inward jot

Character in the Wait

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The windshield, thick slab of stubborn ice that didn’t want to budge anymore than I wanted to leave the comforts of Autumn Walk and drive 25 minutes north to Geyserville.  Turning on the car, turning on the heater full-blast, even running the wipers and nothing would move.  No little chunks of ice, no thin moving contents of slush.  NOTHING.  So I sat there, exercised an unusually and rare intensity of patience.  It felt amazing.  I found myself more centered and ready for the day.  True, my impatience was seismic in that I couldn’t wait for a mocha (this morning with the lower-than-usual temperatures, needed 4 shots), and cruise to the winery with my music.  But, I waited, waited.  And finally, it started to separate.

Why do we get so impatient?  Why can’t Human Beings have a healthy pattern and practice when it comes to waiting?  And what was I so impatient for?  I later thought this, mind you.  “Is Starbucks going anywhere?  …  Is the winery going anywhere?” No to both.  So I used the stall as a sort of exercise and icebox meditation for the sake of learning patience and more steady composure—  I lecture on Composition at the college as it pertains to literature, but it’s more imperative with Personhood, one’s mentality and mood, attitude.

As I drove away with the last bits of silt-like ice being pushed off by the long rubber arms, I thought about the New Year about to land in less than 48 hours, and how to satisfy the aims I now have in place, patience and immediate composition of my character need be abundantly actuated.  It’s the ice’s definition and trenchant tangibility that got to me.  I should have learned from its fortitude initially, rather than let it unravel and unnerve me.  Now that I’m at work, here at my desk looking out at frozen vines or vines with melting ice on them, sipping these 4 cozy shots of espresso, I know already about the New Year.  I know where I’m going, I know what it’s meant to do and I’m the one assigning the meaning.  That glacial windshield gifted me with these thoughts, the meditation that followed me up Dry Creek Road in my Passat and here to the desk, to tapping on this laptop’s keys.

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Because of the ice, and that wait, I’m composed.  All departments of my thinking relate to each other logically.  Eager to start, to go, to fly through the next eight or so hours with my wild yay-yelling roar.  I didn’t expect to see the windshield that way, still.  If you want candor from the writer, I expected to forget about it.  But, as I noted, it followed me to Geyserville.  I just walked to the other part of the property, another building to note something somewhere, and I took a picture of a row with ice atop its skin, melting.  The peace there, right in front of those dormant canes assured and reassured me about the coming year, about how I interpret the metonym of the ice sheet—  It was a sheet meant to comfort me, counsel and teach me more about me and my moods and how I perceive the world and myself in it.  Going into 2017, and past that.  Patience…  Composition…  Composure…..

I’m Composed.

(12/30/16)

Restart, Recharge, Return

Alarm ignored.  But I’m up now with that temptation that any writing parent feels.  To just go back to sleep.  But I think daughter has a cold or ear infection, something, so she’s been up through the night.  Can’t let myself go back to bed.  Not sure when I’ll have time like this to self again–  this quiet, this space, slice and selection of seconds.

Noticing I’m a bit hungry, but no way I’m eating right now.  Waste this zen, this composed scene on eating?  Idiotic.  Being a writing parent I’ve noticed, of late, has been tangibly more challenging.  And not just with finding time isolated to self, but with budgeting time, fitting in other small wants.  Next semester has to be different, I tell myself, but can I really afford to teach only one class?  Can’t cut down on the winery hours, as that’s what provides my benefits…  Mentioned in my walking vineyard verse yesterday something about a ‘map’ and a ‘trap’.  Can’t remember exactly what I spoke but I know the impetus behind my intonation. There’s a plan we all follow, the path of maturity and responsibility, not to get too careless or wild, but following such IS a trap, it’s own surrender and death.  But what can I do?  I’m a writing parent, not some single early twenty-something living in a studio downtown.  I’ll figure it out, but I have to move quicker, be more outside of character, put self on a beneficial edge.  Waking early like this is some kind of start, I’m hoping, but I have to make it a lifestyle, a truthful lifestyle change.

5:41AM–  Wish I would have risen when that alarm went off… Goddamn me!  Why do I just go back to sleep like an unmotivated jelly bot? Starting to feel a certain virulence kick up, a mood that will push this writing daddy to a beneficial breaking point.  “Good,” I think, “maybe that’s what I need.” Of course it’s ‘what I need’.  So what else can I do besides write prose on my phone early in the morning like this?  One thing I thought of is putting myself in character, with whatever I do, in a way I never have before.  With the winery, with my adjunct instructor life.. everything.  And write more.  And try to distance myself from anything that slows the production and composition of this prose.  I know what I’m referencing I’m just electing not to chisel specifics into this paragraph.  All components for any idyllic frame are already present, I merely need to put them in place.

5:48.  Again, GODDAMN ME!  It’d be 4 something in this session had I elevated when I had planned.  But, under the umbrella of resolution, utilize what’s immediate, don’t dwell on a wish-for or erased hypotheticals.  Don’t hear Emma upstairs.  Maybe she fell asleep.  Have to iron pants, can’t forget, shower somehow, and get to winery early–  hear wife trying to put daughter back down in crib… “Please go to sleep,” I say to myself… That’s all a writing or any kind of parent wants, for their children to snooze if parent is trying to do something.  Can hear her squirming, moving, those light little grunts… “No, no, no… Sleep!” I need to charge this–

Walked with my light burglar ballet steps to other room, where charge is, plugged into laptop.  Nothing from upstairs but I bite my tongue as that could change in a light lick of a partial heartbeat.  First sip of coffee from tumbler.  Think I can somewhat catch up, be where I’m supposed to be writing-wise had I shot from pillows and sheets at 4, or a little after 4–  What am I talking about.  No way am I going to get to a word count like that– never mind.  Just keep writing, daddy.  Was wishing for quiet like this all day yesterday at the winery.  Let a mood somewhat take over my character, didn’t embrace and immerse my role behind that bar as the writer should have. But again, dismiss that rear view portrait.. Push down on gas, or climb that mountain, that ‘goddamn mountain’ as Jack said.  I will, I have to… Fuck what have I been doing living so safe and understated.  No wonder I’m not fucking traveling yet.  Sipping this coffee again, and ANGRILY.  Now that’s a sip, that’s how an early waking writer-father should glug-glug son café (his coffee).  Huh, and my French.. What happened to that?  Need to do what my father made me do in sixth grade, write out a loose plan for the entire week.  That is, for each day he’d have me simply write each class, one thing for each, and that’s it.  I’d add as things were assigned, if that makes sense.  What Dad was punctuating, and he still does, is to be three or four steps ahead.  So today– French … Music … Poetry … Photography … Blogs … Fitness/Nutrition … and that’s enough for now.

6:05.  Have to begin readying at 6:30.  May take a day off tomorrow.  I rarely do so, such, which is all the reason for this writing father to collude.  Still typing on phone, and it acts strangely, slowing down in some typing sprints.  Why do info this?  Why can’t I be like Plath when she wrote early, actually put a pen to a line?  Again, STOP.  Move forward.  Have some more coffee. Funny to think how some right now may be sleeping off, or trying to sleep off last nights drinks, drunk, well this writer sits here on a hard wood floor writing, contributing to some book effort, or vision, possible hypothetical some something.  Not sure if that’s admirable, or just fucking demented. I’ll go with ‘maniacal’, not ‘demented’. Why didn’t I wake at 4? It’s time now for writing papa to get ready for his longer than long day in wine character. “Take possession of it, Mike,” I say.

There’s a story to write, only you can write it, so stop thinking so much.

(9/25/16)

me:  6/18/16

Anything I write currently will be negative, as not much sleep from Emma’s little cold, so now I’m that dad who wakes and doesn’t want to go to work but has to.  Started sipping some coffee I just made here in home, wife told me to pack a lunch but nothing to pack, so I have to either get some lunch something at sbux or Dry Creek.  Either way, money I don’t want to spend.  As a parent, this is part of the game, I’m seeing.  I can’t just call in sick, and I don’t want to really.  Or at all.  Scheduled to walk a vineyard this morning, so that’s pictures and new characters and who knows whatever other thoughts spring through and all around me thinking while walking those rows.  It’s a vineyard off Canyon Road, up in the hills, and one I’ve known about for a while now—  rubbing my eyes.  Hate being this fucking tired.  Hate that it’s bringing me to negative steps.  So I stop it, stop myself, I don’t need to be negative.  Soon as I get home, readying for bed.  No wine, small dinner, and upstairs right when Alice goes.

Hear my neighbor start his truck.  Could be worse, could have to go where he is.  He’s a guard at San Quentin.  He doesn’t see vineyards everyday.  He doesn’t get to take a break from a cozy office that has a vineyard view to go out and walk in that vineyard, then get called into owner’s office and hear her tell a story, then write about it.  I have no grounds for any complaints or bitterness this morning.. whew…..  Needed this sitting.  Nearly just left after Cathy took the babies (Em staying at her house.. shit, have to call her daycare and notify).  So thankful I didn’t.  The Story wanted me here.  And I think, “Hats we parents have, so many.  And when you think one’s off it somehow finds its way back to your hear.”  But I’m here at my desk, writing myself through and out of this turbulent and virulent mood.  There… it’s gone.

Need to call SRJC this morning at some point, connect with the community education guy, see what I can cook with him.  Want to teach, that much I know, but not be led by nose from campus to campus.  Remember, no more Mendo, no more Solano.  If SSU called me, it’d have to be immediate, guaranteed and with the assurance that I’d have assignments in future semesters.  And if they called, that’s exactly what I’d say.  I’m not filling in just for a semester.  I know what they’d say…  “We can’t guarantee anything.”, or, “That’s not how it works.” Yeah?  Well, I guarantee you that I won’t be helping you out this semester, that’s just how I work.  Not negative!  Actually, this is an actualize positivity, in my confidence and in that I’ve learned how their game is played.  I’m done playing.  Anyone wanting to teach at the college level needs to think long and with cold labor if they want this in their life.  If you have your heart set on tenure, you may be setting it in a spot to get broken open, split.

7:44AM.  Leaving.  Treating Self to sbux, then up to Dry Creek.  More calm, now.  Composed, breathing, in my yay-say quake.

In office, after vineyard visit and tasting of grower’s homemade wine.  Well, yes, here I am at my desk.  A bit more awake, but the mood threatens.  Fuck that mood.  I’m positive.  I’m going to design a sample sight.  Put photog’.  Just to play with and show…  More media.  More vid and photog’… just play and have fun with it.  No I’m not an expert, I’m a writer and I’m not even an “expert” at that.  I just do it.

Thank god for this coffee, otherwise I’d really be in an energy hole.  Rut, muck, pit.  Just stuck.  This is not easy, functioning when this tired, I’ll concede.  But I’ll work my way through it.  At lunch, no eating but a walk in the vineyard.  Maybe this extremely exhausted state will benefit me somehow, provide a similarly altered perception that will be a boon and boost creativity somehow.  My mood falls further but I try and write through it.  Goddamn this exhaustion.  Yes, I need another vineyard walk, through our property here.  Somehow spin it uniquely, shoot a video and not narrate the same fucking thing I always do—  “Wow, the grapes look great…” or “Beautiful here in Dry Creek, today…”.  Ugh, annoys me just reading that.  Maybe I should go to a winery, do a tasting.  No, can’t do that ‘cause I’ve recently hit all the spots around us here.  At least I get this momentary quiet with no phones and people around me.  Not that I mind the people I work with, they’re lovely, all, I’m just in need of some words, some of my own syllabic pulses just for a minute to help me get through this tired.  Poor little Emma, hate when she’s sick.  And I feel frustrated with her when I know I shouldn’t be.  Part of being daddy, but I look down at her asleep on my should and my frustrations fly away like they weren’t supposed to be there.  And they weren’t.

The Story, continuing to pester and test me.  With a call from SSU this morning, offering a class that wasn’t at all aligned with the availability they demanded from me.  Then, they emailed me another offering, that was T/TH when I need M/W.  Not getting angry, irked, or even mildly bothered.  I’m laughing.  It’s funny at this point.  Helps keep me awake.  I win either way, as always.

No walk in vineyard.  Had to surrender to hunger and scurry to Dry Creek for one of those “Poor Boy” sandwiches, which is a ridiculous qualifier as they cost I think $7.  Co-worker said, “You need to be a rich boy to buy one.” True.  But not, as I’m no where near rich.  Not yet anyway.  2:10.  Have a feeling this is going to be the slowest 2 hours and 50 minutes of my life.  I do feel a bit more lively and engaged with day, but who knows that could be short-lived.  I’m keeping with my yay-saying jigs and smiles, attitude and everything.  Not thinking just doing.  Here at the desk I do what I can, creatively.  Hopefully Emmie will sleep tonight so I can wake early to do what I wanted THIS morning, which was work out and write.  Tomorrow, tomorrow I tell myself again looking at the clock and barely any sizable island of time has by me drifted.  Still bothered by Sonoma State transaction that started this morning but has lasted much of the day through emails and calls, and other shit.  Back into work, hope it helps.

2:48PM.  Like I said, slow.  Soooooo slooooow.  Significantly more tired.  Mood worsening with each type of these letters.  So much in head but not enough energy to think of it all.  One thought I hold to: stick with bottledaux.  This is the project that will get you lecturing and traveling, teaching out of state, country.

4:17—  had two sips of Syrah, now a bit more mobile and connected to my day.  Can’t believe I survived.  Only hope Ms. Austen sleeps tonight.  Goal, have beer by myself at Dry Creek after work.  Quiet, no writing, just meditation and that beer.  My table, my moment, MINE.

Yes I want to take a break, but what would that do?  Tired

of my words so I find new ones, but distracted by the weather, the thin gray slightly somehow magenta cloud films overhead running away from the sun like they know they’re not supposed to be on stage.  So much love for this morning so far and I type faster, or try, knowing the day will speed by me like I’m able to chase it.  I know I won’t outrun time, but I can try, and I can write about trying, what I do while I try.  Part of me wants to go outside, type on the patio with my coffee, watch the neighborhood be quiet and still like it never is.  And it’s all mine, which I have to revel in, right?  The day will be over, and I’ll wish I would have done that.  Never have, now I think, but Alice has several times, usually after a run.  Going to the Hopper spot, getting her mocha, and just sitting out there, stretching in her morrow’s zenful tempo.

This morning, and all today, I act from whigmaleerie.  No planning.  No excess envisioning.  Just life, cosmic and measureless love for the day, my life, my babies, health and sky, this street, the patio I’m not on, even this over-cluttered desk.  BUT…  If I were to do something today, what would it be?  Coffee in downtown Healdsburg?  Date with the Composition Book?  A categorical possibility, sewn into this positive reverb rounded in these nerves and cardio beatings, internal and external, just expansively meditative, my feast moving, more than moveable, just moving quick in a comical aim to catch the clock.  More than my usual gumption.  More than just priority, or “urgency” like I stress to students.  This is something different, this A.M.  But what?  Does it need a tag?  Am I overthinking this?  Do I need a break?

Back from a ten or fifteen-minute.  Minutes I won’t get back, but I needed a meditation, break from the words hard as that may be to conceive.  And I’ve definitely reached my coffee cap.  No more for a few hours, I’m guessing.  Thinking of taking Self out for a nice breakfast up the street.  Of course, bringing it back here, then maybe a nap?  Why not.  When was the last lazy day this writer had?  Already five minutes away from 11AM.  Like I said, I won’t outrun time.  Writing down titles of these songs here in home office, the ones that motivate me or have some auditory arrangement that connects with me,w hat I’m writing.  I’m writing the morning, they’re part of the morning, so they all make the list.  Distracted like Emma was, by the lawnmower outside.  Now I feel restless and rushed, or maybe even a but panicked.  Am I living as much as I can, right now?  Should I be doing something else?

Counsel comes back.  “No.  Stop it.” It lashes.

It’s right, wherever it came from.

De Moi à Toi

Just wanted to express to all of you reading my words, a thank-you, and further encouragement to remain positive, to get what you want and be creative.  Always stretch creatively and exercise your freedoms in thought and work that represents you.  There’s stress about my stage presently, as I’m sure there is for many if not all of you.  But I’m refusing it entrance into my mood and attitude and thoughts.  I embrace the yay, dismiss and ignore and TERMINATE the nay.

At lunch, I’ll be out in the vineyard, walking and breathing, enjoying my day and the actuality that I can just walk out of my office building (which isn’t an office, nor a building, but a cozy, lovely cottage on a vineyard), and stroll next to grape clusters, touch the leaves and canes, soil if I want to.  Myself, pinched.  This is my life, my day, and view and opportunity.  We have to perambulate in positivity and skip with optimistic sense, whatever we create.  Just create, and smile, breathe and stretch in your day.

Funny how the negatives and that ‘nay’ I mention seem so tempting and easy.  We just fall into it.  I have, that’s for sure, but over the past month I’ve just decided to quit.  Enact a universally new lifestyle and habit of habits.  Even when a nihilistic gust blusters right in front of me, I’ll be smiling.  Just watch.

Give this a shot, let me know what you think.  And if you’re already on the calmly buoyant trek, then a raised glass to you.  Continue!  Disseminate the positive, enjoy the results, share them with everyone, encourage them to share.  Let’s promote this ascension, spread it…

The day today, just reminding me that I am alive, and that I’m in THIS day.  THIS day is mine, all of it.  OR, ours.  Ours to shape and make what we want, something musical and creative, something to sing to.  Not sure exactly how I want to put it, but you get the idea.

Thanks again for reading, and I’ll with you soon again speak.

—Mike

Creative Positivism, 11

Today, set to be the best in a while, getting writing for winery done and a blog post for the project the owner and I have.  Then, tonight’s lecture, back to Plath and all her inner workings and dreams and symmetries…  “Kiss me and you will see how important I am…”

Looking out at the vineyards and just having a chat with Nick the winemaker a second ago on the edge of the Cabernet block closest to the office where now I type, I need to be out there more.  At lunch, a walk to my spot, under the tree, shaded by the riverbed.. a winemaker I know says, and has always said, “…if you want to make wine you need to be out in the vineyard, always.” The same for this writer, as well.

Today.  Forcing it to be the most enriching of my life.  Watch…  This is more than mere optimism, or repeated affirmations.   This is a fruitful fruition that only I can and will materialize and make something I can in my hand hold.

12:56PM—  waiting for Mezzaluna from Oakville to get here.  Yes I brought lunch but as always when someone offers to get us something or tells they’re going somewhere for lunch, you hop on that wagon.  So here I am at my desk, working, thinking about lunch, looking out at the vineyard after a short sprint to the Grenache block, looking around for changing colors and finding nothing but I walked on and enjoyed what the vineyard told me, those little gusts and the sun, quite intent with its temperature today.

Ready for lecture tonight.  Poetry.  Seeing everything as poetry and tonight you can bet  I will type those pieces on my desk.  Also eager for tonight after meeting with Debra, Dutcher’s owner, and she speaking on having a job vs. a career, or lifestyle— your work being who you are, not just what you do.  Today HAS proven to be MINE, and meant for my story and getting me closer to travel, to the Road, to Spain.

4:41, minutes away from departure.  Thinking about tomorrow’s run, how far I want to go.  Do I want double digits, or something within an hour, see what I can put up in 60 minutes?  I’ll see what the story tells me to do.  Today was more than productive, it was expository and encouraging, electric and musical.  And I’ll keep this going till and past class.

10:25PM—  Going to type poem I started to write in class, while students were looking for poetic waves in Plath’s prose.  I start the piece with “Lines colored bottles all sipped/before deadline. Line dead…” Poetry again taking me in the direction I need go.  Feel like it’s been in the back ground for so long to fiction experiments and narrative hiatuses, or whatever, but here I am, back with my first love— verse, rimes, lone lines, lines play and breaks…

Had a thought but lost it.. thinking about Nick and I in the vineyard.. then poetry… reciting verses, readings….. fuck, it’s lost.  Was it something about Plath?—  Shouldn’t curse.  Not creative, not positive.  Sorry…

(7/12/16)

I am, I am, I think…

Two poems to type. Won’t tonight. Feeling lazy and tired from morning run. 8.5 miles, surprised self— Didn’t expect to go that far. At desk with nightcap, felt like being naughty and I was opening this ’12 Lancaster Estate Cab. Running out of wine and I was in a wine mood, so what’s a writer to do? More and more ideas flooding my form today in the tasting room as I sold the winery’s wines, thinking of how I could and should be selling my own writings like mad. I mean that is the goal, right? Stray $10 bill on desk, under cord from laptop to phone— wonder where it’s from then I remember, tip from some guy from Nebraska, from today. Tempted to take my wine outside, that Summer temp’ with nearly scribed breeze pattern. Starting pile of poems to type— one I wrote today, saying “Door open, come sip/with a scribbler”. I started with poetry, need come more back to it, its rebellion to form, and within such standing situate in its own form. The Cabernet I’m tilting into my talking now telling the writer to keep with verse, don’t budge, just keep going. I’ll be on stage soon, reading. That’s what I want. And the blog, keep with the freeness of prose, like poets in their throws. Both poems, saying something about a moment, and strike back at time for being what it is— something that ages us and steals moments. My verses and lines are meant to immortalize moments. My moments. Make them OUR moments.
I can see tonight is meditative. Coffee already made for morning, sitting in the tumbler urging me to set alarm for 4 or something and wake early like Sylvia and finish two or three, maybe even four, pieces. Permanently returning to poetry, and if this is a “lifestyle blog”, then it’s the stylized life of a poet, with his constant playfulness with form and verse, rime and meter, setting his own style in his sensibility and structure. Before I go upstairs, need one new poem written, just typed so I don’t have to type it later and put myself in a position of procrastinating like I am now. I remember writing poetry in that intermediate algebra class (no caps, intentional), my first moments of practicing zen, but unintentionally, some sort of meditation to escape that classroom— seems like lightyears ago, and here I am, finally coming together into some sort or code of coherent character, returning to poetry but being more mathematical about it, or at least I will be, that I ever have been with anything else. My “style” is dependent upon a return to studenthood, learning and re-learning about what’s around the writer. Two babies, a wife, a winery, wine— and here at the desk: son’s blankie, one of my belts, phone and Happiness Project journal, stemless plastic glass of Cab, the Garmin, that $10 bill, a pen and some random business card from a grower…
Don’t have time for readings right now, or going to any readings so I’ll broadcast the poems from here, my house. And if this doesn’t “work”, meaning change my reality as a writer and heighten exposure, then I don’t know what will. Just as people who can sing LOVE showing their voice to any crowd or small group that will listen, so will be me with my verses and meters—

Clutter enclosing around me, why what.
In the regulatory stuck, clock nothing but a short story cut.
Quaking poems and verses in my structure, so complicated,
one of the candidates but I never wanted to be nominated.

Feel like I could perform now, have another glass of the this LE CS and rime all night, until I have to have some coffee to stay awake, somehow make it to class and barely have adequate vigor to lecture and share what I have to about Esther.
Starting to feel the morning run, that 8.5 catching Mike. But I don’t let myself stall or stop or pause or slow. Not even for a second. Don’t think I’m going to finish this entry, much I want to. Should let myself be lazy, just sit in front of the TV and watch something trashy, like BRAVO reality TV or something that low. So what do I do? Would love to read some Plath, or Kerouac, or Hem… need to make time for one of them. I skim through Plath’s entries, or one of them, but I’m too tired and angularized by the Cabernet to give her respectful read. SO, I put her down. 37 as an age so far has not been able to mute or muffle or even slightly slow my growl and relentless rile.
Everything is poetry. Even the past writings from years ago intended to be prose, I’ll soon revisit and recapture them and conform them my poetic placements and cosmos. What I find in this, this day and night and day, this 10th of the 7th month, is gift; a telling of reason and rationale, leaning to one side and that side is of art, voice and truth. Me here next to Plath— no, I know I should wait for morrow. SO maybe I will, for once.
Next day, around 4:42, the whole day with family and me calling in my class tonight, just wanting to stay home and organize myself, have a beer on the patio. Need to collect, consolidate, build this poetry base I’ve started— By tonight, I’ll have seven isolated performance pieces.. some more scribbles in journal—

Interrupted then but back now, 10:12, with coffee already for morrow made and a Lagunitas ‘Lucky 13’ at right. The positive atmospheric pulses around me envelpo with such ardent angles I can’t stop with my coursings.
Don’t think I’ll type any poems tonight, as I’m too tired, too guilted by calling in this night’s meeting (even though I need to, for…), and I just feel like typing on this couch in my office— the couch that was in the living room’s now in the bottledaux office. Alice’s grandmother’s couch now situates in the other room, and I couldn’t be happier— thought earlier about just living the life I want to as a writer, writing and releasing and not caring, like so many of the artists I “follow” and admire. Another sip of this ale, look at phone but don’t pick it up, can feel the Road getting closer, and all boxes just eroding. Imagine that, them imagining me on the Road, thinking “Oh fuck Mike Madigan and his blogger shit—“ And that’s fine. I appreciate their thoughts, honestly. And even more honestly, I need to be more furtive with my passage and projects. Just go from scene to scene while hush-hush-ed-ly doing what I’m doing with the aux operation. And with NO negative accumulation. Only positive. My babies (Whom I just checked on upstairs, seeing both of them sleep, thinking to myself how lucky I am and even thought I don’t believe in any one god I know that something else has given me a tumult of terrificness with those two wees) will have a happy father, one who comes home from HIS office and tells stories. That’s it. That simple. And when he returns home from being on the Road, he’ll talk about the food he ate, the paths he ran, the coffee he drank, show them pictures and talk about the people he talked to in small villages overlooking some river way down in some narrowly vortex’d valley.
Everyone I know or even distantly know is traveling. And I’m sick of it. Old friend from the old neighborhood, someone I love and respect, posting footage of a lightening storm in Nebraska. I can only concede my jealously and imagine what I would be writing if witnessing that, standing under that cover sipping some coffee at an hour I shouldn’t be and just challenging those lights and flashes to prompt me. Older I get the more impatient I get but yet the more fearless I form with my lack of formality and fortitude, thinking I’m to be held under by anything or any whatever but in the past it’s been me that’s held ME under and back and far from the fortune— WHAT THE FUCK. Now I realize this? At 37?
10:38— bed has to be soon and close, nearing like a lecturer— Alice goes upstairs and me to soon follow, saying “Stay off my couch..” jokingly, she knowing how happy I am to have those cushions in my home office. Nearly tempted to call in sick tomorrow but I can’t, I need to see those vines outside “my” office window and get further ahead on the copy projects I have— and oh shit, have a blog entry due soon. So much for the writer to do, should I hit that fucking coffee now, do an all-nighter? Of course not, but it’s in my head, and for a reason I’m sure, but I’m not sure what or who’s the reasoner, not sure it’s me as I’m not that reasonable now, after this night’s capping.
Nearly done with the day, night, sitting. Another sip— toasting to myself to Dad and how at 70-whatever he can still move shit better than I can— still mobile and insightful, acute and astute, precise and meditative in a way I wish I could be for my babies.
Tomorrow morning, with that coffee I tonight brewed, I become a fiery A.M. Hunter S. Thompson— not caring, but too much caring a cosmic narrative blaring, telling the story of a fed-up adjunct and wine loving runner-writer-father. Expansive introspect, commence—
Sipping with Self, a sordid scribbler.

(7/11/16)

Action Adds

With last glass of this red, and thinking about my time at the desk today, writing and rewriting tasting notes for the winery, how that re-charged and re-catalyzed, reinforced my interest in wine a bit, to just enjoy it as I enjoy it.  A run-on, but that’s what happens when I think about wine, and how I think about anything wine-aligned .. rules are defied, altogether dismissed.

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Emma cry, me going upstairs and Alice following, Alice sending me out of room so she can take over.  And a good thing, as she has that Mommy power than I’m in no way capable of mimicking.  Now on floor of living room.  Not atmospheric light tonight, just what’s on in kitchen.  And… tranquil.  Then Alice texts me from upstairs apologizing for chasing me out of the room, and I return with an apology for talking to Em when I should have just rocked her with no eye-contact (old parent trick, I guess).  I’m still learning, I guess.  I indulge in this quiet, and this downstairs writing peace, as it’s my truest of addictions.  More than wine or anything else (and there is nothing else.. if I had any vice, it’d be wine, but that’s so kept in check it doesn’t really impact or “count”).  Now I just think, and think quietly aloud in words, my venom and vivacity contained and colluded.  Summer starting in 4 days.  Have the coffee cued and the tumbler taken from car and put in position for early brewing, as Jack’s lately been rising at just after five.

Glad I had that last sip of red, feel like I had a couple cups of the French or Medium.  Tomorrow back in tasting room, and hopefully hosting some private groups that I can img_4268interact with and talk wine, and about wine as I do.  Need quotes prepped, like the one from Emerson where he he speaks of wine washing cares away, freeing him, cleaning him.  Tomorrow morning, my only goal: a toweringly prodigious essay.  500 words.  On anything—  parenting, teaching, writing, wine, punctuation.  Anything.  Anything I would read in front of an audience— no, a class.  A class at Stanford.  Now part of my business plan.  500 word read-pieces.  Would love to write a piece on the tasting room as an analogy for curiosity and self-education.  People overlook that, I think.  No—  I KNOW.

Quiet is odd when you’re a parent.  Which is precisely what gives it its befuddling and ensnaring rectitude.  Right now, no one calls.  Nothing calls.  Just this wood floor, the thoughts and visions of  a lecture at some campus on the East Coast.  I can see the writer talking about the semicolon in some Ivy League hall, the one where I call it “mutant punctuation”, and “insulting page decorative” (notes I made in the Dutcher tasting room on one of the many pieces of paper scratch/scrap by the register [my idea]… always propelled there, with those working en masse with the writer..).

Already thinking about that first cup, cometh morrow.  Yes, that’s addiction, but at this point in my life, and after running 11-point-something miles yesterday, I could give a shit.  And I do and don’t.  I’m in a free-spirited thought frolic that’s not only emboldening but inciting, I want pugilistic percussion with other writers. My mold newest, the competitive wildcat, wholly inviting ring occupancy.

5:50AM, 6/13/16

No 4 rise.. Well, I did, but went right back to the pillow.  But I’m still proclamative, that this day will change everything.  No matter what time the babies wake, and the fact I’m home with both for half the day– everything expressed, everything recorded.  I’ll run later– do push-ups throughout the day.  Not making coffee yet, want to be creativity, creating from energy and momentums natural.  May do a couple push-ups in a sec to wake me up…  Goddamnit why are mornings becoming rough for the writer?  Is it my age?  How did Dad do it?  How does Mr. ‘A’ do it as a truck driver?  It’s his job, you might reply.  Okay… This needs to be my truck’s roving, my base that I have to be at, 4AM en punto.  And it may be foolish, or mad.  But madness is the only exploration upon which I can embark at the moment– putting all my words into the world and hope for a reaction.

5:56–  think I heard someone moving upstairs.  May be Alice as she said she has to be on campus at… Was it 730?  Typical husband not listening.  The fridge hums, and yes I just heard someone up there– okay, the day is off, and I have to code my composure in total composure, calmness.  That’s what’ll make me more coherent a writer, relating to myself and urges and thoughts logically.  Ugh, sound like I’m lecturing on Coherence to students.. So forget that sentence and I think the last one.  What I’m urging myself to do is basically stay calm, write through the day.  People talk about these “rock star” dads and maybe today’s where I show and write myself one.  Not sure why I’m nervous, Alice does it every weekend, and for the whole day.  I will just be at the wheel with the two mini-beats till about 2-something, at the latest.

A bit irked with self about 4AM.  But you know what, loss cut.  Onward.  With the thoughts I have, what I want from the day.  Just have to keep little Emma happy, and Kerouac not so crazy.  Part of me feels exhausted just thinking about the hours ahead, the other slaps it starkly across and into its face–  “Stop your grieving.. Just write!  Enjoy the time with your kids!  You do like your kids.  Right?!”  I slap back, “Of course I do!  First-time tremors, I guess…” Gonna need coffee, and tsunamis of it.  Walking over to machine–  Guess a benefit to writing on phone, walk while pushing keys and then leaning against the kitchen’s island counter Waiting for the machine to be ready.  Feel like it’s taking forever, and I have to use the restroom quickly… Trying to plan everything and get everything done before they’re awake.. Stay five steps ahead, I tell myself.  Any dads reading that can relate?  Machine ready.. Cup 1, approaching…

Smoldering black behind me, house quiet to the point I’m just waiting, and am a bit uncomfortable with how quiet it is.  But I keep typing or thumbing, thinking, how far will I run later?  Will it be too hot?  Should I not cancel my 24 membership?  Goddamn this is too much to think about so early.  Sip…  Yes, without coffee I and I’m sure other dads would be dead.
Hear more upstairs.  Think Jack is awake.  Now the morning is truly off, about to intensify, and not in a negative way (realize this may sound negative, like I’m dreading the day, I’m not!  It’s just going to be a challenge and I’m disclosing my strategies for staying balanced), just need to be ahead of him, Emma, Time and my self.  I’ll battle any moods, either mine or Jack’s, or even little Emma, Time’s, with words–  Alice’s alarm goes… Now I’m up.  At the plate.  Ready for what screwballs and curves, sliders and sinkers the day throws–  you know Monday, you bitch, give me your best shot!  I dare you!  I’m going to record everything…  Not just “content” as these middle-headed and muddle-minded bloggers say, but life.  REAL real-life.  Story.  A father.  Writer.  Runner.  Teacher.  Teaching himself and learning from everyone and everything around him.  Today’s a class, a session I find more of myself in what’s around me and getting closer to my ‘There’, where I see myself.  Yes I have a blog, blogs, and I put writing there, yeah I get it, but I’m not like them, the flappy brains that can’t write with any truth or true conviction and depend on images and things to sell for their paragraphs, just reducing themselves and everything they do to living as true bloggers only putting up “content”, not life.  They blog, they don’t write.  I write.

Dada….  Jackie just called with a tired voice, a bit with rasp, I go upstairs to find him tucking all the extremities of the comfortor into the space between the frame and mattress the best he can.  “I want to sleep,” he said.  I told him he was staying home with daddy and that’s fine, “Get some rest, buddy,” I comforted.  There’s one victory, or easy transaction.  What’s next?

Shit, almost erased what I’ve written, or thumbed/texted to self essentially.  Copied to paste in word counting app–  why the fuck do I care about count?  Well, ’cause I’m at-bat, and it matters.  I need to know what the count is…  A thousand words before they wake is a flag-planting of sorts.  It is.  And not only to me, but to any writing father who barely had time to run so he writes whenever there are liberated seconds.  And it’s literally that which we go by, and live from, singular seconds.  Not minutes.

Seconds.