No nap, today, fought against pull and push to do so. Thanksgiving over, wife out shopping at one of those shopping special eve whatever’s. Me, home. Wine. Just finished glass of Claret. The night passed with such cruel progression. Indifference. Babies asleep upstairs. What movie do I watch, my dilemma. My life’s trouble. Think of how fortunate I am with my family and to have such family, to be sitting where I am, here on this we seek to shed, new one one the way… Day of giving thanks, I need to show more giving of thanks, being thankful.

Tonight, I do intend exploring more wine. No aim to wake at 4am or 4:10 like this day. No. I may actually just sleep in. I will. What do I mean, “may”? May have to punch out. Take the night as it approaches me, describe and translate it, or in such order reversed… then wake tomorrow with more thought. More story. More ME. Tired now, forgetting I’ve been up since 4-something. Think 4:10. Has it been that long? Yes. It has. Me, that writer. Now. Time to Self and I sip wine and be here, writing. A writer.

Does the writer want apple pie or Chardonnay? Both sound like they sound, their own precise appeal and connection. I’m not torn between both but urge to be curved by both, somehow. 9:08. Feel like bed but I won’t. I can’t. But more, I refuse. Why can’t I be a human, just have dessert or drink wine. Is it that complicated? Are my thoughts the hinderance, the block and or impediment? I think it may be just that. Not in any kind of a writing swoop, and I can’t figure anything of it out. How does pine figure. What type a figure be me, I, this writer.

I feel like I’m not doing a thing, while doing too much. A mess. Should have taken a nap.

Dad a Day

Labor Day.  A day of no labor but lots, in the parental province.  Opened a bottle I technically shouldn’t have, I guess.  A Lancaster ’11, Nicole’s, but I’m utterly unconcerned as it was a day, with my son acting defiant as ever then sweet then separatist again, the to that apologetic and contrition-driven wee at whom we can’t be mad.  So I’m here on the floor as the writing father wondering what I could have done better or more efficient, or more parental to make the day go smoother.  No answer, poor yourself another glass.  It’s Labor Day, you should be relaxed, relaxing, not stressing or working but here you are writing your article after a day that’s divided your composition as a parent and writer.

The TV’s on and I’m for some reason watching those BRAVO Housewives shows.  Two locations, or casts.  I’m not this kind of parent, or as wild and divided as them.  And by divided I mean by what I say and what I actually enact in life.  This is Labor, watching this.  So why am I.  Good question.  More a statement than anything else, and that statement to myself is, again, don’t think as I do to a point of overthinking, to a point of depriving myself of enriching and encouraging gems.  To much labor bleeds out love.  And that’s not life, no life at all, but a dull stale crostini of an existence.  I turn off the TV, don’t even put any music on, and think more of the day.

Jackie must be merely testing, seeing what kind of voice he can have.  He’s smarter than us, I see now, testing his actions and internally graphing and tracking our reactions.  Pouring myself another glass after grasping my wife and I have been taken, duped, been puppets.  Oh, but we’ll learn from this, more than likely more her than I.  She’s much more efficient an internal educator, in this house, than her husband who can’t help but chuckle and bend over in giggle whenever he mocks us or does something clownish.  I need to work on that, I know.  More labor from me needed in the parental patch.  But, I can’t overthink it some tell me while others say I need to be more serious and think more about my presence in his, and his sister’s.

Wasn’t at either “work” today but I was on the clock from before seven this morrow all the way till about 90 minutes ago (just after 9PM).  With this quiet, I enjoy a vacation, but I’m thinking of what I can do to be more a steadfast and studious dad.  Overthinking?  Maybe.  But I don’t know what else to do.  I have to keep moving, and with another sip from this bottle I think I maybe shouldn’t have opened but “aged” a bit longer.  Who cares.  I’m being dramatic like those BRAVO twits.  So I stop.  Remind myself I’m Human, and thank this penner and the day for the day.  Have another abyssal englut, and stop thinking so much.


Ainsi, le Vin

Reminded today that wine is about life— a tidal wave of vivacity and expression, music, love, and communication.  Lunch with Paul M., sandwich I’d never before had at Dry Creek paired with that Pinot Blanc from Michele-Schlumberger, and the interaction that transpired, following more reflection in head that precipitated on ride to the delicatessen.  My vision was full, as it is now, love and life in this log, this essay of a writing father trying to fit everything in— sitting on floor or living room while wife and babies upstairs sleep, me with this gifted Pinot from PM— huh, just realized, ‘PM’, time of day I’m most essayist, and most internally narrative.  Haven’t seen my friend in over five years, we agreed, when I once saw him out on a town night in Napa of all places— and I say ‘of all places’ postured to me, as I’m never there, PM’s home enclave.  Nothing abbozzo in my life, currently.  All I sketch or paragraph I need release, not just from the interstellar adoration of wine and sentences, but from the commitment, my immovable sight in the atmosphere around me— from when I walk the vineyard on other lunch breaks to when the writer’s seated on the wood floor of his Autumnal Walking base, sipping a Papapietro Perry Pinot, listening to music at the end of an other wise carousel humdrum day.

Also reinforced with the 16th of août, my afflicting affection of so many things in being alive.  All around me.  As stated with those walks in the Chardonnay and Cab, and Rhône blocks, at Dutcher, wine directs me to certain certainties that are difficult to delineate give the qualification I’ve imbibed this eve.  Love and living in this page, and all from where the writer lives, what he sips, the music listened— some mix tape from Thievery Corp’, if I’m not so off.  Quiet down here for the writing father— another sip.  This write is free, I’m free, and that’s my right as writer.  Consider this a direct and staunchly tied reverberation from the conversation with my brother Paul.  Sipping the Pinot again and as I tilt back and the light from this laptop extends to the bottom hemisphere of the Govino glass and into my eyes, hearing this obscure track, I think I’m on the Road, traveling, somewhere, writing about wine and all the yay-saying tellings of its voice and cultured angularity.  “This doesn’t have to be a ‘dream’.” Wine says.  And I agree.  Wine with its love shoves me to a savory reality— romantic Hemingwayan notions and Plath pulses, my Feast so Moveable and my Bell Jar fuller than full.

And it’s again reiterated my the components of my moments that this is the mode I’ve chosen.  Writer in and of wine.  So.. recite more.  Keying my notes for the next noted key in my fermented free.  If I would have had more time at lunch, who knows what we would have webbed.  But that’s a wish.  Wine’s at my right, or left, or right, to actualize.  No need to act in a guise.



A New Bridge, Written for Me

Yoakim Bridge Vineyards and Winery Reaction—

Again exploring my valley, Dry Creek, and en fin decided to stop at Yoakim Bridge Vineyards and Winery.  Quaint and contained tasting room with a gentle atmospheric allure that someone like me can only take to, be eager to taste through the flight and further settle into the property and story.  Was auspicious enough to have Virginia, one of the owners pour for me.  With convivial smiles and bright wooing dialogue she poured the first offering, a 2013 Dry Creek/Sonoma County Zinfandel.  Already, the narrative was paginated, that this is a wine producer that couriers not just a ‘sense of place’ as people say about their own wines, but truth of varietal, valley and county, the winery’s inviting octave.  Then the same Zin, 2012, transitioning to an ’11 Petite Sirah which has the most resplendent and magnetic initial attractiveness of I think any PS I’ve ever tasted.  Then concluding with the Merlot.  A 2010 which has a distinguished tasty ardor and accent to its notes and song, general poetry— and oh did it convince me.  Had to walk away with a bottle before walking around the vineyard, checking out the Zin vines just outside their little tasting room which felt more like an artisanal boutique of some kind.  There’s nothing template about Yoakim, only romantic echoes that will follow you home.  And their wines will age, if you’re the character to lay your bottles for a few.

I plan on opening my bottle tonight, I’ll be frank.  And what will I write to it?  One side of me says ‘Has to be poetry” while the other hemisphere screams for inexhaustible paragraph deluge.  Anymore, it really is a strain to find any winery that will provoke me to write, buy a bottle take it home and scribble or type further.  This little preeminent spot succeeded, with jitterbugging exponents.  Could be back tomorrow, who knows…  But for tonight I’ll concentrate and center my thinking in the bottle I bought, the stories Virginia told me about her partner, David, how tirelessly he works in the vineyard and during harvest time (her story from ’03), her family and what brought them to Dry Creek.  I think of what brought me there, which was all the praise I’d hear around the valley and county, how what I heard aligned not even a little to what I experienced— what transpired between Virginia, Dave, and I in the tasting was so much more enriching.  I wasn’t being sold, I wasn’t being taught, I knew people with the same fermented fervor and love as me.  And a new place which has beneficially emboldened my wine story and pursuits.  Merci!  Merci beaucoup!

4:13— late lunch at winery, so I’m in the office of the club manager, one I occasionally share with when having copywriting to do.  Had a snack earlier, so no need for the writer to eat.  I mean, I would have a snack if I had one, but since I don’t I’m fine with just doing some work for bottledaux, writing a bit, going through the pictures I took earlier.  It’s clear to me, after pouring what I did today for whom I did, people from out-of-state, that I will always be here in CA, in Sonoma, and my ultimate of ultimate apexing aims is to own a vineyard, a winery, possibly even with a farm element to it (goats, sheep, horses, whatever).  Think I have till 4:20-something for lunch, but I can’t remember, and it doesn’t matter as I came in earlier for writing-purposed proposed purposes.

Huh…  Now I am starting to feel a form of famine, catching myself yawning, or rubbing my eyes, or my attention wandering, or too easily getting distracted by the conversation in the next room…  I rub my eyes again, yawn… shit, I need something to eat.  Think there’s some crackers left in the kitchen.  Having pizza tonight to celebrate the end of Alice’s school year, and for the Warrior’s game tonight, not sure I can wait till then.  Yes, the hunger is definitely influencing my concentration.  Maybe I should have a sip of something to “numb the pain” as my an old friend said once, years ago when I worked with him at another winery, telling each other repeatedly how disgustingly hungry we both were.  Think that was in ’09, or ’10.  So, so, SO long ago.  That too happens when I get hungry, dwelling and tangents, memories that lead to tangents that dwell on some random memory or conversation— think I see someone in the kitchen, eating something or having a snack.  I may be saved!  Hem said hunger’s great inspiration or motivation— NO, it was discipline.  And it is, but it fucking hurts.  And now I am definitely feeling that pain, or discomfort.  Wine would only make it worse.  What about water?  Grandma once told me water numbs hunger, or makes you feel like you’re full, something like that.  Maybe that’s what I should do— have a couple of those crackers and a shitload of water.

Need to market my freewriting course obnoxiously.  Keep my pitches short, and lessons loose and not too constrictive.  In other words, if lecture 8 is about dialogue, let the students know that we don’t only have to talk about dialogue.  Yes, that will be the nucleus of the lecture, its epicenter, but the ONLY aspect of prose we discuss.

4:23…  Yes, they have food.  I need food.  The wind outside distracts me, how it pushes the vines one way then another.  Have so much to do tonight.  Need to put myself to bed early, make coffee like I did last night, pour it into tumbler, be ready for early morrow.

More ideas about freewriting course.  The hunger fades—  Huh.


NaNoWriMo so

…a family.  ‘ME’ is me but not.  At the end of a torturous eight hours at the winery, pinned behind the tasting room, I sit in the condo’s study and relax, ignoring the copywriting work I have on my plate, I’m just far too fractionalized for such attention.  I merely have to let mind wander and wonder about this portrait.. the me in this frame, the me now at 36 at my age and what it’ll all be like when.. when.. why say ‘when’.

…goddamnit I think of my poems and verses, the two I wrote this morning on my phone while waiting for my 3-shot mocha.. taking an inventory, both for sale.  I have to subscribe myself to my own subscription.. everything I write is inventoried and on the shelf for vend.

…on vacation in Montana of all places, a cabin removed but not too much so, and surrounded by wildlife and trails for us to traverse, and for me to run early in the morning.  I guess the conflict is no where in my mind as I can only write how wondrous the country is and what we do there, the theatrical peace about its facets.  and I’ve never been to Montana, just did tidal waves of research–  I challenge myself to get to 500 words, then 1000, then 1500.  Then I stop, open another bottle, red, this one a Cab, and have only a little glass

…no reason not to laugh, not to smile and know where I am and what I’m doing in this wined story.  I look down at my lap, the part of my leg barely showing to the left of the laptop, covered by pajama leg, the black and white and grey checker pattern.  I should go to bed, I should, especially if I’m to write that newsletter for client, but I’m too into this story, the Montana cabin, walking with my family, my children, and wishes wishes, doors opening and closing, this inventory of poems and how those poems and verses worthy of voice could do something for me, for this, this story–  I think of that Kerouac poem where he recites about where I grew up, San Francisco down to San Carlos and all the people walking around, the sounds of the train and the restaurant at the station, people eating breakfast and the scents of English muffins lightly doused in butter.  I go to my lunch breaks when working at the box, typing like a thinning fiend at one of those tables to another 3-shot mocha–

2:21PM. Still sick, but

better after nap. Coffee.. trying to download this newsletter thing and of course it’s not cooperating. Says that I may have to pay? Yeah, then nogo, as my budget is in an envelope upstairs for my blog/startup/vision/dream/whatever/slef-publishing freedom whatever. Thinking about the last winery and how I’d be there normally now, and so glad I’m not– always with a knot in my stomach and always with nonsense, nonsense there following me. I’m here, at Arista (not now physically of course, but comfortable and in a breeze everconstant of Zen. Have the heater on a little as the adjunct experiences chills, not severe ones but just enough to notice I have them.. have to get ready, Alice and I to look at a house off Fulton.. see how it shines in the presence of the others over there. Alice loves the house but the garage style is something that I guess concerns me. We’ll see. Adjunct thinks about tomorrow, how there’s no class, but if he feels up to it, he’ll wake at the same time, write, grade, post to teaching blog.. maybe he shouldn’t do a newsletter for his creative writing or Life blog, or the teaching blog. That’s just one other thing to manage, right? He’d post a letter, no more than 500 words to both sites, both their own ‘management’ form. He looks back through his photos, the IMG_0855last winery.. should I take a shot at them? No.. please, he thought. “What would that do but just cause more trouble and if he were to cite them fictionally, then there would be not fallout or repercussions.. he’d be forever triumphant and blameless! Find picture.. my dear friend, my fellow Beat, Dav, when we’d all go across the street to the Kenwood for an afterword calmer. Dav and I haven’t exchanged our huge letters in some time. Now realize, coming across this old photo, my beloved friend, that those are the only letters I’ll write– Kerouac didn’t write bloody newsletters outside his projects, neither did Plath, Hem, Joyce.. none! That’s off my consciousness– I will market myIMG_5067 Self and my blogs and the writings in them by brickNmortar means. Watch, I’ll be victorious like no one else has with such pushes, efforts.. IMG_50692:36.. go.. will let you know what I think…. House was more agreeable than I ever thought to measure. Barely able to finish entry, though.. feeling the cold’s rebuild and re-assault. I’ll be in bed before 8, easily. Chicken noodle soup helped, but I still have those landmark aches, foggyhead associated with a cold, flu. Hope it’s not that. Goal: better for tomorrow’s RRV mission.

Re-blended Blend

Tonight, writing freely.  Won’t touch book till Tuesday morning.  Hoping to run in earliest of morrows, tomorrow.  No matter how drained I seem.  Took home a bottle of Merlot tonight.  Already opened, but nearly 100% full.  Complete glass to right.  Plath to left.  First piece of memorable dialogue this morning, the only except worthy of record, for day’s whole: one of the stockers, a 20 y/o JC student, quoting this morning’s poem back to me, approaching, repeating “whisked white whispers.” Made my whole day.  Was nearly tempted to leave early, pretend I was sick or something, flee to nearest coffee spot to write.

More punchdowns this evening, after a glass of this same Merlot.  I noticed the aromatics intensifying, the temperature contrasts more pronounced.  And the color, differentiating in intensity, barrel to barrel, trapping me.  Again, with winemaking ardency, insistence.  Love the way the cap looks, above the juice, and how the juice looks when rising through the skins.  The process, more than the finished product…  Always animated, for me.  Just took first sip of this glass, and still quite impressed.  Wish I could have bought my Merlot, but I’m moving forward with this 2013 Meritage.  Need to think of my own suggestions for this Bordeaux blend they’re doing.  I don’t want to be in their way, with no contributing ideas.  The most recent issue of WineMaker Magazine, just above Merlot glass, here on table.

Can still smell skins on hands,

fermenting pools.

Gorgeous vampiric strips.


Ms. Plath, on the cover of her collected poems publication, staring right at me, telling me to stay focused, be an Artist.. write your poems, and now that the first chapbook is finished.. bloody release it!  Time, readers, 8:51pm.  Always looking at time, so how free am I in this writing?  Only one more glass after this, then to decaf.  Have to run, everyday this week, M-F.  Just set two alarms: 1, 4:15am; 2, 5am.  Met a gentleman today, visiting with his wife from New York (Staten Island), who runs all days of week, waking at 4am.  Wish I could do so.  Well, tomorrow’s my chance to try– or do.  No “try” for this penner, never.  Not at 34.


iconic, but off to drop it– what,

the pouring, to coffee’s sleeves,

no, my inner incline never resigns,

please.. to cold to fold2mold, poetry my

sole street.


Again, so thankful to the coworker this morning, reciting my lines.  What’s more remunerative for the Artist?  Plath, still looking at me.  Should open her book–

“All the Dead Dears,” first piece I see.  Interesting, her reflection on artifacts captured, how they’re seen, and what we should think of her, Plath, observing it.

Social media, anything technological.. disgusting, too easily infusing.

Not may notes from day.  Actually, only a couple lines added to a poem I started a couple days past.  Didn’t date, so certainty’s only a wish.  Thinking the next release should be a collection of poems and not the flash fiction effort I before pinned.  What do you think, reader?  Ms. Plath, too much in this writer’s wheel, winds.  So tell me then, what do I do?

“Do what you feel to write,” I hear Grandma saying.  “It’s your Life, you have your choice.”


Prison de Poésie

Survived Reserve Room today.  Not that there was much to ‘survive’.  Another calm Thursday.  Tonight, fit in 5 miles, over 40 minutes [almost exactly].  Another strong sprint, thankfully.  On run, thought of ideas for standalone short stories– which, by way, didn’t get a chance to edit yesterday’s finished piece.  No matter, will do tomorrow.  Didn’t get lunch today, so I wasn’t able to touch Comp Book, even once.  Made a couple notes for this semester’s lectures.  12 days till day1.  project R continuing, forever.

Sipping a glass of the blend I last night popped.  Was going to open the Central Oregon beer from Mom, finally taking it home tonight, right after work.  But, saving for tomorrow.. Friday, my TUESDAY.  Been thinking about boats, traveling on one.  Nothing too extreme, just getting away.  Or maybe I DO want to do something extreme, like sail around the world.  But wouldn’t that be dangerous?  How about sail up and down the west coast?  Up alongside Canada, land in Alaska where I could do some writing, staring at colossal ice chunks falling into frigid Pacific.  Would want to take Jack, Alice, on such a mission.  Don’t want to experience every adventure pushing pages onward alone.  That I know.  Some Road ventures, yes, I need to be the solitary scribe.  But not all.  Especially with my Literary Shape.  It requires characters, and who more motivating than little Kerouac?

On run, heard this one instrumental, managed to recite2Self a little on-spot verse-ing.  Can’t remember rhyme content, any of my words [most of which took place between Yulupa & Tacheva and Yulupa & Bethards, which is a couple blocks of inner poem..].  After this entry, to yellow sheets.  Goal: 1 verse.  No more.  How long will this eve’s verse be?  Depends on when I want to stop, I guess.  Has to be over 16 lines, though.  Setting realistic aim for night.


See what I produce.  How many standalone pieces/tracks.  I sign-in after this entry.  This’ll be good for me, I know.  Poetry always finds me, no matter where I am.  Short story ideas, journal urges, don’t stop me the way rhymes do, the pull to poem.  In these 7 days, I want a book of poems DONE.  My time “budget.”

Tonight, free, a free night to contribute to the project, get a head start on this dash.  What if I write something that’ll change me, my Life, put me INSTANTLY on the Road?  So, only think in poem.  Doesn’t always have 2B rhymed, but don’t dismiss words that for such a marriage.  Want Jack to see me as a successful writer, one with unique practice and gift.

AMENDMENT:  I’ll only write prose for blog, at day’s end, to report what I’ve done, what I’ve written; how many tracks I’ve finished for day.  Can just see Self, reciting to crowds in places I never thought I’d visit.

ALSO:  Everything handwritten.  Pen2Paper.  IF the focus is Poetry, you must live and practice the poet’s Life, minimizing if not abolishing technology.

28 lines, written.  Filling full legal pad page.  Bonne nuit!



8/9/13 — Day1, poetry prison.  Scattered rhyming today.  Busy at winery.  Finally opened the Central Oregon beer.  Quite the creeping presence, I must say.  Tired of the news I’m watching.  Think it’s time for night’s cap, then sleep.  Early up in morrow, to write, for my caffeinated verse compositions.  Haven’t done an inventory yet, for this ‘3[+]4 project’.  But I think I have somewhere between 2&4 standalones.  Before work tomorrow: 1 new track.  And with my rimed speeches, before this new semester begins, bolder in my statements, target addresses.  Just opened black&white Comp[book].. forgot I scribbled a couple lines before clocking.  This night’s cap [Little Sumpin’], only slowing me.  Need caffeine.  Can’t wait for morrow.

Topping my wines.. tomorrow, somehow.  After I scribe those incessant letters.

NEW PRISON LAW:  blog entries, no longer than 300 words.

Tired.  A writer just wanting to relax.  Lay on other timezones‘ beaches.  Not write, not think.  Just horizontal.  Sip coldest of ice-waters.  No alcohol.  Want to remember, be able to summon all this whenever I select.

Off device.  Returning tomorrow, to legal sheets, as I did this morning with blackest of beautiful coffees.


8/10/13 — Day2, poetry’d incarceration.  More scattered rhymes at work, but some I really like, actually.  Ran 4 miles after work, averaging just under 8min/mi.  Think I had 7:58/mi.. again, I think.  Before bed tonight, inventory of pieces so far finished in prison.  Had a former student, from this past semester [100 section], visit winery today, part of larger group.  One person in this 11-person crowd, the cellar master from AV Winery.  Made my day, honestly.  The former students girlfriend complemented me, saying what a profound influence, difference I had on this young man (Mr. W).  I didn’t know what to say, honestly.  Only knew what to say to Self, really, internally:  “This is what you were meant to do.. this matters.”

Five of these small square cookies, decaf cup at right.  Wasn’t in mood for wine, beer.  Need to be focused, finish projects, change what is.  Tomorrow morning: run w/Carmen.  Howarth Park, 6:30.. target, 5mi.  And I HAVE to top my wines tomorrow.  No fail, seriously.  Don’t know why I didn’t do it today, at lunch.  Not sure if it was laziness, or I forgot.  Or I was hungry.  The latter, I’m sure.  Tomorrow, singing differently.

Finding these evening sessions harder to get through.  Limited stimuli.  Why I need the Road, horribly.  On run, lowering sun, and while jogging down Woodview, saw the suns florescent magenta shape boasting as it lowered.  Was tempted to surrender mid-run, just watch it fall.  But no.  Stayed with mission.  Want to see lowering suns in other countries, in other world corners.  Tired of wishing, though.  Need to leave, force that change.  How?  Just going to keep writing till it happens.  Documenting everything on this log.

Think I might have around 4-5 standalone tracks since putting Self in this versed composition cell.  Have to transfer what I wrote today in the little pages, to the legal pad.  Those yellow pages are the launching station to this laptop.  Want to see everything written, first.  2LIVE as a POET.

That question, always thrown at me, “What do you write?” My new response to the idiotic probe: “LIFE.” Where are my little pages?  Ugh, here I go once more…  In bag, of course.  Thought of course theme for English 5, “Authorial Acquaintance.” Objective: to really know the Author we’re reading, meeting, engaging.

Tomorrow, my Thursday.  Lots 2do, with letters I have to write, topping wines, other tasks.. never enough time.  Think I want another cup.  Why not?  It’s Saturday night.  Wait, is it…  Yes.  Hate the days mismatch.  Run tomorrow.. what am I running for? Ideas, always.  This change in my character, never saw coming.  That is, what a devoted/obsessive runner I’ve become.  Should find another race, a 10k, to do by month’s end.  Only 6.2 miles.. could do that sleeping.  No, but I COULD do it unprepared, as I’m always in “training” mode, now, with these consistent dashes.

Making 2nd cup.  Need it.  Staying up as long as I can, to write.. fit in another track for this ‘3[+]4’ project.


8/11/13 — Day3.  As my own warden, I’m allowing mySelf a couple minutes of journal time this morning.  Time.. 6:47a.  No Lawndale, as piece didn’t align as I them needed this morrow.  No morrow, doing the long run after work.  Hoping for a short standalone before leaving home today.  Already sipping coffee.  Need to.  Kerouac was up just a couple ticks after 6.  Last night’s run, so short, don’t anymore feel it, like I did the 10miler I the other day feat’d.

Today:  Letters, barrels, 3 poems.  All while at Estate.  Have to draw from what’s there, the nearly 2,000 acres of material for this writer.  Last night’s inventory, after the 20-liner I rushed before 11pm: 5 standalones completed in this metered penitentiary.  Want 24-26 total.  This isn’t going to be a huge release, and it’s not supposed to be.  Want to deliver precisely how I think.. and I so do in bursts, moment-based reactionism.

8:37am.  The obsessiveness really bubbles this morning.  Quite tempted to leave early today.  And I still may.  Bringing legal sheets in case.  Already have some lines, rimes on page this A.M.  A little perturbed about not going this morning for the Howarth/Spring Lake sprint, but I have to let it go.  A whole day’s ahead of the writer.  A whole day of incessant questions on wine, what they’re “supposed to be tasting.” Getting a bit tired of it.  And the instance yesterday with Mr. W., still quite prevalent in head.  Know what I’m supposed to do.  Class starting in 9 days.  More than ready.  Almost unhealthily eager.  Patience, Mike, PATIENCE.

Off to estate.  Tired.  Need mocha.  4shots, probably, even after two cups brewed here in base.  Too much in sight.  Need to relax, embrace this angst, or stress [if that’s what you’d call it]– no, eagerness– rather than fight it.  OR struggle with it.  Writing in what little free time I have IS my “genre.”


9:20pm.  7.52mi on Lawndale run, in 58:15 [7:45/mi rate].  More than satisfied.  Last guests this day: 2 younger female characters from the city.  One, “A,” more than comely, quite encouraging as we shared ideas on ambition, entrepreneurship.  We both agreed that merely “going for it,” much I cringe with that verbage, is best for the Artist, characters set on having their own lucrative corner.  Knowing I’m still very much in poetry prison, I’ll be “posting” every poetic thought, rime, verse, line, metered arrangement to these screens.  One I thought of, before that infamous hill where I was last time–when I challenge Lawndale alone, only 2B–accosted by pesky bees:  ‘Cowardly Lawndale bees, if only they could read these seeds, pummeled by cacophonous breeze..’

Home, sipping an ’09 single-vineyard Cab.  Surprised by its grip, frankly.  Probably won’t be the writer’s only glass.  So relaxed, surveying Self with much higher pleasure.. not overthinking anything.  In fact, no thinking at all.  Just writing, as I told “A,” just after 5pm.  She confided a fear of writing, I told her to just write.  What I didn’t tell my ineffable new ambitious ally: the writer doesn’t always put into motion what he promotes.  But, if you’re reading, that changes this night.  With this writer’s ’09 glass.  Actually, it’s getting a bit low, in honesty.  Refilling soon.

Thinking of class, 9 days.  Almost completely at ready.  Would put Self around 80% “prepared” [hate that word, too].  This devil laptop, moving again slow.  Should be writing on legal sheets.  But I need this read, what I’m thinking.  Want you to see my pace.  I’m not thinking.  I’m writing.

‘Cause.  Writers.  WRITE.

Impasse, no.  Not now.  Not tonight.  And no, I didn’t top my barrels.  Maybe tomorrow morning.  But I did write 4 letters, however.  Hate writing those bloody things.  Moving a pen for anything other than MY pages SICKENZ me.

Today’s tips, to 2nd envelope.  Have near $1,000 in ‘startup’ tenders.  Holding onto them, though.  Actually, pretending they don’t exist.  I try, quite painfully, intently, to pretend they don’t exist.  Want to start my career as a “professional”– no, SELF-sufficient– writer with either $0 or coins from the German mug’s coins, upstairs in office.

Trying to sedate Self through sentence, but TV’s still on.  These shapes, death.  Even more so than overthinking, the inaction it begets.  In moments, 1 last Cab glass.  Poetry prison, even with prose.  Tired writer.  Lawndale’s ripples, being felt.  Should touch my syllabi, really quick.. hold on–  Editing 2B done.  Ugh.. with my thought stream, editing not needed, not in next “post.” Hate that word more than I want to confess.  How about, simply, ‘entry’?

10:18pm.  The writer, depleting.  Need that final ’09 pour.  And to turn this devilish chatterbox [ugh] off.  Final pour, finally poured.  Can’t get the new character’s positivism, fervor, endorsement from head.  Listening to Thievery, seeing office on Sonoma’s Square, or Napa’s downtown, so those devils would have to face the writer.  In definite poem mode.  Want readers, other writers, to know what I’m thinking, what words with which I toy, right up until I’m in departure.  So am I wasting time writing this prose, these long sentences, succeeding paragraphs?  No.  Just gambling.

Over 2,000 words to edit.  How did I let this happen?  Especially when I’m supposed to be in PoetryPRISON?  As always, 2morrow’s coffees already call me.  This wine, not liking my attention diverted.  Do I run tomorrow?

Kelly.. what happened to us?  I used to write you all days.  My fault.  Don’t see Self suited4Fiction.  You’re proof.  What are you doing?  Are you still painting in your studio, sketching in your hotel Rooms when touring, away on business trips?  Where was you last visit?  What songs are you listening to while you paint?  What wines have you opened lately?  Write when you can..

Why does Fiction have to be so hard for this verse-ist?  I’m overthinking.  Just fictionalize present, if you want done a novel, or short as you the other day did.  Almost forgot about that piece, curse me…