10:57.  The quiet in this house hurts.

My family should be here, but they’re not.  Some could say this house shouldn’t be here, but it is.  On the side of the San Miguel tracks, there are no thoughts like this.  The houses are gone.  Couple seconds ago I was bothered with the prospect of taking a cold shower.  There are no showers being taken on that other side, or along Coffey.  So I humble, I silence, I meditate and conceive what’s before me, a writer of wine.. so much life and in that life there is less than “little time”.  Wine isn’t just about celebration, it’s also about appreciation, acknowledgement of life and how invaluable it is.  That morning, Sunday, with the winds at 60+ MPH, and smoke notes and visible glowing pieces from a structure or structures floating our way, pushed by those gusts, I had no idea what to think.  Had to remain composed for babies, show some strength or sternness.  The quiet broken by the train and a car driving on our street or the one over.  Don’t want to be here, but I should want to be here.  I have a home.  East San Miguel can say nothing such.  Try to enjoy what’s left of my coffee, in my Coffey Park studio/home/base/heart where wife and kids eat, sleep, play, love and learn and grow.  My coffee cold, but not like the shower.  Now’s a time to write, record, be quiet like the house.  Don’t think about work, business, selling, wine.  Concentrate and somehow measure and inventory how lucky you and you family, your street, are.  I write this on the floor of my bedroom, sipping coffee, after a shower, collecting musings and measurements.  The sound void does sting, but it as well sows, sews.  New visions, scopes, hopes, decisions.  For me, family, the story’s entirety.—. Fuck, why were we, am I, so lucky?

Can’t think like that.

But I am.

The loud quiet here begs it.

(10/13/17)

inward jot

Finished grading a stack of papers, more or less ready— NO, I’m immensely ready for today’s meetings.  Going to focus on the essay itself… what writing an essay is, what it can do, why it’s an important skill and why its a type of engagement for readers they won’t find in other forms, or genres.  At the head of the conference ’T’ of tables here in the, well, conference room.  One adjunct earlier, an older man, said to me, “Still workin’ there, huh?” Didn’t so much take it as an insult as I did a beacon of recognition.  I told him in my caffeinated return, “Yep.. I don’t like the cell they stick us in.” Could hear him laugh.

On campus and ready for work, ready to teach, read to forget about my odd feeling, Monday.  Today I’m confident, and fiery.  Ready for discussion.  On the essay, poetry, poetry in prose, be it essay or fictive narration… lots to offer, today.  Will get a water on the way to the old hall where I hold class.  I’m in Literary mode, today.  Nothing ‘wine’ about me.  I’m here to learn, to be one of them, to be a student, to be brave and creative.  The day is always a puzzle, or how I see it.  Writing my way through temptations to be distracted, be it by social media, or TV, the internet, talking to someone… I just situate in the page, my page, pages… these inward jots are invaluable, a curse, a cure, a direction, a life sentence.

Need to stay more on top of grading.  It’s my cross, I tell myself that every term.  But this term will be antithetical and the one that gets me to the Road, to my travels.  Took some notes earlier, just quick jots to self on phone after brushing teeth back at the Autumn Walk Studio.

Freedom, you’re already free, you just have to accept that you’re free.

3000 words, a gift to yourself…

book, where is the fucking book?

Need more coffee, this one’s already cold, what would I do if I didn’t have coffee?

BUY SOME NEW BOOKS—  NO, READ ONE YOU ALREADY HAVE.

Walking in nine minutes, so I have to post what I have, I guess.  Told my students there’s always enough time in the day now I’m starting to disagree with my offering.  Shouldn’t do that.  Believe it.  Believe it!  I have plenty of time I just can’t stop and I will keep myself in a mode of this, thinking, note-taking, inwardly inner-inward jots.  The most intimate phylum of writing I can wield.

Teacher down the hall offering such sagacity to one of his students.  Or that’s how his voice sounds in its echo, so self-assured and righteous and right.  No flaw or curve in his logic, just polished sageness.  Annoys me, honestly.  What ever happened to humility?  To discovery?  What if the teacher’s wrong?  What if there isn’t one way to compose and essay?  How can there be?  The teacher could always be wrong, there is never one way to do anything, so there can’t be not matter how you frame it.

The essay.. the essay.  Stayed away from that word for some time, if you must know.  Preferred the word “submission” to use with students, or “piece”, or “work”.  Now I embrace the essay and its anatomical philosophy and intonation.  I’m on a roll, you could say today, with my jots and sight, eagerness… the students won’t know what hit them.  Not hit, but embraced.  Collect myself, for a breath or two.  Fly.

Daddy with time alone

in home, briefly.  What does he do?  Sip Chardonnay, brainstorm.  How to build this business… with words.  Use what you have… wine. Teaching.  The Chard I’m sipping now, ’14 Sonoma Coast, Roth of course, telling me to not think about anything.  But rather, imagine.  Delight in rich daydream.. which I’m now doing. Seeing Self with family on back deck of the Carmel house, listening to ocean, in front of fire pit (yes I want one of those at the house), just focusing on moment.  So now, here at the Autumn Walk Studio, I do the same.  Me, on couch, legs crossed– and I confess I write this on my phone, which I hate.  Chardonnay calls me.  Says it has something else to show me.  “What?” I beg.  “Take a sip and I’ll show you.” She says.  I do.  See me running, on mile 5, looking out at the waves as I try to lower my per-mile, see a gull playing with some plants that ashore bumbled.  “You’re almost there.” She says.

Again focusing on and appreciating how zen-soaked the Studio is.  Even when wife and babies get back, I’ll force myself to see it the same.  What to now do, go outside and have some red, watch the neighbors’ kids be kids and play freely, immune to obligation and grownup restriction… freely about the block with mechanized vessels and t-ball stands, bats and balls and other stuff that was not around when I was a kid– yes I’m at that age.  But fighting reality is senseless.  Embrace, and reverse- or re-engineer where beckoned.

Now daddy sees.  Everything.  Quiet is cure.

Not just another Monday 

of another week…  but the week my son starts kindergarten, wife goes back to school and goes back to school for her Master’s (think the latter is this week), and Emmie goes back to school…  rewrite.  Lots of facets to my story.  I thought upstairs of how Jack’s friends will see me, how their parents will estimate me…  this morning is medatative as always but with more a battle plan pulse to it.  Learning about the future in the present, about me, about the me being presented daily.