As someone who obsesses over work,

and what work he has to do, what I have planned the next day and the remaining hours of this day, I am honestly with nothing.  But I make myself write.  One student tonight saying one of her goals is, was, is to wake at 2am to get ahead in her studies and I assume write a little as she does write poetry and write in short lines, short stanzas, pieces that span only a page.  And I say ‘only’ out of awe, that she does so much to a page in only a page’s pulse.

Was nearly too lazy to write anything tonight.  Told self, “Just a hundred words, per blog.” But I can’t hold self to that.  Should I do what this student plans on doing?  Should I set alarm for 2?  Isn’t that the time of the artist, the writer and poet?  Didn’t I read that somewhere?  On my lunch today grading papers and writing in the Sonic journal as this goddamn laptop didn’t want to let me use it.  Of course, now, I do push the buttons and have a note in my writing normalcy.

Finish the fucking book, I tell myself.  Like my son said tonight as I poised to make his bed with new sheets, “GET TO WORK.” I am.  I say the same to self.  

Sip the Barbera I popped last night. It, she, more calm.  Me the opposite of anything tranquil at the moment.  Working in the home office which isn’t as common as I’d love to tell you it is.  But, WORK.  Work.  What I write about.  Force self to write when I don’t want to.  I do write about wine, but that’s not my only onus and thought light.

Now, I’m like a train with this, these writing thoughts.  I, not failed.  Not failing in my aims.  I won’t allow that.  No one should.  Why would you.  You are here, once.  And I’m not addressing the fact one only lives once…. I’m speaking to myself and you, that where you are, right now, the opportunity and life invitation to bring a project to completion is singular.  You see it once.

You are a train, if you wish be.  Some unknown animal of fruition, bringing works to an offering stage.  There are only stops that persist acknowledged.  So acknowledge none of them.  I see so many of these speakers and motivational-who-be’s profess all this counsel but don’t consider the most apparent reality… the audience member has to decide.  They only elect to act if they bring themselves to movement.  Tonight I could have just as easily poured this red from El Dorado, sat on the floor of this home study, went on phone and scrolled through some photo pour.  No.  We decide to draw, paint new plausible for our Personhood.  Decide to move, be alive, mentally, alive, wildly alive in all movements of your steps and actuating saunter. 

What work does for and to the character is animated in divinely lucrative chant.  Dodge the task, never.  Distractions and suitable sanctions to project-dodge are terminal.  The panacea, always, is preemptive production.  Never, labor deduction. 



img_7407Wine when home.  Day in field.  Cognitive throws clearing their way to my vision, my understanding and general concept and estimation of everything around me.  This Sophia’s Cuvée, Lancaster, 2015 I think has my thinking with not a single chain pain.  I’m on the floor of the lowest floor of the Autumn Walk Studio, going over conversations with T in car and at lunch, about wine and business, business… everything now I see as invitation and opportunity, a catalyst for amplification.  And I know I keep repaying that word or some form pro phylum thereof and, or, in.  But this is where the writer is, presently.  In business bliss and thought tryst. Made coffee for morrow, waking at 04:00 with no diffuse.  My life on it much depends and hopefully soon eventually ascends.  I feel and see it, for my babies and family and all those around me.  Sonic’s altered favorably, and with etching speed, my scope on work, on business and workplace forwards.

This Cab-honed set of sense tells me to take the night’s remainder off after this entry.  She understands I’m a writer, that I have something to maybe say, no delay, positive stray and fray in lyric-laden say.  Part of me didn’t want to leave SF, feeling like a Beatnik in my hometown, where I belong, where I only wanted to read poetry on street corners and in cafés, where T and I had lunch, but I studied.  Know, I know more now.  The wine professes to show only what mysteries and enigmas need be shows and set before in present’s block, lot.

Letting wine “open” in stemless plastic bowl on table.  Little Beats and wife upstairs done for day, away to dream plains and me just here being to be, in a state or irrevocable poetic pulse and session, sitting.  Tomorrow in office, learning more, feeding knowledge addiction, prophetic affliction.  Nothing thinking and just writing, must, my own trust and philosophy bus.  See self paling now on floor in typed stream and surf but only from long day.  I don’t aim for any attention as some do, as I sometimes do, right now I’m just a candid compositional bandit, only unhurt for attention and potential ideas bartered, commuted.  Something like such.  The house quiet, wine opened and more expository, telling me to keep writing and stop with any distracting dote, even if it’s to find some synonym.  That’s not genuine, that’s in no way truth.  Polishing your prose is the same as excess oak or using some additive or “add” to make the wine more ‘something’.  Got it, I say back to the red in cup.  And about my night go.

Still feel that fog on face, smell the sidewalk of 30-something and Balboa, Anza, Clement.  SF has not just my heart and mind but functionally and make and a situational duality, dueling with any nay-say and self-doubt, and moment-to-moment hell cloud.  So now, ending day, night, readying for next day.  4am, challenging anyone who thinks they work “harder” or with more cored and ordered force than THIS writer.

Swear tomorrow I’m going to start inventorying.  Everything. 

All set for the day that is tomorrow.  Forcing self to rest, rest of night.  But now I find myself crowded in my own education, self-examination of my pages and what the world wants me to do with my words.  What I’m living is nothing like what people see in Syria… was just watching a doc on the civil peril there, and I had to turn it off.  Enthusiasm, I think… what I hold the highest herald for.  Thinking…. Was talking to a winemaker this evening, about wine and what his family history is, and what brought him to the practice of fermentation.  This writer needs to singularize, and its not something I need to wish for.  I already have everything, here, in the books. I study and lecture on.

And like that, quiet house.

Emma and J away with their grammy, and me at the desk, simple goals for day.. desk and workbench.. workout, write of course.. stories and stories and stories.  Did about 800 or so words in the 4AM hour (I think 887 is what I saw).  Now, to gym, work out early.  Maybe I shouldn’t cancel my membership.  Treadmills ARE good for speedwork, right?

Another item on list:  STUDY.  Everything from marketing to creative marketing to podcasting.. everything.  Work on YouTube channel, the meditation videos I do in the vineyard, the one I shot the other day in the parking lot at SRJC.  Lots to do today.  And I have plenty of time.  No excuses.  So here I bloody go.


me:  after run


Back on campus, in adjunct cell as a couple full-timers dominate the conference room with their conversation and self-assurance.. “Ugh, bleh,” I thought, and came here.  Acquired valuable info from SCOE, and away I go into my new teaching vignettes and chapters and full-blown memoir-ing.  3-shot mocha, need more energy, more caffeine—  Why is it so goddamn hot in here?

Should I just let the `1A-ers go after I collect the papers, or keep them for some discussion?  About the composition of their papers, the last grand piece of writing they submit this semester?  Not sure yet.  Come on, caffeine….!

Indented and with more formality I ignite a reflection and a reaction to my role as Educator.  There needs to be more creativity in my lessons, lectures, assignments and activities.  Reciprocally, there needs to be just as much innovation from the students; Just as much fervor, energy, direness and urgency.  But that’s wishlisting.  I need to be more creative when I meet the students where they are.  From this semester I’m walking away with a number of potentials, but foremost is reassurance.  A firm declaration that this, THIS, the educator’s role is my career.  Wine is a hobby.  And writing?  I will always write, no matter what I do.  Writing is just me.  I’m not a writer, I AM writing.  My own writing and voice, that will never change.  But in terms of a “job”, I’m teaching; sharing and exchanging ideas with other minds, thinkers, lives.

FOR TEACHING BLOG:  React to the work you submitted for your final larger piece of writing.  I’m not asking what you could have done better, or what you wish you would have done different, but to the process.  What you learned about the topic you chose, what you learned about yourself as a writer, student.  React to the act of composing this paper.  And going forward in your academic and/or professional careers, how do you think your new writing habits and visions, whatever they are, will materialize down the road?  Again, just react to the act of composition of this final paper.  What you learned, what you found, how you the author and student changed.  If you were truly passionate about your writing, the composition itself, both process and product, took on some life of its own and interacted with you.  What was in that interaction?

I’m nearly dreading the errors with mechanics and evidence support.  And not just with the 1A class, the 5 as well.  But I have to read them.  All of them.  Finding that sometimes I can teach more with evaluation of papers than I can do with my crazy charismatic Self in front of the student folk.

Need water.. to bookstore quick…

Still in classroom.  Waiting on Mr. A to drop off his paper.  Have to make a call at 5, though, possible freelancing gig.  We’ll see…  Wouldn’t it be amazing if this was the gig, the one writing assignment and opportunity that changes EVERYTHING?  Not getting hopes anywhere near an ‘up’.  Have to manage my own expectations.. okay, okay.. quiet in this room, and air-conditioned, unlike the bloody adjunct cell.  Sip my water, put down my phone— distracted by messages.. from wife, student, other people..  Compartmentalizing my realities.  They’re all a priority, but with differently shaped urgencies.  My role, educator, about be intensified and an intrinsic mentality in my business.  No wishes on lists, only realities so made.

10:21PM.  Now in house.  With night’s cap—  Coffee already made for morrow and in the cup or tumbler I found earlier.  Today.. more than just a victory for me, but a significant increase in elevation, my career educating.  Shit.. forgot to post to teaching blog.  Will do first thing in morrow.  Have alarm set for 4AM, but I’m not sure that’ll happen.  Or maybe it will.  Maybe I’ll wake at 3-something and not be able to fall back into any kind of sleep, and just stay up, write, write lectures, THE lecture, that will get me to the Road.  (Why couldn’t I have been graced with insomnia?)  And of course there has to be some turbulence, some bothersome blip, something.  But I push through it, focus on the morning, and the last sips of this nightcap.

Wish I could go outside on the patio, enjoy this night air, but I need to write, have to study a couple things.  My blogger buddy, posted he’s to be up at 3-something…  I need to be more competitive with my wakeup time, times.


Just before 7 woke. (freewrite, no edits) 

Double coffee brewed here in home, Jackie playing, Alice readying for her spin class, and a dastardly day ahead of the writer.  Not even a handful of us in the Room and several appointments on books.  But this could be an opportunity for me, the writing, the current book, somehow.  Check yesterday wasn’t bad, really.  Still not what I want to be making, but it’s something.

Read an article yesterday about getting up at 4 to work-out, and how it starts the night before, a few guys in a men’s health mag testifying to their methods and how they do it, how they’ve BEEN doing it.  Last night, I needed to relax, having a glass of the remaining T.R. Pinot and the last of the SB which amounted to about a glass.  If I set out everything tonight, running gear, charge watch for running (“Garmin”), socks and shoes, open laptop and have it charged, I should have an advantageously story-shifting set of moments come morrow—

new character:  young girl, photographer, working at bar in the city (SF), selling a photo here and there on the side to augment bar pay, tips, but nothing getting the attention she needs.  She’s only 21, but she knows what she wants, and the aim is singular and admirable— to photograph the world, all of it, even the parts where people say she shouldn’t go; that’s just where she wants to go, see, the suffering and pain and expose what humans do to each other and how it’s monstrous, inexcusable; she, Jewel, as well wants to see beauty of the world before it’s ruined by man; jungles in southeast Asia, South Africa, Yellowstone, the Everglades— she wants everything in her lens; she recently did a couple pieces she exhibited in SF, about the city’s Mission District, showcasing the beauties and dimensions and richness, and LOVE, of Latino culture, titling it “The Mission is LOVE”.  To her disappointment, she only sold a couple prints, but received high laud and compliment, love from the community—

Just writing about this new character idea has me thinking of changing my modes and exercises as a writer; write like a photographer, collection of snapshots, stills, portraits of people, things, places, create from more punctuated and precise singularity.  Wake earlier like photographers, write like them, examine my own work like them hunched over a shot with a one-eyed magnifying lens.—  huh, just hit 80,000 words in this document, titled ‘bottledaux, 2016…..’ So why no book?  There’s one coming.  Don’t go down that thought road, just write, gather later, enjoy your shots:  Jack, Emma, this street we live on, Russian River, Dutcher Crossing and what it’s done to me and how I appreciate and see the wine world.  Yesterday I built material with writing prompts and the isolated adjectives upon which to build, some of them being scribbled toward the end of day: ‘decided’, ‘layered’, ‘ravishing’, then a couple others I can’t read (hate when I can’t read my own scribbles—).

9:05 at Hopper sbux, should have ordered a straight coffee as I was initially compelled to do but I went for mocha, then waited which cost me I don’t know how many minutes, now I’m in the corner of the side nook with a wobbly table.  My price for not waking this morning at 4.  Listening to Hutcherson and he motivates the writer to just keep typing and ready for a busier than busy day.  But I’m not thinking about that now, this is my moment and set of moments, thinking about my character and her photographs, selling them one by one (or at least that’s her ultimate aim)— again teaching me, more than my past characters (Kelly, and I can’t remember the other one).  Kelly the painter was interesting but I couldn’t see her backstory, where she came from and if she even had a clear aim or sight for herself.

The 3-shot mocha’s hot and I need to temperature adjust with everything; my teaching, writing, lectures, blog content, photographs, and see wine as only something to enjoy, not stress over, ever.  Odd smell in this corner, what is that— never writing here again, ever—  Moved.  Homeless person’s articles were next to me, so now I sit next to someone else with a laptop but I don’t think he’s a writer.  ‘Fact I’m sure he’s not.  Busy spot this A.M., so many with a day off and I envy maybe a bit but then them pity a bit as they don’t have this, words or some elevated passion or fervor that coerces them to work at any opening seen.  That’s one thing I can declarative punctuate about this Self: he writes with every autonomous second, each tiny tick and clock tock.

18 minutes left for the writer, so he types like a mad hatter, a mad character from wonderland, entirely endemic to me and my mad people.  Another man enters nook, see first table to wall’s side, more awobble than the one I had, then he goes to the one I at sat, not liking lighting, nor smell, so he leaves.  The day’s story, this day, one of singularized and focused expansiveness, a lecture to itself and of its breadth and bravado— so what’s the point of the day’s lecture, its thesis?  I have to wait, but far as the writer can discern and calculate, to heighten the fire’s reaches, make my prose and verse more energetic, eclectic, electric, like this Hutcherson song, how the mallets hit what they hit and maybe there’s harmony, something for song, and maybe the opposite.  But there was movement, there was something done, there was an effort.

She looks through her pictures in the few minutes left before having to get in the shower, do her hair which she’s in no mood to do, more than likely will just tie it up, back.  One, of a boy playing with a soccer ball in an alley to the side of his family’s restaurant.. another, of a spilt garbage can, a rat approaching cautiously— last, of an elderly couple, man with his arm around his wife, but neither smiling, police car blurred behind them.   She closes her binder, laptop, writes a note to herself, “More street material, what the streets have in them, on them, what they’re made of.” She takes one more look at the binder, sees the shot of the old church on that one street, can’t remember the name— then her phone jerks, message: “can u come in early, trisha didnt show thx”.  Her eyes, roll, roll, breath, to shower.


I’ve reasoned a thorough cleaning of everything in the writer’s life, from the desk’s top, to my teaching, to my prose-form, to where and how I store my pens.  Everything.  Cluttered life is cluttered mind.  Something I used to tell or share with students.  Yet another preaching I rarely if ever practiced.

Spoke with another adjunct today about Bob Coleman.  She too studied under him.  I thought of him, his passion, presence.  That’s where I need to be— traveling overseas for research, collection of data, documents.  An academic, yes, but more so directly a serious, devoted thinker.

Like Bob.


…the ceaseless cascade of adjunct symptoms.  With education, studying it, you can move so vastly, and do more for your students I feel, where as with Lit and Composition, you’re, not to use too harsh a word, damned.  Okay then… confined.  I have to continue my studies, studying, being a student.  That’s the father I want my babies to have.  Wine doesn’t provide what education does, and when people in wine’s industry ever utter “wine education”, I have to laugh.  How serious can you take wine and this infernal ‘wine education’ push when all I see on social media and pictures on a website are people taking selfies, partying, posing comically or crudely…  It’s just such a fucking joke.  But I chose to be in it, yes, you’re right.  But I was forced to choose, from this adjunct’d reality.

Full-timers and adjuncts pass through this conference room.  I’m not leaving I don’t care who has a fucking meeting in here.  I want to teach, offer ideas, change.. something… change myself, reinvent myself as a winemaker/entrepreneur I know did after the age of 40.  When I think of how I fret about my age, I have to laugh a bit.. I’m 36, 37 later this year (May) and I’m not less passionate about my aims and reality and what I want to be, especially now with children.  I’m not resigning to this adjunct reality, what’s proscribed, prescribed, scribed.  I’m the scribe and I’ll be the one writing my story, educating myself along the way— teach, teaching, such a magical practice and transaction.  Both within one’s self and with matriculants.

The exhaustion is compromising, very much, my concentration.  It’s already 9:34, and I haven’t progressed as I’d like to with my work today, this morning, but at least I had a great meeting with the 5-ers.. need to check out the SF State program.  Right now I listen to full-timers gossip about their students in the mailroom, complain and accuse and more complaining, gripes about late submissions and what to give work handed in late.  Why not have a conversation with the student, or students?  I understand ‘talking shop’, but the tone and accusatory back-biting is unprofessional, and universally unethical…

More Days

Wine at this sitting, putting me in a mood of wondering and reaction, reflection, and probably IMG_6566something else I can’t now think of.  Sipping one of my ’12 Merlots.  Never tasted like this with it more poetic edge and ebb– ugh, told myself I wouldn’t write in blog tonight, that I’d produce something I could, and can–  typing in the “Study” of the Autumn Walk palace, now.  And I think about the music they were playing at the beer bar at Whole Foods, while I was waiting for our burritos– punk, loud, disorganized, would have killed for some Hutcherson– huh, this chair’s rather comfortable and accommodating, love it, and love this moment and how the wine flies through my system and senses and what I’m meant and made to think of…..

My articles.  Should work on them.  But not now.  Now’s for this freeing session and the thinking accompanying, and everything associated.  My wine in the kitchen and I can only think of how I have no money to self-publish, put my actual ‘yrownjoy’ efforts on actual page so I have to use this bloody blog.  Should make a publisher print my work, yes the traditional route, that’s what I IMG_6565should do, so I’ll do, that’s what I’ll do– the Massamen novel and go everywhere with it and my thoughts in it and this blog will work for the novels, only garnish them and further elucidate and punctuate my militant manuscript manner.  But the distractions.. I suppose part of life and part of the time I live in but it’s not an excuse, especially if I am truly a militant and highly disciplined writer.  Watching my steps with this new writing gig I landed through Shana, see where it goes but I have to finish a novel!  I thought to myself today, while drinking that IPA at Whole Foods, watching the guy tending the bar and the other employees working; moving boxes and helping frustrated customers like me who don’t have the patience or wherewithal to find the cereal on the cereal ISLE, and the man making the burritos:  What if I died and never finished a novel?  I felt instantly horrible, horrified, like I was IMG_6557really dying and I needed to get that goddamn thing done.  Not be distract by ANYTHING.  No short story ideas, no sketches or vignettes or short-shorts, nothing!  Not even poetry!  So I have a new plan: type the novel, quick, then print, edit minimally before, then send out, shop it; the novel about the adjunct in the East Bay who has to have two side jobs then discovers he wants to do something different, a bunch of something-different’s– but what and how, he’s getting old…  But he’ll do what he has to, to be the character and life he’s always thought– but then I think of the value of the short pieces, but how can I sell them?  Fuck my frustration and how it cripples me– what if I produce novels like other writers do short stories, poems, or short memoirs?  I can be that writer, right?  UGH.. how many times have I had this deliberation?!  So it here stops, halts and dies and is buried.

I quite like this study, if you must know, didn’t know how I’d feel about it as I love the kitchen island, but here I am, looking at a picture I took today of the Mendocino Ridge Pinot, 2013, I poured for myself toward the end of the day, before the blind tasting Mark (one of the winery owners) initiated for us, again.. this one a 2009 Pinot, RRV, from a producer I’d never heard of before.  I like it, I guess, but it was definitely showing its age and losing momentum, motivation for its own senses and purpose and sense of any purposeful positioning of purpose.  And I’m overthinking the entire wine life again, but that’s what I do– my novel, about the teacher at a community college leaving it all, to live a life of ONLY art.. no conformity, no following, no more fucking applications for anything.

The Pinot, the Mendo Ridge, telling a different perception to this sipper, a narrative I envy, frankly, and that I want to imitate.  Someone today even said it, and I could only laugh louder than I ever could aloud: “This isn’t light enough to be a Pinot.. this isn’t a ‘real’ Pinot.” What’s a “real Pinot”, I thought.  But then, yes, it’s subjective, I know.  But wine isn’t “supposed” to be anything.  I mean, how could you say that all Cabernets should do this, or all Pinot should have this feel to them?  That will never make sense to me, ever.  And the night grows and with me, with it, I become agitated and irritable, the cranky aging writer who hasn’t finished his goddamn novel.  But tomorrow that changes.  No shorts– no poems– no sketches or vignettes or even idea scribblings.. only the novel and the novel work log, like .. you know who.

And journal entries are to be kept to a minimum, no more than 300 words per act.  And no more than 3 a day!  I want to see how disciplined I can be as a writer, see how Hemingway I can become.  This house, now, quiet, and the lighting in this study, as I just told Ms. Alice, perfect.  Lit but not too beaming that I’m squinting or wishing it were more dim, more ambient or whatever I need.  I don’t even know what I need.  Or.. yes, yes I do.  My novel.  Done.  Write in one place, just one, and have it published, and all the full-time pigfuck professors at the JC and Sonoma State and wherever will have nothing to say– an adjunct fled, with writing, and nothing else.  He doesn’t TEACH writing anymore, or reading.. he actually does both.  For a living.  Travels.  Lives.  Assigns his own assignments.  And nothing else.  I rub my eyes, and forehead.. I’m tired, but still more than angst-angled with my characters and what they want to do– list, wish list, me always–  Wine stained pages always aid for such discord.



1,000 words to novel this morning. Alice and little Kerouac are at her, Alice’s friend’s house for a morning workout and for Jack to play with their daughter on some incredible swingset. And I’m here with my coffee that I rushed to get at the Hopper Whore House, that corporate coffee brothel– MY mood this morning, calm but determined.. making sure I stay in this novel.. so the novel, this journal or blog, then the ‘yrownjoy’ pages.. I’ll sell those. I can’t write on command, or do contract copy work. 1, I don’t have the time to research how to post and the website hosting and research Trip Advisor and Yelp reviews.. that won’t get me into the pages of the Paris Review, or the New Yorker, or the NYT.. that’s not who I want to be. Hope Shana won’t be mad, but I have to prep for summer alongside my personal writing aims.
Mom read one of my entries from the other day and is convinced my rattle warns predators and anyone around me away. Maybe that day, but this morning not so. I know who this writer is and I know what I see, I know what Emerson inferred about Poets and Scholar and those paragraphs sync with my scope, certainly. And another note: I get frustrated when my blog doesn’t function as I want it to, and now I’d have to learn some other site’s innerworkings? When does the writer have time for that?
Should get in the shower. Can’t wait to have some of that coffee today, at work, the type the chef brought down from the kitchen.. need to find out what type, take a still with my phone and buy some for this Autumn Walk base– oh Autumn Walk.. we have such a story to write.. I can see now: me here, writing full-time, having the whole day here in my new home to finish chapter and drink coffee like it’s something healthy to do and listen to hours of Hutcherson, Davis, Monk, Rollins….. Then when 5 arrives, open a Sauv Blanc, have Mom and Dad over, just as Alice and Jack get home, then we’re out front on the porch watching all the other children occupy and infest the small street. There’s a story here, one building, one rebuilding and nurturing, promulgating for my pages…..

8:44.. have to get ready soon but I don’t mind, and that’s one of Zen’s intentions as I understand it or at least the intention behind its practice, idea and place, no? Je dois étudier plus. (I have to study more.) Of everything: Zen, French, Literature, Theory, teaching, Kerouac and Hemingway and Sedaris and Plath.. Poe.. Faulkner….. Be a student, a real student again!

So quiet in the Autumn Walk zone, now, and I think about how hot it’s to be today. How busy the Room may be and how wonderful Chardonnay would taste if this heat were with me in Sunriver, with Mom and Dad or in Paris, or in India, in a highrise like Amber had.. think Alice & J are home, shift–