writer’s freezing.  Little toast and peanut butter—  I know, exhilarating prose.  I know.

Have to email a prospective client, then think about getting in shower.  Will only keep both classes for about an hour.  Wish I could take that nap, but then nothing would get done.  Can’t afford this, just days before the year I turn 38.  Can’t believe that.  Just writing that number associated with my name and character sickens me.  Looking at this desk and everything on it, no stress, just possibility— the writer forces himself to think in only optimistic chords and rhythms, measures and keys.  Music… everything is a standalone piece, something to be read as I share with my students and this writer comes even to more lively life, thank you coffee—

12 minutes left in the 2 hours I allowed self.  So now what do I do?  Maybe not obsess over time so much.  How about that?  How’s that for reasoning?  Do I have a reason?  Yes.  To live more.  Not calculate and measure so much.  Want my babies’ father to be unusually composed, happy, zen.

One of the vineyard shots from yesterday, haunting me, telling me I need to move even quicker if I’m to have my own vineyard, ever.  Walk it in the morning while the coffee would be in my hand rather than on this goddamn desk (what my sister did this morning, sharing her photo).  And like that, this writer’s out of time.  Time tells me what to do and when and sometimes how.  Bastard.  I won’t resist, but rather work with.  IT can’t win, that way.

3 – In Order To Write With More Life, You Have To Be In Love With Your Own Life, All Minutes Of It

img_90749:26AM, day after Thanksgiving, and there’s music in everything— in the office chatter across the floor, in the way the near-dormant vines stare back at me, in my memory of the wines I had last night.  Today is a story.  Not “another story,” but a distinct and reciprocal narration, encouraging me with all scribbles and steps and emboldening me closer to my travels.  My children will look at their daddy with intrigue, interest, curiosity, asking me when back from a trip, “Let me see your pictures, Daddy!” Or, “What did you write over there?” Today assures everything, assures everything today and that I see is for me.

Working on client copy and my book, nowhere near where I should be if I want the NaNoWriMo 50k, novel or memoir or whatever.  Told I won’t be needed in tasting room till noonish, which means I could be over here writing for a while, if I wanted.  But I’m not sure I do.  Maybe I should go over there now, set out the water carafes, pour bowls, open bottles and wipe down counter, get in a position to do some storytelling, sell some wine.  Stay focused, in character—  And am I ever in my writing character now.  Keeping my daughter’s little face and my son’s smile in my perceptive lens.  I’m still very much in a thankful mode, thankful for everything.  For today, for what I see and what I hear, all the details around me from the 4-shot mocha, the mouse connected to my work laptop, my phone, the clothes I have on, the way the sun loses its skirmish with the clouds, so desperate to connect with some vineyard block out there but the clouds prove too stubborn.  And I just observe.  I have the best job in the world as the writing father, observing and learning and sharing what I learn…  Is that teaching?  Am I a “teacher?” I hope not.

This is very much a tryst with today, I’m more than certain this is love that I’m sensing—  And there it is, my sun, blaring down at the Sauvignon Blanc block at my left and through these adjustable shutters.  “Wake up!” it tells me.  “I’m awake!  I’m awake!” I propel back with a audible gratitude slab, eager for the ticks and tocks ahead of me, whether I’m in the tasting room sooner or later or much later or much sooner.  The day is giving thanks directly to me, leaping at me with these soft atmospheric rays.  No concern with any word count, this NaNo project that I more and more see as a joke…  Is the focus the word count or the project?  And when you’re done with your book, then what?  Anyway, I’m just in love and I’ll love being in love with the day.  I’m doing more than just “writing with life,” as I share with students.  I’m letting life write me, write for me, write about me and me write about it, or for it, or in it—  Why overthink this?  It’s life!  It’s there to be loved, lived, live in love— love love love… Feel like Dean Moriarty listening to Old God Shearing, seeing and hearing and feeling something that instructs me, shows me how to live more, exist less.  Yes, I’m certainly certain that today is not just ‘another story’.  What I narrate is narrated back, radically and reciprocal.

(11/25/16)

Wondering Won

img_8502Days behind on my NaNo effort, but whatever.  I’m writing on, even though I’m in no mood to do so.  Yes it has a lot to do with last night’s election result.  But it’s not an excuse to not work.  I have work to do.  I have a book to write.  Think I may have had too much coffee already, and I bought a 3-shot (no 4-er this morning, not sure I could handle that) mocha and one of those breakfast sandwiches.  Haven’t text self bank balance, nor have I logged what I spent yesterday which I think was only like $2-something if I remember right.

Turning off the news, and on with Hutcherson.  One of my favored tracks, but my mood won’t budge.  How do I make it move, do something, make me do something.  For one, look to the day, what I have to do.  I still have to teach in under three hours, and get in the shower in 29 minutes.  Don’t even want to check how much catchup I have to do, not so much play, to be on schedule with my book.  My personhood needs tweaking, but what does that mean.  Who knows, I don’t know, I don’t know me this morning.  The positive vibes and momentums I promote and procure all the time are nowhere in my immediacy.  They’re not with me as I write at this kitchen counter, with the wrapper to my left, mocha as well, this is a morning I’m not enjoying.  So make myself enjoy it, right?  How?  HOW.  Still have that wine article to publish to blog but that seems so trivial with this new direction the country’s being taken.  Feel like this may be a call for me, to change dramatically, write solely about politics, educate myself further on the workings of this country’s political system.  The jazz slows, calms me with this number by Coltrane, the artist I view as more a musical brother more than just some act that comes on frequently on this Pandora station.  His chords and scales tell me to enjoy the morning— “You’re alive, you’re in a great country, nothing about you or your family will change.. you’ll still love and take care of your kids, love your family, you’ll still be a writer.. do what your dad recommended years ago, ‘Look at this as a writing assignment.’” I appreciate the counsel, calming, but I’m not sure what I want to do I just know something now need be done, and I’ll start with the morning.  THIS morning.  MY morning and my life and my day, my meetings with the students.  There’s promise in this.

Before I get too carried away, I take a small sip from the 3-shot cup…  Check account balance, turn the volume down a bit as my brother just dances around in and with the notes as he wants to.  I’m just entertaining possibilities now, in this Now, with my newest of Nows and all the invitation structured in that ideological architecture.  Now I’m just playing, that hasn’t been outlawed yet, right?

wine sketchez

Amphora Winery – 2012 – Mourvèdre – Clarksburg

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Fun and funky little Rhône razzmatazz.  Earthy and rustic, raw berry and spice waves surround your senses.  This is not meant to be for the one who wants the regular, mainstream wine song.  The beauty of this wine resides in its innovative precision and defined defiance.  I found myself sipping this throughout the evening, last night, and it aligned like a swift jazz tune with the pasta with red sauce and blackened chicken.  I’ll be back by the twee little tasting room off of Dry Creek Road any day, to pick up some more.  Nice sipping wine— just what I would sip on a quite early evening to some Thievery Corporation, Miles Davis, The Doors— something to put me on edge a bit, make me think as this bottle does.

10/18/16 – Tonight I’m writing freely, sipping

a new Cabernet from Napa, from a small but beneficent label.  One of those stories I only img_7711want to mimic.  Would have written earlier, but I thought it the need and the optimal for the writer to speed to vineyards, walk around an take pictures.  Be a photog’… or a writer that loves photography which is more the case.  I have thoughts in head and Mom told me not to be too wordy with my reactions to these wines so I won’t.  And she’s astute, my amiably-set mama.  She urges, more than her assertion of not being “too wordy”, to just be me.  More conversational about wine, no so syllabically analytical, or at least that’s what I read into and from her speak.  So these wines, like new characters on the stage— unexpected and theatrical, but not overstepping.  A Chardonnay, which I always have trouble listening to, no matter how it’s crafted and cared-for.  Then the Cabernet, which has that flex and broadness, but with unexpected Victorian angularity— romance, and a dactylic disposition you wouldn’t forecast for a Cab.

Tonight the writer’s in his wine mood and mode.  Wish I could play some Hutcherson, but the babies are asleep.  And wish I had the energy and concentration to get to a thousand words but the wine’s catching the writer.  Still, thought, this beatnik writeth.  I’m like Dean as he parks cars.  Sal, as he observes everything around him and listens to the jazz with Dean but doesn’t quite know what he’s seeing but looks anyway and writes about it later.  This is my maison, this book, this story, told in wine’s accompaniment— a movie and just a moment, not so Hollywood or theatrical but if you spent a couple days in a tasting room you’d see the stage, the act, the interaction, the dialogue that begs to be captured.  Yes, I’m more than liberated in this sitting with my Cabernet glass, here at the desk with barely any light above the writer.  Just the way I prefer it— like I’m in some dark bar, overseas, writing while everyone else connects to conversations that go nowhere, conversations I capture and use for my book— people in the corner playing pool, talking about what to drink next, but I’m writing, sipping wine and digging in my own brain for ways to make their speech more seraphic.

Evening, this, sovereign.  Still with a bit of Cabernet in glass.  Surprised and a bit proud of Self for not drinking it too speedily.  My book, narrative, begs wine’s involvement.  Stepping slow in that vineyard block today made it more than clear.  I’m under the lights with wine, in front of an audience, talking back and forth— wine trying to categorize me, me just sipping it but trying to sound like some expert or critic or voice that should be heard.  We frustrate each other, but can’t stay away from the other.  Odd love whirl.  Not so much wind, but ink from my urges rescinds.  Why.  Why need there be a restart?  Refocus on moment.  Look at images.  No act.