2017

img_99951/1/17.  So it’s here.  And I’m here for a couple hours to gather self…  Not an inch of planning, just doing.  Hopper Starbucks for a couple hours and disbelief that it’s already 2017, but I have to get over that, and immediately.  Woke with a bit of a stomach-honed uneasiness but that’s not at all a result from the wine or sparkling J Rosé I bought Alice, but eating too late.  And that ice-cream sandwich nightcap.  Yeah, won’t be having one of those for a while.  First lesson from this first day of ’17, is to just do.  Feel like in English classes they instill too much process and procedure when it comes to writing.  In high school and even in the JC’s quirky and medicinal-looking rooms.  Why not just hop into your idea, start writing and edit or polish or refine later?  Why can’t writers, or any of us, just be allowed to DO?  To write?  To express and be ourselves as that’s what living is.  That’s what Newness is and learning from Self— when you try new approaches and avenues, and you find yourself in a belle vie.  The first day of a new year, after so many do so much planning, you’ll find me here in Hopper just writing, just flying at the page with a blind appetite and subscription to this writing life.  To this creative life.  Even with my center a bit a-quake, I sip slowly a medium roast.  Left the sparkling water bought for me at home.  She just called to remind me.

Rather large man sits across the room from me, making noises and laughing.  I’m not being judgmental but I do need to concentrate.  On my story as a teacher with this new year and how this WILL be the semester to end all semesters—  Or rather, to START all the following semesters.  Me, mobile, sharing my ideas and thoughts and approaches with students, and formulating new ones with them.  Saw one of my strongest and more cherished students from Spring of ’16, yesterday at the Piner Café while in line to ring out with Jack (after he and I enjoyed a daddy-Jackie lunch).  The man across from me makes more sounds but then focuses on a tablet he brought and is quiet, or quiet under all this Hutchinson I have playing.  2017…  New Year, New Day, New Mike, New STORY—  So I fly toward it like a fly on a freeway about to hit a glass flat, but I dodge and continue flying toward impediments, evading them or slaying them.  Wine is music so it will be there with me in my story, in the 2017 stream…

Already see day one of Spring ’17—  Theme: Freedom.  In all the authors we’ll be covering.  Hunter, Plath, Kerouac, Hughes.  This will be the most constructive and magnetic semester of my career.  For a number or reasons, but foremost how everything will extend from the “teaching”.  Connected to this blog and to me and culminating in a book, sending me on travels where I’ll sip wine from some hotel room and write about the wine and the room and how I can’t wait to go back home to Alice and the little beats.  One object for this year, as I scribbled in the Comp Book, was something like “MUSIC…more music”.  Again, something like that.  But Bobby now tells me to just play, jumpy around in your own notes and knots and consciousness hops.  2017 is about life in the creative and only living such.  No playing roles, or “looking the part” as so many say— that’s always annoyed me.  Why spend anymore time doing anything but actuating.

More people come into Starbucks, appearing beat, worn, over-sipped, tired from the night before.  How could you do that to yourself?  That would waste if not terminally infect any forward in this first ’17 page.  Others aren’t like me, I know, or like my writing friends like the lady at work in the office who also teaches and understands this phylum of thought.  We have to write, we have to be we, always.  It’s definitely here.  The year where everything has to happen.  Freedom and exponential simplicity but I’m overthinking as usual, as a usually over-self-used writer.  Write forward, write from this coffee and to the next one, and back home to the water you were supposed to have drank more of.  2017 orders me to continue as veridical as possible.  No fiction, only truth.  And I do plate any fiction, like with Kelly, then it has to be from a place of truth, a fold not in any way fictive.  Truth solves everything, and truth coupled with creativity is impervious.  I start to relax, on this first day, while Roy Hargrove and Ronnie Mathews play.  The first day puts me in a place.  One if not lucrative then assuredly, freeing.

1/1/17

No decisions.. just narrative–

This newest of New Years is a day-diamond,

blinding me with visual invite.

Only one option and that’s to be a storm

of scribble creation, build with ideas

and blocks and moment, travel– learning from

a redrawn and more animated me.

journal –

img_9932Now just a dash to the third page before getting summoned to the tasting room.  And I have to caution you, this is going to be rough, sped, and maybe even a bit sloppy.  But it’s me in the moment, me in these less than 48 hours before 2017.  The year I turn 38.  Fuck, I don’t want to think about it.  And I won’t.  What I’m going to do with this new year is make it truly a NEW year.  A year which is only the start of more years where I do ‘New’.. engage in Newness and follow my artistic and creative curiosity and impulse.  Early and I’m already moving faster than I have all of December, and probably much of November.  2017 is going to be a new year, a better year, but a more educational year for this writer and teacher, father and runner, thinker, wonderer and wanderer.  Right now I hear co-workers talk ‘bout how they can’t wait for the day to be over, and what they’re doing new year’s eve, and I get that.  Some of me entirely agrees.  BUT… the majority of my ruling character wants to focus on the Now, me here in this page and at this desk, looking out at the vineyard but I don’t too much.  I need to adhere and harness self to the words, the the langue of the moment I’m in— this ME, right here at the desk listening to music and more than just looking the part of the writer— it’s not a part, it’s not an identity, it’s a materialized story of one of words; the sentences and stories and written reflections whereas others just disregard their moments or take them for granted.  Without struggle, no progress, Douglass wrote.  Yes… but I’m done struggling.  Not that I struggled as hard or horribly as him, but 2017 is a time for vast and expansive progress.  Profitable progress.  Educating and enriching progress.  I can feel it coming.  Don’t need to go back to grad school as this new year is more than a program or new major or graduate degree.  This new year is about being a new student, of the year itself.  Noting everything.  Seeing each following day as a quiz or test, revisit of the previous day.  If I’m a being in search of some greater meaning, as Plato suggested, I think I’ve finally found the meaning, and what I’m supposed to mean and be and persist as to the world.  So now, I start.  2017 is about actuation, not playing any part or role.  It is BEING.  I’m a being about being a truly written being.  When down to the third page, I’ll be ready for the tasting room, ready to pour and tell people about wine and speak in my poetic tumbles and vary foresights—  I love when people react to my words on wine, how I on-the-spot recite about my connection to the puddle entity.  Wine is more than wine… and if there’s anything 2017 knows about me, and what I know about it, is that it will be a year de vin.. words and travel, photographs and story telling, new people and friends and experiences and memories, books and crazed meander meditations and intonations.

Listening to usual Pandora station, looking right, out past the desk and into the vineyard, think it’s time for another walk.  Why not.  Not much happening today.  Phone hasn’t rang once, and I’m all about observation this morning.  Speaking and Newness.  Eventually I will have to get up from this chair and go for a walk and see what the vineyard wants to tell me.  Words and stories of its life— its own music.  Moving quicker and quicker, on stage reciting to people I’ve never met.  Isn’t that what art is?  Isn’t that what Newness is?  Sip what’s left in the Starbucks cup—  Goddamnit.  That’s it?  Co-worker just made coffee but I want to wait a bit.  Need to exhibit at least a little lash of composure this jour.  Too much fire invites a blaze, or inferno that escapes control.  But maybe that’s part of Newness.. the rich visual facets and the narrative and the new articles and meditations of moments I’ve never before met going into this new year.  Has the New Year already began?  Think so.  And why did I capitalize it there?  Why not?  New.. new riles and rules and laws that I decree and somewhat regulate.  What a poet is is a manager of New experiences.  One with a familiarity and lack of familiarity with them— deliciously polarizing and contradictory.  The contradiction is its own encouraging composition.  Looker, seer—  me, a poet.

Dreaming Now ‘Cause Waiting Annoys Me

img_9870Something about writing in quiet. Wine. Ran five miles and was hungry but now not only after one of those pre-made and packaged salads you get at Target, or Safeway. Was is Costco? Either way I’m here at the end of a 3-day streak of days off. And tomorrow morning I have to get caught up. On my 2017 plans list I cites quite angrily that waking up early need be a practice. I call myself a writer, a disciplined writer? Then why did I leave my laptop at Mom & Dad’s the other night? Why am I not waking early? This honesty with self is affecting the mood but I can’t waste time as wife and motley babies could walk in the door at any minute. Enjoy your wine, enjoy your writing like you tell your students. Be in the moment and the moment is one demonstrative of advance as I’m not waiting till 1/1/17 to being some superficial resolutions. NO. I’m actuating plans right now. Writing. To be the most tireless and hard-working writer and blogger on the blasted planet.
Need to do more readings as I noted the other day— May be getting too far ahead of myself with ’17 and too harsh on Self with entertainment of possibilities for this new year but this is what crEATive/entrepreneurial dads do. We don’t slow and certainly not ever halt, and if we notice ourselves getting slow then we whip that self into work, into productivity— into crEATivity. My buttons pushed by me pressing these buttons for the first time in days, leaving the keys at parents. No wine in glass… what to do… feel like Kerouac in the cottage or small cabin at Sur….. Just me, the time which I disregard but more embrace the moment I’m in, thinking about the “students” now down at UC Santa Cruz… maelstroms in climatic disarray somehow precipitate harmony. And this could be the only glass I’ve had since coming home doing narrowing my narration now, but I don’t care. I want the wine to through me speak. It’s more interesting, teaching promulgating truth. What do I have left from last night… That AV Cab? Done. Also have the case of St. Francis wine in the office (gift from Mom & Dad, and winemaker sister, last night, my xmas alms.
Just noticed I have no music cued. And that’s fine. This quiet is its own narrator, character, lecturer, whatever. Now music on. And you may have deduced, more annoyed that with logical layer, Thievery Corporation. Imagining self away, some trip, speaking somewhere and not to speak as some self-knighted “expert” or “authority”, but just am obdurate and resolute writer, who happens to speak. The quiet massages and decided my mental, encourages my meditation further. So… to “students”, know what pleasurably anchors you— be aware of not just your Self and Personhood, but your story’s rhythm, and how you want it considered. I’m in the process of noting my record, collecting some concertedness in composition. Think I’m there, nearly…

It Was Never Not Here

 

Why not give my

Self

A

Gift?

I’ll give me something,

Something–

Something that–

Something that I need.

Like what.

Something.

Something not

Material.

You can’t hold it.

Not an article or object.

But a state.

No, more than that.

So what, then?

Like I said,

Something.

A consistency, a continuance of

Some sweet singularity.

That I gift me.

For me.

This new me,

Or maybe it’ll

Be

Some readjusted me—

No, hate that word.

But a re-calibrated me.

Circling myself in dreams and wants

This Christmas morning, so I jot further

Into this well, wishes and tossed coins stepped on and

Over but not

Too harshly,

Ubiquitous umbrage over

Visions—one thing for the rest of your story,

Day night left and what’s right,

No one can be sure so just give yourself whatever it is

You have wanted for long, for always,

Music or a house on the beach, some trip

To wherever, now I’m just walking in my

Own lack of sense, sensibility’s with little

Scaffolding, not sure how secure the

Structure is,

But either way I’m giving myself something today,

A portrait, a scene of a structured and scenic me,

Me,

One I’ll just play over and over, like some Hutcherson

Tune in a San Francisco club, back in the sixties, smoke coupled with

Notes of beer, or whisky and…

Another page in my stretch or stumble, peregrination of

This new character. We just

Met, I just

Drew him today,

Gifted the current self a self with a more roaring

Current, tide and tidal waves, tsunamis of

Anti

Normality.

Why be at the equator when I can write from the world’s

Top floor?

But either way, You,

Merry Christmas.

Enjoy this new you, the new travel and chapter, story

And measures, three pages of the car rides, the

Photographs of mountains and sunsets in Central Oregon,

Visits to your old neighborhood, your old house,

The trips and the coffee in before-never-known

Haunts. This new gift haunts me,

Innumerably, and the life here now is garnished with Newness—

But not so much numeric as it is atmospheric, a clear and defined

Redefinition of self for this sitting and the days after and

After.

And not so much qualitative either.

This new This is not in any dictionary.

So how did I find it?

How can I get it for self for ex-mas?

I’m not.

It’s always been here. I’m

A broker.

Internal transaction of realization for this new

New. Reading this to myself and I see what I mean, this

Is a gift. The most electric and textural of

Ever. The harshness persists in delicious chords,

Listening to myself read the note, the gift,

But it has no language, undefined but I know

What it is? So how do I steer with this new sight,

This new life,

This new containment of types and career,

If you could call this a career—

No, it’s beyond that too.

So from the planet’s zenith

I breathe and know what’s next

And don’t know but this is a religion,

A wild dogma of…

Of…

I don’t know.

It’s a gift.

A boon.

A light.

A Road.

I wanted this, this new

Newness, view from a cliff in Carmel,

My first step on a New York sidewalk.

And it’s mine, delivered to me from

Me.

Never happened before and that’s the point.

I point to 101 south, over the Golden

Gate, the to PCH, where

Everything waits. That drive,

That’s antithetical fright.

What I’ll tell my kids, my

Wife,

Parents and sister and other writers that think like this but this is coded.

And not even I can translate what I just unwrapped.

Can you?

It’s New.

The only.

Downshift.

Slow.

This is Now, collection of Nows finally collecting and

Congregating for

My pages. Language…

Why did I wait so long to give Me this?

 

(12/25/16)