Laptop again giving me grief.

So I open the bottle of Monterey Grenache I bought at Bottle Barn a bit ago. Not letting it sour or soil the soul of this sequence of time I have to Self. First sip, and I’m spoken to by subtlety’s illustrative principles.

It’s still not speaking to me, doing what it’s supposed to do. This it. An it. Not capitalizing, not surrounding in any quote marks, even the singular. It’s a thing. A monster. A devil. Guess I have to buy a new laptop.

Me projected into a project…

Woke at 4am to run and I did, and here I am on campus sipping coffee I took to-go from office.  today, more than eventful and full of story.  One of which training a new hire for Sonic and preparing for a talk I’ll give tomorrow or sales approaches and general narrative of the company.  I feel my business impact and career building.  I see it.  And I excite but also temper my expectations of self, and what to demand of self.  Writing everything on paper today, not taking the literary lunch I wanted to or professed in the Sonic Journal that I would.  I went to Texanita, treated self to a lunch I saw as deserved, where later a friend by the Story’s construction and orchestration walked in, and we talked about business and business ideas, what to do next, and how to be involved in wine’s world and business tangibility but on our terms.

The coffee next to me, getting cold.  I will finish it, only to give this writer enough energy to get through a short meeting with English 1A where I’ll pass back some papers, give a HW assignment, one light and not too strenuous or cruel, then talk a bit if needed, then go somewhere for a glass of wine to celebrate the end to this 9th week of the semester.  The single digit weeks are done.  DONE.  Time flies by me with more hunger and rapidly, cruelty than I can postulate, here profess.  Maybe it’s not cruelty.  No, it’s not. Time is just doing its job, as I am now here on laptop finally recounting my day and thinking of all the coffee I drank, all the tasks I completed and all the notes I took from this morning when I had “open mic” with T to where I was at desk thinking of ideas to tomorrow pose.

22 more minutes budgeted to write in this laptop journal.  Thinking I need a new laptop.  Yes already.  Bought this right after Emma was born.  That’s nearly three years.  Why not get a new one.  Business expense for my #mikemcreate business as well as the #professormikey project.  Wait, ‘pm’ isn’t a project.  But what if I started something called “the #professormikey project”?  Why not.  Okay.. added to list.  First order, the remaining weeks in this semester.  9 more weeks,  I guess you could say.

Tonight…. Urge students to have a ‘ME’ project.  Extending from the idea that I’ve shared with hem and at Sonic, in business, that there’s magic in the meta.  Always in what you already have, what’s right in front of you. 

Have Coltrane playing.  Part of this ME project.  What I’m doing while doing it.  Will get a bottle of wine from Whole Foods.  Something new.  Tonight I’m a wild wine writer, of some shape, shade, sort, sense.  The room I’m in quiet, no surprise.  For being up since 4 I’m surprisingly motioned.  But wait, it’s the coffee.  I can’t take credit.  Less than 15 left… no way I can take credit, not even a teaspoon’s worth.  Love this room, right now.  This song.  Next semester is where my sight goes.  One class.  What was it?  A 100 or 1A?  Doesn’t matter now.  I fixate and focus on me, here in this room, the song coming to its close, me writing and writing, thinking of my book.  When the fuck am I going to finish my book?  Any of them?  At least I’m writing.  At least I’m teaching…. Sharing ideas, more so.

12 or so minutes left.  Need time to post.  A blogger, me.  Maybe I don’t need a goddamn book.  Maybe that’s unnecessary pressure this writer puts on himself that I should just deject, reject, aside set.  Yeah do that.  Don’t want anymore coffee.  Or yes I do.  Tomorrow morning waking at same time not to run 9 miles as I this morning molded but to write.  Try and touch 3000 words before I see any sliver of any sun.  Need in office early be.  Start writing right when there, ready to present ideas, talk to colleagues, listen, build and grow and learn.  All of this at a tech company.  Still can’t believe it—  But now I see it differently.  A creative colony…. An expansive think tank if you would.  It’s not just a tech company.  Not at all.  No.  It’s… something different.  I don’t know.  Don’t want to wait my remaining minutes trying to categorize Sonic.  The office deserves more than a singular room, box, cookie-cutting category.

Approaching the 8-minutes-left steps.  Wine speaking to me, or maybe I’m just more drained than I before forecasted.  Wrote in notes for tonight’s meeting, DO NOT JAIL YOURSELF TO A CATEGORY, in the ME project.  Categories are excessively definition.  Definitely confining.  Using rest of time to write, I’ve decided in these final eight or whatever, how ever many minutes.  I deserve this.. this freewrite, this sensately rain of types and button pushes after this day that’s only as long as it’s been as I decided to wake at 4am, for the second time in two weeks.  I know 4am well, now, and knowing it better, thoroughly and as intimately as I can is a stark stride, aim, vision and conviction.

Leading myself to something, a new story, with aid of external elements and echoes but from my own command and composition.  Stomach quaking a bit, I ignore it.  I focus only on this room and the chairs in it, the books on the shelves, the business I’m operating and other business efforts I myself decide and fly.  Like a new vessel, ship or plane, transporting self to new shelves and books, pages, stories.  Budgeting time no more.  Now just writing, enjoying the story, this ME project.  All me.  Where I am in this day, this cold coffee and the Sonic Journal at right, me in chair thinking about wine and dinner….  Wake early again tomorrow.  Good.  I have to.  I should writer a book about 4am.  No, just blog it.. that’s sexier, right?  Is that my goal, have a ravishing and seductive style and rile to my writing?  I don’t know anymore.  I’m just enjoying myself, ME.

MY project.


As someone who obsesses over work,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


October Saturday Pinot Write

img_8030Just sipping some Monterey Pinot, wishing I’d de facto be sipping it in Monterey.  But I’m here right where I need be.  Babies upstairs in their dreams.  Me with glass left, and thinking about what the wine announces to me.  She’s exuberant, evasive and pensive in the sip contact but when glass is down I’m left reciting something to self with which I’m unfamiliar.  About wine and my eventual vineyard, Jack and Emma laboring, assisting, with block inspections and sorting, even olfactory consideration when in lab.  I look down at the glass and prolong the next kiss.  I seek to wait, fancifully I want her to wait.  Tonight wine principally and this writer have a discussion about us… our past and future the constant current of thoughtful and philosophy currency with me on this wood plank ground.  Wine and I will ne’er be chasm’d, or sent to separate sets.  We’re coherently coded and with each other arrested.  Effusive ebbs in our sittings, walking around juxtaposed enclaves, France and San Francisco, somewhere in Mendocino, Napa, Santa Barbara, Monterey.  This Pinot has me on the beach, there with wife when we’d visit her parents when they there lived.  Monterey has always riles and magnified Pinot Noir for me in ways my county cant.  Not sure why, if its the vocal raspberry and cherry painting or the terrestrial spice equation.  I don’t know.  I’m not trying to know.  I’m caught and I’m smitten, I’m stolen from where I am on this  study floor.

She reminds me to stay in wine’s page and paragraph cascade.  I would never use scores, I will never write those flabby flop-drop reviews the “experts” or wine “writers” cook in popular pubs.  I’m here, with her, this Pinot as she sways and plays in her versified daze, having me in my analytically excessive maze.  This is me, what I write, how I write.  Wines like this do just this to me, and I go to sleep seeing my vineyard and the Madigan babies doing something out there, either hounding the rabbits or counting rocks, vines, or looking up at birds above certain clone blocks.

I’m back in Monterey, on sand, sipping this and scribbling something either significant or just for the moment itself and that’s just what wine should be each occasion, each breath and turn of head and looking at rocks, the seals on the Monterey docks.

The wine now mollifies, has an oceanic framing to its recital and prophesying, perambulation.  Holding the glass to nose and typing with one hand, right, she instructs me to do just this THIS, for relationship’s sake, for understanding composition.  Not just the wine but writing itself.  Wine is writing.  I’m. Not just writing wine or “about” wine but pushing these keys for the writing act itself.  Composition.  A 1A class.  In seat and reading each line for its meteoric assembly and accentuation.  I’m caught, newly coded, shown IT.  What all this around is for, and why I’m here, doing what I’m doing with wine and literature…. Exacted in newly vinified habit.  Monterey, her Pinot Noir rows, me, words, thoughts, sights of years from now, and now.  My newly set Now.  Another moving of puddle, she says more, now singing.  Rocks and sand, sea Highway 1, Carmel, the tasting room, the first time I went to Bernardus.


img_6934Finding I can’t keep up with what I write and posting.  Can’t post quick enough, or I write too much too fast.  Have time to gather what thoughts I have after this busy, busy day.  I do find I’m overthinking more than I possibly ever have, and I wonder why, why am I doing that.  No answer, so I breathe deep, deeper again, think about my wine novel, or wine novel idea, and writing, and teaching, and there I go.  There I go into a thought cyclone and wondering which something I’ll pick.  49 minutes to self in the conference room, teaching myself to be singular.  Writing out things I want done tonight, by tonight’s end.  There, done.  Well, I wrote them in my head, anyway.  Seriously I did.  Empty the backpack which I didn’t do yesterday or the day before as I hoped I would.  Post some past paragraphs to blog, clean home office, grade papers… oh my god those papers, frightening me.  The stack now more of a skyscraper, just gets bigger and bigger, yes intimidating me and I have no idea how to attack it.  Why do I let this happen literally every semester?  Why am I still teaching in this orthodox, institutional sense?  How come I’m not yet independent with my lectures and thoughts on journaling, writing, essay writing, Sylvia Plath and Jack Kerouac, poetry?  Enough with that, that line of thinking if you could even call that thinking.  I don’t.  I won’t.

Rubbing eyes again, picking up coffee cup to see how much I have left from the dose I took from Sonic.  Not enough, really…. Or maybe too much.  The book taking shape in my head, about the tasting room and teaching, where I am and— feel like I’ve written this before.  Fuck, I know I have.  Mom always urges singularity in my writing.  One thing. Then I stress the same in class to students. Then, what do you know I actuate none of what I advocate.  I should just write about wine.  That’s it.  Haven’t written about a singular offering in a while.  Hard to keep up with that, too.  Am I a writer or not?  Tonight I’m doubting myself.  Department Chair asking me how I’m doing and do I still have a house living in Coffey Park even though I’ve told her twice that I still do, then I start talking and talking and re-living the whole thing.  Need a glass of wine.  No bullshit, I’m going to meet with students briefly, then go get a glass of wine somewhere, and write about it.

Can’t post quick enough, I began this post.  But maybe I will if it’s just about wine. If I write everything about wine and post it here, edit minimally…. I want a Cab.  Whatever Cab they have at Whole Foods in Coddingtown, in that beer room or tap room.  Will people look at me funny if I order wine in a tap room?  Who cares.  I’m a wine writer.  It’s my job.  Or, it is now.  Gathering thoughts, trying my best to organize then and be centered, approaching 40, breathe deep, again deeper.  There.  I’m there.  I think.  Jesus Christ I hope I am this time.

Used to many times go to the Fountaingrove Hilton and have a glass of wine before heading home.  Just sip an SB, or Pinot, sometimes Cab, and do a little writing in the lobby area, or that entrance walkway to the bar and restaurant.  One year ago, today.  All of it happened.  The night of the 9th Mom, Dad, and I fled to Katie’s house in Sonoma to get away from approaching fires only to have to leave the next day.  Don’t want to talk about it, only wine.  Wine.  Old friend observing class so no early dismiss.  Good.  Need to stay in character.  Looking for ideas in one of the old journals I have with me.  Notes on wine, more wine, more notes and flavor suggestions from Pinot, to a Rhône blend, to a couple Chardonnays.  

This should be interesting.

10/8/18…. New writing routine.  New

empirical routine.  Always asking students about their writing and reading habits and now this morning I wonder how well I know. My own.  Wrote sentence in Happiness Project journal, took a couple pictures, and I’m off.  4 shot mocha, right.  I mean business, the most loud and quickest, non-revising business this morning.  Felt self getting stressed about papers I have to grade and when am I going to do them, literally seeing self stall in car after I parked, and I told myself to just KEEP MOVING.  So here I am, moving.  Keep the self moving.  The only option if we’re to get what we want.  Colleague the other day stopping me, mid-talk, politely mind you, to let me know I was using ‘I’ a lot in what I was vocalizing.  Part of me internally sent self to defensive direction and thought positioning, but then I stopped self.  Listen, I said.  I did.  Realizing I’m doing it again, I reach to readers, to YOU… listen to those around you.  What you observe and what’s around you immediately is meant to educate.  Another lesson from the tech office, from Sonic as an idea and place where I work, do business, build my business and self, write from the break room or field.

08:22.  Having Mondays off, much to a writer’s delight and benefit.  I have to write in the ‘I’ of it all this morning, as this writer considers further his routine, what he does for his blog and pages, what he wants.  Should I teach next semester?  Was able to sign onto one class, but I’m wondering if I should even do that.  How much will that take from Sonic, from my writing?  As I see it, I have till semester’s end to make these semesters end.  To only have this to do.  And, of course, business efforts and projects creative.  Took Sonic, or supersonic, journal out.  Wrote something.  Nevermind what.  I’m here writing.  Refusing to stop moving.  But I need set tangible aims, goals I can check off as so many do, as Tasha does on her legal pad.  Have always admired people who could do that, make it that simple.  I am just bewitched by it… how do they do that?  How does she? Literarily every morning.  I just did, well tried.  Three goals.  Easy and attainable.  Written in journal so it has to happen, right?

Think this could be a routine…. Happiness sentence, type, then journal.  OR maybe it’s just an idea, something I’m working on.  But isn’t everything?  Writing about writing in a journal, about keeping one, about what a journal should do for the one keeping it.  Lessons in the morning and how I react to it, to the people around me in this Yulupa Starbucks.  When was the last time I wrote here, and why did I feel it so crucial to write here this morning?  What brought me here aside from the wheels, the engine, turn of a key (even though no key was in any way turned)?

Not liking what I’m writing—  

“Start a fucking novel.” I just wrote.  WHAT?  What made you write that?  A novel?  WE, have to set realistic goals here, Mike.  And I’m not trying to be instructional or even so much inclusive as with ‘we’ utterances.  A novel?  About what?  The wine industry?  Wine?  Being an adjunct?  Working in a tech office from the wine and teaching pews?  What if I wrote one.  A novel.  And it took me somewhere… wait, why DID I just write that in the journal?  This goddamn journal and my supersonic writings, getting me into trouble.

At Sonic, thinking about the drive to SF.  How I make it different.  How do I do my job differently today, in some creative dash and direction, decision.  Not sure what day it is, into my placement and life here, but I’m more than connected and convinced of everything I’m doing.  Coffee from yesterday on desk, of course cold, from that I sip after the 1.5 or so cups I had in home.  Feel the early wake.  4:50-something.  Took screenshot of time but don’t want to waste time pulling from pocket, phone.  No… stay in character, stay in composition stride.  A little tired, just felt it for first time this morning.  Have to call SRJC to see what classes are left for me.  And if nothing, then that’s confirmation that I need be atomic, hydrogen bomb-like with my independent work.  The blog, teaching, lecturing on journal art and practice, habit and maintenance, Plath and Kerouac, words and philosophy…. Putting self in the atomic act preemptively.  Done.

Learn from everything, I remind myself of my own lectures and thoughts offered to classes over years.  A tech company, teaching me how to be not just more a writer but more a teacher, more a journal keeper, more into my surroundings and me and where I am and what I’m doing.  Not bringing laptop into field.  Just paper, pen, in Hemingway trend.  Find coffee spot, continue in jots.  Agin feeling tired, in this break room with my cold coffee and people walking in and out starting their mornings not saying much looking at the fridges for something to eat and not being so easily appeased.  She grabs something, not sure what. He still looks.  I still write.  07:49.  Will start for desk at 07:55, I guess.  I’m indecisive, as I’m overthinking. I am.  And that’s another thing I remark over and over, semester to semester— overthought is writer-death, as well as goal-death.  So why do I do it.

Cold coffee, not antagonizing.  At all.  Stopping not to spill out and get some hotter than hot, utterly smoldering and hell-poetry cup for meeting with Tasha.  Las night asking class, “What does the main character want?  Why?  What’s missing?” Only now, a bit more than 7 months till 40 do I see what I want.  What was missing and that the wine industry could never provide.  Here.  At a tech office, working for an internet company, firm, group…. I’m learning.  These seats more than me feed in my tireless knowledge need.

I’m awake and working out.

Did first hold right before five. After that, push-ups and planks. Some sit-ups. Not really counting, just wanting to keep motion continuous. Set stop watch, not a countdown. Just keep the motion motioned, what I’m telling self. 05:12.

Conscious of the noise and mood of the morning. Everything I do on this hardwood or just wood floor make a sound, loud thin and audible. Like an airy crack, or crackle. Wife leaves for her workout offsite. I start coffee. Vowing tomorrow morning with the day off I’ll go to gym at 4-something. Not only enhance the shape I’m in, but start a new way, new story. Yes another promise, more so though a plan than remark avowing anything.

Can already feel the little I’ve done. In legs from hold, abdomen from pushups just a moment ago tallying 100, and arms from planks and pushups. Time for coffee.

Didn’t post thousand words from last night before class. Will today from whatever coffee spot I can find in the Sunset. Sight 1 for day is that, coffee and composition in the City. Second, hit a few doors with the reps. Then, a poem while walking whatever avenue we’re on. One of the views yesterday from 28th and something, I just looked out at the ocean like I saw something or someone in it. The air’s olfactory makeup told me to keep walking and keep watching. Feeling some goal or aim, some aspiration or creative desire sprint from San Francisco, for me. And if it weren’t for Sonic I wouldn’t even be there having these observations and reflections.

05:31. Waking this early, a badge of sorts. Hear son move around in his bed, and if he wakes early and breaks this sitting, I don’t mind. It’s part of the story. Part of the story but the whole of who I am– writing daddy getting in whatever time I can to write. At work at my desk between little addresses of some spreadsheet, or organizing, or prepping for some meeting. The subject is me. The story, each page, and I never need be sorry.

The workout, over. Me on couch in qualified dark, fan light overhead on my dim setting so I can have some isolator writer mood in here. I keep forgetting it’s harvest right now, and so many of my vino people are out there, right now, pulling clusters from rows and into bins, into a gondola pulled by tractor, a driver up early and away from his family, doing what he needs to them feed.

05:36. I feel like one of them, right now. One of the early. One of the characters they defies law, the expected, that doesn’t sleep in. They can’t. Their minds won’t let them. Mine won’t let me. At all. This morning I’m alive with Sonic and supersonic thoughts of speaking, words, fearlessly sharing ideas from one city to next on work, business, writing everything down and so many say that and never do and if they did, my god, it would not only help what they do but wildly and poetically shape their business and their place and placement in it.

Could go back to bed even if a writer wanted to. Hell, even if my body and functioning orders em to. My thinking’s of a beatific defiance this morning, and only accepting sentences. As a workplace, Sonic tells you to be more of you, it challenges me and how the wine industry never could– Telling me to not only keep doing what I’m doing, but intensify. AMPLIFY. Diversify. Play with form as you do in poetry, poet. And more. More.

05:41. I ask myself where the time went and nowhere, nowhere. It’s still very much presented and around me, present. Gifting me with this couch and all the musing I need for a day in the city. Will I wake as early tomorrow, or early as I have written… I have to. I know how I’ll feel if I don’t. I know my mood if I won’t. Set alarm, every movement today for tomorrow’s early steps and words, lines, however many miles I run on tread or however many reps I finish. Not waking early, and I’m citing hours like this, is in no way literary. Writers don’t sleep in. We can’t sleep, for the most part. We deplore rest, and idleness. Just laying in bed and scrolling, sitting on couch watching a show, or just hanging like a coat from some hook, some executed prisoner from a tight meanly knotted and enclosing circle.

05:47. I love this. I do. I don’t have to think about what to write. It’s right in front of me, blatantly. No sun or suggestion of it through the glass door to right. This is true morning to me. When the sun steps and straight lay stands communicating with the world, its day. It’s started. The day is off and you better find a way to catch it as right now you’re surely not ahead if you haven’t been up. I’m here, knowing I’m ahead of the day. Time again, my topic. Twelve hours from now, I could very well be in traffic. On 101 somewhere. San Rafael, the Novato narrows, Petaluma. Somewhere. I have twelve hours to do something to my story… I do it. Start the timer. 12 hours. Get to work and collect in writing for a bit, then attack tasks. Reps get in before ten, so we head out early. Quick, this Friday. My writing will equal, rival, buzz by pacing.

Son definitely awake. 05:52. I could get a stet in day, again. Teeth and shower, dress, pack, take stuff out of bag as to bring laptop for written lunch and be lighter while hiking the SF streets. Keep the motion motioned. To halt is to fall. And I can’t. Not this close to 40.

Diet for day… Coffee, only healthy snacks, no full meals till dinner, and then do note to lightly eat. Speaking of my beloved coffee life… I sip…


A Meeting

Now home.  Today, sent me.  Somewhere.  Not sure where.  This is more than work.  This is more than a job, Sonic.  The place where people walk around smiling and talking with each other, where they smile and greet each other and fall into a joyous back and forth about everything.  I won’t get comparative, promised I wouldn’t do that in this sitting at day’s end.  But today, did something.  After my EOD meeting, on several worlds and ancillary topics, a conversation which I was more than merely invested in, I hurried on into the rest of the day and onto campus to give my most kaleidoscopic and axiomatic lecture yet, I think.

Sipping from a bottle Thomas gave me, and I direct further toward and into this meeting with self, me here having an inward conversation, hoping to come to some sort of useful singularity but maybe I won’t.  Maybe this is just for the sake of exploration, for setting sail into some new thought stream. Where I’ll land.  Not sure.  And why do so many focus on destination?  I know I do from time to time but even still sometimes we just need to relish and have internal dialogue and mediation on the trek itself… the voyage, the journey.

If I do manage to wake as early as I’ve drawn, tomorrow, I’ll work out while writing.  Down here, downstairs, living room, in dark.  And if one of the babies wake then I guess I’ll deal with it, I have to.  A 90 minute workout, all core-honed, what I’m hoping for.  I still feel Sonic’s office around my senses, all five, and the eighth, ninth.  This Italian red proposes something different, as it’s something different in my usual sip pattern.

So I keep with kaleidoscope’s shades and telling.  Don’t need to be yet privy to destination.  I’ll get there…. I will.


New month and new challenges, new invitation.  First month, Q4, and for me everything is in a poetic synchrony.  Breakroom writing which I haven’t done in some time.  The whole day with projects, an interview with a new candidate which I thoroughly enjoyed, emailing someone in company with new idea, and more ideas, more, more than lily going to have to come here early in A.M. to catch up on some addresses as my laptop, the work one, not wanting to agree to do anything this morning.  I’m mean to be here, in this chair, in this big lunch room, sipping coffee and not needing to eat as I finished the rest of the sandwich wife made for me end of last week— actually that’s a lie, I didn’t eat any of it last week, forgetting I even had it in the fridge.  I felt horrible and swearing to self that I’d today eat it, hoping it’d be edible, not molded or gross or off in flavor dote.  And, it was perfect, just what a writer needed to have this sitting.  Writing at a tech company.  Am I a tech writer?  I guess, in some form.  Well, now maybe yes.  Yes I am.  I’m in tech, coming from wine and education, finishing out my last semester at the JC then setting everything, all efforts and projects and proverbial promises in this basket.  All new axioms enacted.  Both journals at my left, new thoughts let to beget here on lunch hour.  Not sure when I clocked out.  Not certain how much of the hour I have left.  Who cares.  Know I have till 1.  Which means, 38 minutes precisely.

Was supposed to have lunch with new friend and co-worker in other department, Abraham, in the “MDU” division.  Take him to lunch actually to thank him for all his kindness and help this past Saturday, at the event.  But he didn’t know that was today, or that I wanted to take him to lunch, something lost in the translation and delivery of my offer.  So, Wednesday, two days from now we lunch.  I’m actually grateful to the craft to Craft it worked out as it did so I can write.  And now, in the field, now more eating out.  That lunch I had in the East Bay, Saturday, at the BBQ place on San Pablo was messy, too expensive, non-flavorful, and just upsetting.  Should have had a sandwich at the Subway in front of which we parked.  Btu no, I had to do that.  No matter.  Now forward, I write.  I’ll find somewhere quiet and jot.  All specifics.. who I canvass with, what new I learn of the company and the product we offer in field, about me in my role, educating the reps, and new reps that come to the company.  Now, I’m writing, I’m doing what I do, ME, who I am and what I do but more who I am which is what I do.

Teaching tonight.  Nothing prepped.  So what.  And, no wine tonight so I can wake early tomorrow and put to blog an enormous number of pages.  And obnoxious slew of page-storming.  More of that from me, now, here, and because of here at this office.  Technology isn’t technology, at least to me.  It’s relating to the community, connecting people, service and in a way the wine industry only boasts it is but never really embodies.  No nugacity in my being here.  Everything is significant, significantly sown in new Newness, new significance.  Two journals on right, me jumping from one idea to the next. W hat this place does to me.  Tomorrow morning I’ll wake earlier than early, and do something, get me closer to my end-Road here at Sonic and with my own projects.  I’m not promising, I’m affirming I guess you could say, adamantly affirming my affirmations, inward and outward then back inward, inwardly.  Coffee, bag, guys over there playing video games, me here writing which doesn’t make me anything, I’m just a writer in a technology pond.  I’m humbled and welcomed and fascinated by the contrast.

No poem written today. Still have to finish the 52-line piece I made loud advancement in the other day.  Blockage everything out, forcing self into hallucination where I’m deaf, only hear the keys and some jazz, jazz… I need some but don’t want to play any as the fight agains the noise around me is colorfully stacked in reward and gems philosophical.  Catch myself overthinking so I look at the first sentence… no poem written today… I’ll change that in a minute, in the closing frames of this lunch break.  Everything in this room is poetic, a form of poetry and poetic narrative, music and song, jazz, a jam session of sounds and the people in my head, audience, hearing everything and moving their heads forth, back, smiling, then I smile too right in front of everyone here and don’t care if I’m observed.  This new job, how it has me thinking, how it has me moving more poetically-intoned and intentioned than even the SRJC or any other campus.  People in and out, debating over what to eat for lunch from the fridge, talking about their dogs and how they have to fill bowls by their cubicles for their fur-amis.  More leave, the others keep playing their game.

Snacks at my desk, so I’m not tempted or tampered with by the chips and cereal, whatever else is in this room with me.  Solely coffee.  Talking, about work and other, this conversation and that—  A poem hops into my head, want to write it down but then I get another idea.  The office has me furious and lovingly frazzled with pages, ideas for story, more stories, what I want from life and my own story.  Nearly didn’t make it here, and I won’t be doing this come Wednesday.  But I’m here now, I tell myself.  What am I looking for, from this job, from this office, from this internet service we take to communities?

More sittings like this.

More of this. 

ME, here.