Never Done

img_1338Need another sip of this Dutcher Crossing Chard.. the Stuhlmuller.  No, a full glass.  Then relax.  Can write all morning, tomorrow, with wife and babies gone.  Coffee… already thinking about my coffee. MY travels… videos of the vineyards and people writing with me in them.. who wants to write with me in the vineyards?  Just a pen, Composition Book or Legal Pad, or whatever.. just writing in the vineyard.  Shit.. would do that tomorrow but it’s supposed to rain all bloody day— are you kidding me?  Now I really need another glass of wine.

Have second glass, and I’m without a thing to say.  Could be the hour, could be that espresso shot wearing off… who knows.  Tired of using ellipses between sentences.  Feel’s thought it’s a cop-out.  OR just fucking lazy.  The wine makes more boldness teach itself to be bold.  A postmodern ardor that’s truly unstoppable, like Plath poetry and all related.  This writer suddenly feels inner-yodels to be more confident and instructional in his writing.  Wish I could pull an all-nighter as I did in college.  Watch the sun come up and know I did something extraordinary, that few people on the planet have ever, EVER, done.

This Chardonnay, a planet to every palate, disclosing complexities and varying languages as it lands and runs away, returns with the sip next to orate its varied and contained thesis.  I’m motivated by what I sip as I am hardly ever by a Chardonnay.  I do feel the effects of what I’ve sipped but I’m still on this floor, after over 1,000 words written prior and still in my syllabic stampede.  This second glass will most plausibly be my last.  Looking left, see son’s shoes… oh shit, I’m a daddy… this writing has to sell.  How can I relax?  I have to work.  Tomorrow morning, I’ll write a fucking book.  I have to.  Bills, bills…. Kids, kids… shit, there go the ellipses, again.  Who on this planet thinks, let alone writes, like this?  I’ve mad gone— gone.  Another planet, on…

Office.  Typing.  Finished the first ‘vino page a day’. 

img_1301Let’s see if I follow-through with actually selling them.  Need to look through pics from this morning, walking that block off Dry Creek Road.  Feel a little tired, post-cold, post-yesterday when I was visibly sick and kept working through the day.  30 minutes isn’t enough, but it’s what I have to work with and I work. Staring at the three ‘Debate’ bottles.  Can’t decide which is my favorite.  My buddy, the cellar master here, said the To Kalon was his elected, while mine was Dr. Crane…. Ugh, I love wine.  How could I ever stay away?

3/18/17, journal —

Then one day you wake up and you’re 11 days, two months from 38.  You have writing to do, you can’t keep perpetuating any kind of pattern.  Everything has to be done differently.  You map out a map, some plan for doing what you need to do, and you know… if you don’t follow this, you’ll go nowhere.  NOWHERE.  An option not.  So you type, you tell your story, every detail, even the ones that hurt like the details surrounding when you got sick in high school, the ex-girlfriend, all the nights you went out with an old friend when you should have stayed in and wrote.  Everything.  The story… the story…. Your story.

Just thoughts I had ringing in my ears and sight and conception as I woke up and while the coffee machine was making that horribly encouraging sound and song as it finished the cup—that forced airy rumble and growl.  This kitchen, the island counter, littered with parental evidence.  Tranquility in the house at moment current but that will be anything but, this evening.  And I can’t wait, frankly, have the babies home from their grandparents’ house, here with me and their mama at bath time.  And their daddy’s about to be 38.  How did that happen?  I can’t dwell on hypotheticals, potentials, and a tirade re-evaluation of the past.

Still quite taxed from yesterday’s 6.3 miles along Dry Creek Road and around the Dutcher property.  Need to get back in shape, I know.  But when does the writer have time?  Not an excuse.  Make time.. sleep less, get up earlier, write first thing.  And if you run first early in the A.M., as I always want to do but never do, then sit for ten minutes and take notes.  Just move the pen.—  Find that I’m teaching myself now how to write again, or something.  Do everything different, today.  Everything.  See yourself on a plane, traveling to a reading, a “lecture”, traveling somewhere to meet with publishers and discuss book options and tour dates.  I haven’t been dreaming enough, lately.  I haven’t.  And that’s gruesomely unacceptable.

I sip wine, I write about it— each sip should be at least 100 words, ideally 250.  Wine is everything in my life a the moment, in terms of how I make income finds its slithery and slippery way to my account.  And writing… teaching…  Why would I ever consider applying for some office job in a fucking real estate office… or selling software?  Mom once said, “Make what you have work.” Translating or analyzing her dialogue line like a professor, or professional reader, I see it meaning that I don’t have to only do what I’m doing, in terms of job quantity and location, but the elemental composition and worlds is where I should hold.  In other words, ‘Don’t move from education and wine!’ Approach those two solitaries creatively, and everything you want will find YOU.  In a way, 38 can’t get here quick enough…. I’m ready.  Not for a new story but a revision of the manuscript I’ve already composed.  (07:18)

No More Wanna Wanna

img_1217Telling myself to break structure, any blip of predictability, and I mean really BREAK it.  I’ll always write, but there’s been a change in the battle plan.  The last change, if you know need.  Sipping a port right now from the Kunde days, one the then-Cellar Master made from who knows how many varietals.  I don’t care.  I’m sipping.  Staying succinct in my focuses and forms.  On floor of home office, didn’t make five pages but I’m on the third and I had my championing idea of day and that’s what pronounces itself to me, most palpably.

Wife across the street meeting neighbor’s new baby.  Sent home from hospital when baby is barely 24 hours young.  Quick?  Don’t know.  But what moves quick is time and I need to outrun and outgun it.  I collect in this atmospheric composition of sensory— low light, me in no slight, only direction and affirmation of my story.  Setting alarm for 4, and when early up I’ll do what I do.. something.. just move quick.

Needing another splash, but more needing to research a couple things.  Port’s a funny thing to me.  Tasty, but funny.  It’s the result of an accident, if I’m not incorrect in my findings.  And if not a “mistake” then certainly something unexpected.  I’m about to actuate a reality, one beautiful and beneficial, for my family.  Business.. creative business—  Wife comes home from seeing the baby and we both hop into a nostalgic dote.  Our babies, getting older and older, and we too.  Time isn’t forever.  So I move quicker and quicker even though this port wants to slow me.  My next glass my last.. need cue coffee.  The writer knows his gears and energy can only segue to delightful diversification.  The nigh quiets, and my tyrannosauric talk calms.  Me, into meditative modality for collections cause.  But, one more port.  One more pour… one more sitting pulse for the writer.  4am, ready for my invasion. It’s record, nearly undefeated.  Tomorrow, this writer hopes, ebbs re-arrange.

Palooza Call

img_1088Had a beer here in the loft.  Only one.  Then… some food.  Thinking one of Jeff’s crazy inventive salads.  Today, Friday, so I’m quite confident I deserve it.  This will always be my favorite spot, my favorite writing spot, yes, but MY spot.  Palooza… and forget about it being a “writing spot”.  It’s my centricity for meditation.  This loft, and yes the writing has a lot to do with it, but now for example— the reggae playing, no one up here with me… just a place to inventory.

Ordered the Farmhouse Salad, no blue cheese anything for me, sub in thousand island, and smoked chicken.  This spot is tangibly positive, immeasurably inspired and inspiring, about expanding and changing stories with beneficially bolstering momentums.  This loft is an escape for me, something elevating and reassuring, that you can have whatever you want from life.  It’s as simple and direct as ordering something from a menu.  Palooza, which infers endless party, is the bridge of fantasy and reality, a certain postmodern unionization of ideal and real for this writer.  Creative corner in this loft…. As Jeff reinvented himself, I self-actuate, the like enact.  This place, my place, where I used to escape on lunches when I worked at a nearby winery, miserable in a tasting room, I’d come here to re-assemble self and my spiritual and creatively sensible fortitude.

And this all started from a hot dog cart.  Now, my friends have a restaurant going on their third year of operation, serving everything from hot dogs to artisanal burgers, pastas and steaks, to a salad so unique that you’ll be photographing it longer than lifting it to palate.  This’ll be only one of many ode notes to my place, to this loft, to this long table by the pool table and empty beer kegs.  This is not a ‘once’, this is a life, a scribe sage, a stratospheric stack of Composition Books.  I’ll keep my life, my party, here, going, actuated and animated.