1/23/19

End of a day long, or just a day I perceive as long, on a repeat cycle unintentional but amusing, at least to me.  Up at 5-something writing on phone, get kids ready or help then get them in car which my son little Kerouac was more than intent on doing so that helped, then the drive.  Drop off little Kerouac at his morning daycare then take Ms. Austen, little Emma my love loving loves, to her schoolery.  Then to work… meeting, then another meeting after prepping all morning for both meetings and day in field then drive to Berkeley.  Walking streets with Sales Reps, then lunch, then a little more walking then drive back to Santa Rosa office.  Need to write about my drives, the Road, the commute, more.  I know.  Tonight, I have less than what I had when walking through door back home.  In just that small give of time, I lost a tremendous amount of beat.  Why.  Who knows.  I don’t.  Now with a glass of the red blend I bought the other day from Sanglier, during my short walk and saunter if you could call it that around the square.  Already 9:57.  I’m not giving in to my exhaustion, or this tired.  I won’t.  I can’t.  I’m closer to 40 now than I was this morning, goddamnit.

Done with dinner, at kitchen island counter, in my studio home.  No way I’m running tomorrow morning.  Will tomorrow night, seen in head right now looking at clock and wondering if I should just surrender and give in to this tired, what I now feel.  What if I didn’t.  What if I embraced it.  Write exhausted and a little sculpted from the wine.  I come home to sleeping babies.  Haven’t checked on them, but they’re up there, in their respective dreams and visions.

1/6/19

Been writing in more than one place for the ’19 story.  Oh well I say to myself with another glass of sparkling, Jackie over there playing on the tablet my mom and dad bought him this past xmas.  Nothing I’m writing lately I’m liking.  Certainly not loving.  So what’s the bandage for that?  One part of me says just write free, with less shackle and inner-hassle.  What’s that mean I don’t know so I re-focus on Jack.  The day he and I have had, his sister too.  She now off with wife and wife’s friend and wife’s friend’s daughter to Target to get who knows what.  Kerouac has some inner dialogue with himself regarding the game, if it’s a game or some scholastic, learning program…. “Jack, what are you doing?  What are you playing with?” He gives a bit of a mumble but I’m not convinced that was directed at me.  He goes back to doing that, whatever that is.  He rests the right side of his face in his right palm, right elbow on right inner-thigh as he sits on floor, legs crossed and lightly locked.  We just spent the past couple hours watching football.  Playoffs.  Or postseason.  Chicago versus Eagles, in Chicago.  Eagles pulled it by a point.  Just one.  I of course was on CHI’s side for various reasons—none of which I’ve told you so I guess I shouldn’t write “of course”—and so was Jack.  Both us disappointed in the result.  But we move on.  He with his game, or learning program, me with words and this morning before our together time, and time with his sister, a 7-mile run which I now feel.

Hoping to get some reading in, tonight.  Hemingway, Coelho, Plath, Hughes….  Not sure I’ll touch all four books, but one of them I’m rather confident.  Need to write more poetry, read Hughes more, and other poets like Cummings, Plath of course, Yeats, and from that collection of several poets I was gifted years ago.  Today teaches me to not work against existing momentum, ever.  What you want to do with the day is one matter, what you’re able to do and what you can do with what is present is quite another write.

Writing everything down….  Jack, quite poised and careful how he touches that screen. Face Ibn right palm, again.  He says nothing to me on his own, and I don’t want to break his connection to his current action so I just push these buttons while I look at him.  My little boy who daily loses his littleness to time— Time, that fucking animal, devouring all of us as a matter of duty and functionality, normalcy.  Why I deplore normalcy, the patterns.  The expected.  The unavoidable tumult of the clock.  I look at reflection, mine, and can see changes in my face, around the mouth and eyes.  Forty this year— fuck.  Have I lost some of my awareness and writing ability?  Am I starting to fade?  Looking over at little Kerouac, my little beat.  He’ll keep me young.  His sister, too.

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.

In writing, you

exude the most You you can produce.

Right where you are.

Reiterate your reality with beatific bravado and placement. If others question or object, use their words for your pages.

We, as writers, win, always, either way.

l’affaire

img_3380Home and collecting.  At the end of this day, I feel like I have a new job, a new focus, a new career and major, purpose and life.  All to nonfiction pages, me here with pages and pages of me, or maybe.. something else.  Either way, the writer feels free, which is supposed to be what’s to be, oui?  Pinot on counter, over there, and coffee for the morning made.  Like I have a new day and knowing days of Newness will follow.  Nonfiction pillar— just write where you are, the Here, to get to your aimed-for There.  After a slow day at work, in the tasting room, and I mean so fucking slow all a person unaccustomed to the industry and its pseudo etiquette could do is sip all day, I look around my house and know that what I felt today with expository theory and essays, the memoirist proclivity and gravity, I’m somewhere found.  And why so late, I wondered after coming home from the open house at sister property, something I usually never attend as all open houses are the same… say hello at greeting station, write your fucking name on some page with a Sharpie, then walk around like an idiot not knowing if you should be trying all the new releases or eating some fixed dish, or thanking someone for holding the event…. I just did all of that but with a little more assembly, I guess.  I mean, I thought I did.  What could I do.  It’s a sister property.  

Now that I’m home, I try to collect.  The Pinot I’m sipping, or was, and soon again will be, not saying much to me.  I’ve all but expelled beer from my scenes sipped, and now wine isn’t making much a case.  Tempted to dive into that caffeine, those K-cups I bought from Whole Foods— Whole-Fucking-Paycheck.   I’d pull an all-nighter, as I did when undergrad, then grad when living in San Ramon tempted by that hot-tub.  Remember one night going down there at like 02:20-something, knowing I still had like five pages to write but I said ‘fuck it’ and too a Corona with me.  Drank that, back then.  So what.  I was young.  Not anymore.  Now I’m me.  I’m this.  The writer still having these revelations, these ‘I’m gonna do this!’ supernova sights, just then days and one month before knowing I’m 39.  Yes, I need more wine. What I understand after today’s drive, this morning, is write everything.  You want to write nonfiction, then let everything out.  You want to be successfully in this mode of prose, then you have to hope you’re embarrassed.  Home.. collecting.  Hear the dryer, or washer, some fucking machine upstairs in its tumble, my thoughts a bit in muzzle.  Not much options other.  Feel like I dreamt this, last night.  Precisely what I’m doing now.  OR, I could be too into this floor, where I’m sitting.  The industry followed me home.  Good…. More warrant to continue with that Chalk Hill PN. 

(4/19/18)

Home after dinner with wife in Windsor. 

Kin, one of our preferred stops, spots, restaurants with all its activity and offerings.  No babies in the house ce soir, and I think about having another glass of that Meeker Malbec my friend ‘J’ brought me.  A gift.  Waking early tomorrow.  And I know what you’re thinking, reader—  “Yeah… sure you are… no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be as disciplined as your wife.” Well… yeah… THAT may be true, but I am waking early for a run around the Coffey/San Miguel zone.  Air conditioner on, kids no longer with their chatter outside, and I can feel the last of that Chardonnay encircle my functionality.  Odd feeling, having to delete then retype… what happen to a writer like me, but this writer isn’t likely the others… I enjoy running, exercise, health and fitness.. but then I’m here, sipping wine and writing.  Exhausted from the day and prep for tomorrow’s ‘Burgers & Bocce’ event.  Should go to bed now, the writer knows, but a glass of that Malbec as a night’s capping sounds resplendent, and why not.  That’s what life is— short, and instructional, telling me or maybe more so urging me to turn down certain streets.  So I’m here.. on the couch, just typing the night into more night, wanting a salvo of meditation about me, the glad freedom  wheel that will make sense of everything around me, even that which I have no interest in understanding.

Hot in the home office.. so what do I do?  Read something.  Fuck the wine.  Leap back to literature.  Words from Kerouac and Plath, al the heroes right there.  OR, just keep drinking the Malbec till something hits the page that teaches even YOU.  Can that happen?  Has to, oui?  Guess we’ll see.  Night’s cap of certain captains, in cup.  So now, only down and up.  Like Wonderland, my Master’s thesis, revisited.  All over.  And again, again…. Maybe just notes, but with some wherewithal, color and animation, maybe.. not sure what I’m trying to say.  Nearing 50,000 words in this document… and what don’t I have a fucking book out?  Some of these independent musicians have straddled and secured fame and artistic autonomy for their self- distributed boldness… okay… take the rest of the night off, as I’m sure Mama would say.  Obey.  But the writer in me’s addicted tot he act of writing, just putting shit to page—

Well, there’s part of the problem…