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.

Mike still feels the exhaustion, but not like earlier.

He has class tonight, and suddenly he’s more eager to teach than on days where he does get 6-7 hours of sleep night prior.  He notes what’s on his mind, exactly and not exactly what’s present in his thinking.

The office starts to calm.  The voices lower and fade in intensity, but his intensity can only compound and compound further in words and complexities, or what he thinks are complexities.  The essay idea forward and forward further in his chair, right where he is.  There’s no lack, of anything, at all.  Like he’s before thought and like his mother has so many times told him with his writing, everything he needs to write about is right in front of him.  “You have enough to right about right where you are.” Mom said.  She was referencing his life as a father, but Mike takes such sight and applies and threads it into other scenes, the one currently right now as he types at his desk.  He’s found an antibody, a compositional vaccine.

2/25/19

2:55.  The exhaustion is there, from being up late with Emma and then again early this morning, but after a meeting with SB and this newest cup, black coffee, I’m revived and alive, seeing new lines and pages just in the next hour, before class tonight.

CPR/First-aid training earlier.  4 hours worth.  Didn’t know if I’d make it through that but I did, mostly from coffee and certain addresses in the man’s teaching spooking me a bit.  Enough of those thoughts.  In fact I haven’t thought about it, at all really, since leaving that room in the other building.

3:08… Me, an essayist.  Finishing my essay on visions.  Holding to that idea rather than just having a list of “goals”.  You have a vision to which you not just subscribe but imbibe, thoroughly believe and intimately conceive.  You want no pause or reprieve from your vision, what you see for yourself, see yourself doing.  I’m finishing this bloody essay, tonight.  1,001 words, my aim.  Objective.  I’m stubborn in my character aim of essayist.  Singular pieces.  The drive to Brentwood, here in this office and working at this company.  Okay… something’s definitely taken me, thoughts in my cognitive channels and inner-storms.

Vision of self, where the self is headed.  Your visions, more than mere wants or simplistic wishes.  They’re not wishes at all, nor dreams.  The visions are assurances.

One reason why Sonic works as a business and employer, as a business entity, is much from their support of employee visions.  What they want, and how they want to attain their aims.  Something I’m not used to, and I’m not using this place as a platform or bridge to get anywhere.  Destination’s not the objective.  What’s being sought here is what’s already here and its proximity to me.  I’m building from where I am, me the essayist, me the teacher, me the most ME I’m able to free.

2/23/19

Santa Rosa, Ca.

Sonic.net.

 

Wrote another thousand for book idea, or effort, or whatever it is.  In dark here in office, writing and collecting listening to Coltrane of course and easing into day.

This morning, much more eased and agreeable than yester’s.  Onward, with coffee, music, poetry, THOUGHT, reasoning what I want and how to get there, to my There.

About 20 minutes left to self.  Then into role, mode, actuation and actuality of one working on a Saturday.  Will be in city tomorrow with family for little Kerouac’s birthday.  Excited to not have to drive, walk around the streets with no other intention but to do just that.  Think we’re hitting the Exploratorium and I don’t know what else.  Either way, the writer needs just such a day.

Realize I’m writing in too many places. 

If you want to know, three laptops….  Troublesome (this one), Wife’s (in backpack, where the newest book effort waits), and Sonic.  Coffee being made here in home, vowing to quick Starbucks, angrily.  Babies upstairs doing some puzzle thing.  Back to Brentwood today.  Again.  Told one of my Leads that I would ride with him but I have things to catch up on, so I’ll again be riding by myself across 37 then down 780, then 80, I think, then 680, then 4.  Something about the drive there that unsettles me.  Not going to give it thought, now.  

Haven’t written any aims or visions for day yet, taking my time.  Yesterday said I would shake my world and all worlds.  Did’t do much shaking, if you know need.  Today, going to again be in observation mode for sakes of thoughts and deconstruction.  While walking on some Brentwood street, with palm trees and trees that look as though they’re a part of the plan family, I thought about travel, then was utterly occupied and controlled by travel thoughts.  Writing about not just restaurants and hotels, but the trees I see, the people, the sounds and voices, the bees and steps, streetlights and cars, traffic lights, the sky.

The richest thoughts are in travel, I understood and now almost painfully conceptualize.  How do I get there, and is that my truest aim, travel?

Kids come downstairs and take attention.  They don’t have to take as I’m more than eager to not only offer but immediately give.  Both request yogurt and granola.  Yogurt is Strawberry type, granola is standard, I guess, or what one thinks of when they think of granola.  I make more coffee in line with my swearing off of anything Starbucks or any coffee shop-related.  Satisfying business aim before self with a latte or meal out.  New day, new discipline, new song, new story.  New book, soon new travels, Newness compounded…. Philosophy and not, just furthered acknowledgment of the Now.

Lady over by far window, in front of me and a bit to left, plays the guitar,

or at least tries to work on her finger placement and tablature, I think.  Music in everything, I always say and have said.  Me knowing it mandatory to write to Mr. Coltrane, in my ears now with a soft, slower track—poetic and containing, atmosphere-apt and just kind.  Coltrane’s work has consistency and beauty, then there’s no consistency or predictability in some track but the beauty is augmented.  Plan on incorporating him in my talk on the 9th, about Freedom, and Madness, the Beauty of being Mad, Free, of being your SELF.

“Everytime We Say Goodbye”, the current play.  Piano keys with brushes on snare, nonintrusive bass, John greets us again with notes that don’t overwhelm the other contributions.  His music is jazz but more, it’s life and love, freedom and this madness with which I am more or less obsessed with.

“Moment’s Notice”, next.  Now more wild characteristics and motions, more intensity and urgency, electricity and collection.  Sped and eager as the session is, there’s no loss of comfort or chord coherence.  I listen and type faster, feel more of my morning and any evidence of the run slowing me or having my being’s function turn to debility, vanishes.  Composed and in head skipping with each letter button pushed.

Lady works on her music and I mine, with my pieces and sheets, tracks and tells, a one-character jam session, here in this café I’ve never utilized for such.  Water nearly done, I pretend I’m on stage reciting in the moment with John and his partners, letting words fly and out and multiple become their own principles and exponents as they may and stray, deciding their own and my day.  Syncopating play, clef-sleigh, in any wild and wandering way.

9:47, should think about leaving soon.  I’ll continue this momentum and creative flight through day by using what’s right in front of me, the magic of the meta, where I am and what I’m doing, even if it’s swiping my badge to get into the building or notes for the day of canvassing ahead of us, the drive down, the music I plan on playing for self (good idea… will plan music), or whatever.  Today decides a direction new and revived, more liberated and sans-chains in Mike’s story, narrative and prose plain.

In car. Lunch.

Ate what I bought at Sonic’s in-house market. Sandwich, Cliff Bar, sparkling water, with the peanuts I had in desk drawer as a little side something. About 30 minutes left. In car, hear wind and people talking on 26th Street or behind me somewhere on Shotwell. Not sure what part of the city this is but it’s interesting. Rained as soon as I exited vehicle right when I arrived and now skies, blue with thin and depleted clouds.

Will leave Field around 4:30. May get out in a bit and walk. More steps. 14 hour fast turned into a 16 hour one— Actually 16 hours, 9 minutes, 23 seconds. Stopped timer on phone after first bunch of peanuts were bit. Only inconsistencies are this morning’s latte which I excuse and an almond I accidentally ate shortly after while grabbing the small pack of almonds from desk. Ate one to see if it was stale or odd. While chewing, I realized what I was doing, kept going in jaw interval, and continued with fast. These fasts are teaching me not only about discipline and self, vision and singularity, but thought itself. Having a thought be actual and not just conceptual, hypothetical, imagined.

Man behind me a bit and to the side, speaking loudly in Spanish to someone over phone. Part of me wants to get out and see him while the writer-Me orders holding position. And I do. Driver’s seat of this company car. Dried skins from peanuts, sandwich container on floor. Will clean when I get back.

Different musics on the drive down. Thinking of everything from the previous day, and how much of it I can write, or could write from memory. Learning I can do so much more aptly and genuinely better than I thought. Learning I don’t always need be writing. That walking on these SF streets and living is writing. Have always known that and been aware of such approach to writing life, but now I feel and self-active I’m thought in ways I never have.

How much time left now. Don’t care. See the man on his phone, after he walked to the corner of 26th and Shot’. Can see his face. Back to me, and wearing hood.

2/14/19

Work early.  8am now, clocking in at 8:50 or so.  Forgot headphones adaptor in car.  Tempted to run out and get but why I then think, just take in the breakroom voices you hear from the nook.  Work with what you have, with what you have, Mikey…. If I’m to know the Now and be freed from it, this is what I’m utilizing and implementing into the morning’s prose.

Out in the Field, today.  In office all day yesterday and in knowing where I am and what I’m doing, I ignore time.  The ten post-it notes to self I brought to class last night and shared, hours after lecturing on Kerouac and Madness here at Sonic, I’m in a different place.  And in this different place wondering how I place the beaming benefit of the contrast, and finish my two essays.  Didn’t make the deadlines I put before self.  I know.  Month over in two weeks, the time I have to finish my book. Different movements will manifest different Me’s.  So, one different act—didn’t get the headphone piece.  Usually I would have, as you might know, especially with music become more and more a demand and decided direction in my story.

Rain, light.  Room now completely quiet.  I’m not at work but in an office of my own, for more pulses in this page set than I can tally.  The breakroom, now, has intermittent landers.  People coming in for coffee, or some breakfast they pull from the fridge and pay for with that self-checkout box standing to the left of the refrigerating storage.  What do I want from the day—or more immediately and tangibly what do I demand from now.  The, Now.  We all need to have this discussion.  So I’m having it.  Again.  In Santa Rosa, Ca.  Just 15 or so minutes from my house.  Narrating to self, SELF, for sakes of more Self, more understanding and questioning where I am, what I’m doing, why I’m doing it.  No qualms or quibbles, none at all, but I maintain the conversation.

Yesterday I spoke on Madness and how madness is love and creative, how it’s its own form of freedom, accentuation, its own manuscript.  Vowing to live more madly, right now in this nook.  What I want is what I have, and what’s before me will supply and sequence more proliferation of ideas, get me to my travels.  Why travel.  Why not.  Why not see the world and have sittings like this in cities like Prague, or Lisbon, Cairo, New York…. Montreal, and of course my love-city, Paris.  I need it. I need more.  To understand self, narrator of and to self, share my findings with other so they can see what I see, in themselves and what’s around them.

Someone walks in, laughing, obviously content where he is, “Good morning, guys.” Followed by a few more warm ha-ha’s.  Today a day of the Valentines, where you’re to love everything, everyone.  My babies this morning, excited to be allowed to eat a little candy their mother bought them, and have some party in class.  I step back, did this morning earlier and do know, to see what’s evolving in this day of love, or cards, candy, smiles, balloons and parties.  The Now, estimating it, appraising it, deconstructing it and the Now you want to have.  The reality that you have that reality is a reality to love and celebrate.  I start laughing to myself.

I look out the window to parking lot see a delivery truck.  Think they deliver linens or supplies, or something health-oriented for businesses.  Abraham, my good buddy, my workout buddy whom I astronomically admire for his early wakes and workout routine walks in.  I ask him if he went this morning and he offers “Hell yeah, e’ryday!”I again smile and see a new possibility in waking early.  If not to workout then to write, finally finish my essays, and if not that then make a dent, one substantial and meaningful in the book.  Writing I did in field day before yesterday on tablet emailed to self, one page, possibly the first page in book, tonight edited.  Or, tomorrow.  We need difference, we need contrast if we’re to pass the envisioned and land at the actual.

Just saw someone peek their head in.  They were gone before I could see any face or eyes or right ear.  Could only see a collar and shoulder.  My breakfast sandwich, gone.  Will fast for day’s remainder.  Write for book in lunch’s hour, wherever in the city I’ll be.  Possibly the Castro, or Noe Valley.  Not sure yet.  And, observe.  Yesterday talking to Tasha for our mid-month check-in we talked about the power of observation and how not always one needs to be directly involved, interacting, present and talking, but watching.  Cataloguing observations and reacting from there, an idea I echoed and argued last night in class with the 100 group.

People see me writing, say hello, walk out class door after scanning their badge, her badge,  nice young girl from Inside Sales.  I observe them, they me possibly, then time persists in its insistence.  Amplifying from where I am, observing the little contained mess I made on this table with the sandwich bag, napkins from Starbucks, my phone and keys.  I arrange, re-arrange, make my writing space more spacious.  Done.  Now with the time I have left, set aims and visions for day—Writing at lunch, at desk more post-it notes to self like yester’, and notes for field today.  Set an observation template, if you would.  For the Sales Leads that I observe daily but as well for the day itself.  Everything from words I hear, people seen in streets, street lights and stores, cars and crosswalks, what bags people carry, what sounds steps make, everything.

I’m at work early writing because that’s what I do.  That’s what I have to do.  That’s my story.  That’s what keeps me healthy, you could say.  Alive and mentally alive and living and exploring my character and the story the character’s given.  Passing the visions, and about to land in rooms actual.  The travel, the hotels, lobbies, airplanes, tickets, engine sounds, taxis….  The story sows a new narrative.  And in that, I better know the current Now, and soon step pervasively and definitively free, freed.

For class, reading.  Writing.  The journal.  Open mic, but for something else.  I want tonight to be reflective of my mood toward the academic institution, but with kindness.  A dose of defiance.  I have no class for Fall and I don’t know if I would take one were I offered one.  After today’s talk on Kerouac, I feel more self-sufficient, -reliant.  I don’t want to need them.  Then don’t, I tell self.  My thoughts on it all are non-thoughts.  But one.  It’s time to move on.  It’s time to test self, teach independently, be free of the composition confines of a campus classroom.

2/13/19

Getting started.  Ready for my talk on Madness.  Form, Accentuation, Manuscript.  The order of disorder, but who’s to say it’s disorder…

8:23.  Taking a little breather.  The aim for day is to get so far ahead of schedule, for monthly efforts with the book.  No more thinking.  Thinking is done, I say to myself sitting here drinking my coffee, writing notes for one of the Leads.

Poetry, entries, essays, madness in everything.  Wrote the sentence in one journal, now to write one in another.  Rain outside, more than I thought would fall. Overheard someone in neighboring department say that it’s likely we’ll see an average of .5 inches every hour today, and that there will be flooding, and that she saw a firetruck pulling a boat behind it.

Little less than 2 hours left in 12 hour fast.  Sip more coffee, I tell self.

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Santa Rosa, Ca.

Forgot to stamp my geog’ to the entry.  Need to do so as a reminder and motivator to get me to the Road.

10:13.  Just under 7 minutes left in 12 hour fast.  Contemplating getting lunch for self today.  In fact I’m considering making such one of my daily aims.  Treating self, important.  We forget to do that, too many times, I feel.

Now what do I do.  Keep giving self projects, till speech at 12:30, or shortly thereafter.  Madness—Freedom, Accentuation, Manuscript.  We’re all writers.  OH I can’t wait to present.  This place, Sonic, allows me to build the story of me.

11:05.  Good position for and in day.  May go to in-house market, get some little treats for self rather than go to Texanita or the other Mexican place I love, up the street.  Would mean I’d be in-house all day.  So what.  Fine with that.  Need use the zen cove, the new room just a few steps from where now I sit.  Write notes to self, notes for tonight—antithetical, what I’m thinking, just as Sonic is antithetical workplace.

Texted Reps and Leads, cancelling work, or notifying them work for day is cancelled.  Now, I work further… Madness.  Being mad, embodying madness in all steps and turns of head, blinks and breaths.

11:21.  Back from Market.  $2.51.  Sparkling water, gum.  And now back at desk wondering what I should next do.  Reading through others’ observations and progresses.  Coffee still on desk but I’m done with coffee for a bit.  Time to just madly jot, write whatever comes to me, head…. Beach, travel, Monterey and Pacific Grove, more poetry, more music.. me, music.

11:26.  Notes to self, on post-it’s.  Still raining outside, saw while walking to market through glass doors.  Do I want to leave office, for lunch?  Why am I thinking about this, so much.

 

2:19.  Taking remainder of lunch at desk.  Didn’t go out as the speakers meeting went longer than forecast.  And, to my benefit.  Bought another sparkling water for meeting with Tasha.  Writing down more ideas for class tonight and for me principally, for the story, my story—Madness consumers and endorses me for more pages, more of my book that I will finish by month’s end.

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