3/11/19

Had quite the nearing forty panic or maybe even anxiety on the way home from Monterey, yesterday.  7:43 now back home and here by self, I just think about that drive and why I felt that way.  I have not a single idea, to tell you the truth.  Then, I know why.  Just can’t assign it words.  Has to do with what I do, where I am.  Think I may be getting tired of Sonoma County, though realizing that could just be a symptom of or associated with the travel urge and thirst.  I thought, Transformation.  Now is when I transform into the writer and teacher I’ve always wanted to be.  Since I had such ambition senior year in high school.  I start with this morning, with this beat, with this kitchen, this “day off” which I won’t let be anything like a day of nothing done.

I charge my camera.  Last night before bed watching a documentary on Africa, and deep reaches of Africa and the wildlife.  These shots and video stretches where the animals were seen in their most truthful talk and motions.  I want to take something in, down, with camera today.  Of course first I think of the vineyard.  But where do I start.  They’re everywhere, here.  No longer feeling that restlessness I did on the drive.  Ambition, hunger, looking for my moveable feast.  Where do I start.  I don’t pressure self.  I think of now, this quiet, the counter…. Me.  In the car I kept thinking singularity, focus, an extension from the man’s remarks after my speech on Saturday, that my energy was unlike anything he’s seen I merely “needed” a bit more centrality.  Is he right, or is this who I am.  Or, does there need be realized a symphony of both characters.  No more panic, no confusion, no questioning self and second-guessing self.  This morning, another start to ME.  Transformation I guess you could interpret, but not doing much with the original character.  ME.  Here the poet who wants the same thing as everyone else.  More.  Not so much more money although of course that’s be welcomed, but  more movement, more observations, travel and exploration, wonder and wander.

The feeling comes back, just like what I felt merging onto 85 from whatever.  I need to move quicker, I need to not be so careful, I need the travel.  Don’t pressure yourself with finishing a book.  You’re closer to 40, but so what.  Don’t shoot for the wine world, anymore, anything in it, even your own label one day.  And teaching at the JC, I need to move on.  And besides, I want to teach yes if you could call it teaching but in more locales, to more students.  I want to see other campuses.  I’m quite exhausted of SRJC and the same parking routine, walk up the Emeritus stairs.  The smell of the rooms, the technology not working.  I want those rooms I’ve never seen, the campus quads full of students, not just the after-work and commuter passers.

7:55.  Feel the coffee molding the character it hopes from me, today.

 

Move quicker in thought.  Today I take pictures.  Not so much to be a photog, but find something.  Thinking Alexander Valley, near Robert Young, or more toward White Oak, Soda Rock.  Maybe just go after the entire valley.  Transformation of character—be out there, out There, seeing everything and observing whatever I can find in the rows.  The closer to 40 I get I’m noticing myself losing a bit of urgency.  This, frightens me.  And, angers me.  Today I re-write the character into one of a more angry or near-angry tirelessness.  I need a measure, I realize.  Yes, I find self thinking of word count.  Can I fit in 3000 words, today.  Yes.  You have the entire day.  One thousand for morning, another for photography and journaling what you find out there, then one last k for end of day.

Should have written more in Monterey.  Was difficult, though, with the babies.  Had chance the night we went out for dinner and when back in Inn room wife offered me some time to self, to go to lobby and write for a while.  I, tired from drive down and skirmishing with kid ways and playful and then not so playful defiance, surrendered to exhaustion.  Where I was.  Had a glass of the Truett GPS blend, then fell asleep next to Ms. Emma.

Now  grappling with how I start the day.  Want to get a run, somewhere in.  Around noon, I reason.  That gives me about 4 hours for other projects.  Talk about overthinking, yeah, I know that’s what I’m now doing, right here at the counter.  Pictures, thinking of taking pictures of the vineyard at this stage in their development as characters, then writing about it.  Should leave the house before 9, head to AV.  I think I know where I want to start, but I’ll finalize destination when I get there.  And maybe write in the rows, looking at the sleeping stubs, the mustard where I can find it which is everywhere right now.

This has nothing to do with a proximity to 40.  At all.  This is ME, overthinking and wondering if I should do this or if I should try this, if a book is what I should focus on or if when I speak I’m too much this way to that way, to too too whatever.  I stop woth that and settle in now, the Now where I am at home.  I remember when I’d walk outside the Roth tasting room to take pictures in the SB block, I wouldn’t overthink anything.  There was nothing to think about at all, really.  It was just me and the vines.  That was the IT to it all.

8:10.  When done with this first set, I’ll get ready.  Throw something on, not think about it much.  Thinking I won’t head to AV, with the distance involved.  Maybe just down the Road, to Olivet or something nearby.  Wherever there’s vines.  I just need to be near a vineyard.  That will impeach this unsettled shape in my senses and character, literary shape.  I’m letting this happen, I know, this approaching 40 uneasiness and uncertainty, nervous note set.  The transformation is to stop it, entirely.  Embrace it, I suppose.  But, STUDY it.  Note all its notes and beat.

3/8/19

Thousand words to book.  Now just me and the coffee.  Tomorrow’s talk on Life Over Linearity.  I can hear the people walking in, seeing me, expecting something.  How much transported and taken do I want to be by others’ expectations and forecasts.  I don’t know.  I think we all do, to some degree.  But I’m just going to speak, and freely.  Me.  The magic of the meta and the momentum of my Now, the onus I’ve written and put to page.

In a Lo-Fi mood, bobbing my head to this beat while I type, my sight set on something more than a mere plight.  Ignite my thoughts, never trite time’s talk.  So…. Here, in breakroom, people talking and me focusing on music.  The riffs and echoing chimes, chords, drums…..  So, reorganize my consciousness after a thousand word sprint.  Hint, grin at the screen, expectations don’t deem authority, I say to myself.  So… onto next creative canton.

3/7/19

Was so pinched for time last night that I emailed the students from the red light at Sebastopol and Stony Point.  Told students to wait, that I was running late.  I park next to Emeritus Hall, where many of the full-timer fullies do and ran up the stairs like I tried to run in that Marin Headlands marathon.  Entered the room to all find them excited to see me, ready and eager for my words.  I nearly felt like tit wasn’t happening.  They’re an incredible group, there was just something about the way they are in their seats, journals out, waiting.  I had nothing with me but my phone and keys.  Did everything, all words and offerings, ideas from me. All of it.  Hemingway was me and I was Papa.  There talking about Paris, the characters around Hem in the 20s during his “Lost” years, and his narrative force and shape.  Today promises to be like yesterday, where everything is written for me.  In my order, ordering me to not stop and follow my own beat, my own music.  Life over Linearity, living madly and the only linearity and lines before self are the ones pronounced by self.

Set timer last night for 24 hours.  Something has to happen in 24.  I’ll make the occurrence find me.  With writing, with business, with what I do as this essayist.  4 shots in mocha telling me to think of what I said last night as I have so many times, “Where are you and what are you doing?” For writing, a prompt, realization.  Quiet in home, all are gone, me with my jazz and last night in all sensory sets.  Walking in, ready to speak feast, the movement, Paris and the people around him, me.  Every day.  The facts and frames of personifying places.  From the office, to this house, to Paris, to SF’s Castro district where yesterday I wrote while biting the turkey club and fries the gentleman endorsed.  With a Coke, of course.

2/28/19

Wrote 1111 words to start day.  Relaxed in my nook at Sonic.  My Sonic jots, becoming more energetic and consistent, more enlivened and electric.  Sonic is not a platform but a page set for me to fill…. New identity for me to explore. Why Sonic works, from such encouragement.  The wine industry and all the tasting rooms with which I collaborated never did this, or anything encroaching on such.  MY wine business, approaching.  I’m not giving up on wine business, and certainly not wine or my vineyards, my vineyard walks.  This morning’s writing, telling me to have a conversation with wine, with self on the relationship with wine, wines story and the words that play from wined thoughts.  The Robert Hall Cab from last night and night before, telling me to relax and be more eased in my wined chimes and lines, when I sip and to stay away from analysis but throw more height and color, more energy and effort into reaction, speaking wine. Not for the wine, but with her.

 

New blog started, soon.  The u-sentence.  No quote marks needed. More and more I hate punctuation.  Anyway, this new blog is so closely associate with this blog, bottledaux, where the intention is to know your Now better, so I can know MINE more closely and intimately.  Be FREED.  You need start the day with YOU…. A proclamation, or thesis, or assurance, or provocation.  So many words to choose but the intention is the same.

 

Face feeling itchy and uncomfortable.  Now I wish I did leave time to shave, or somehow budget twenty or twenty-five minutes for such.  But if I would’ve done that then I wouldn’t be seeing the word count of this morning.  And yes, I’m giving word count attention.  Why not.

 

Where am I driving today, with team?  Hoping for SF.  Berkeley’s fine, but anyone knowing me knows SF holds my heart.

2/27/19

Second to last day of month.  See what today delivers.  New obstacle thrown in story, may have to cancel meetings and go to field.  I’ll see.

 

4:44.  What a day.  In such a gloriously luminous, loving and enigmatic way. Everything done.  Just finished lunch a bit ago.  Took it quite late as a result of consecutive meetings.  Not  much in writing today, I know.  But it couldn’t be helped.  I should be explaining it to self or apologizing.  Today could be written about, singularly, as a narrative or story or lesson, lecture, something for me. Like a longer note to self.

Today’s taught me to be more versatile, flexible, maneuvering in day-to-day, also to hold self to aims and visions.  To embody what the aim truly is in all its facets.  I’ll write about it, today, when on campus.  Won’t be keeping them long, note.  I need more time to write.  I mean really write.  Finish this goddamn book, Thought.  Thought… and what it is what it’s meant for why be in it, why have it be so integral in your functionality as a Human.

2/26/19

500 words to Visions essay, then 500 more words to book.  Not leaving office, today.  Meetings, projects, Mike is ready for everything.  Mike aims to finish everything so swiftly and efficiently that he has time to collect, to self-composed and meditate, see his day’s fate more clearly.  Done with the croissant, he again feels the scratch in throat.  He refuses to get sick or come down with anything.

Mike is paused unexpectedly and he can’t find out why.  So he embraces the pause rather than fight it.  He hears nothing in the breakroom but his own typing self.  Why couldn’t he move?  He didn’t know.  He’d clock in a couple minutes early.