minutes ahead of anything resembling a schedule. First topic of address: the young boy yesterday telling me how unhappy his dad is at work and how he’s searching for something else, “But, um, he’s looking for a new job…” he went on, and I just looked at him with interest and I guess pity, or if not pit then something of sympathetic semblance. I’m near a mood not for writing but I maintain, and I think this should go to the yrownjoy project, but I haven’t the money to print so I just type on in this cafe, scribbling notes to myself for the first day of this Adjunct’s Summer, in only 3 days. May take Monday off, but I’m not sure– now I’m sure my wife will have a comment or 12 if she reads this, but I’m transparent in my diarist leans and that’s what pummels my thinking at present. I have trouble now writing and I’m not sure why, have to give this 4-shotter a chance to challenge my nerves and concentration.. much better flavor assembly than yesterday’s, no adjustments needed. More ideas accost me for the Summer, ‘wanting & needing, being the same thing’, just hooped into my head, thinking of Kerouac’s Road and my Road and what I want to do for a living and where I want to be in 5 years– shit, I’ll be 41, and my second baby will be 5, and Jack will be 25– with how he acts. This morning actuating a silly disposition then to something moody like his writing father then to wander, to roaming around the house looking for some distraction into which to lure us, both Alice and myself. He’s that clever, mind you. And me here in the café again, and for what, material. Not in the novel mood, but I know I should be. Didn’t wake early this A.M., no surprise, as I’d premeditated. Woke up near 1AM to get Jack, he requested I stay with him but his bed was far too condense for my figure so I left only to hear him call for me when I stretched out next to a sleeping Ms. Alice. I asked him if he wanted to sleep with mommy he said yes so I headed downstairs, under that soft red blanket. Should have set my alarm. But I didn’t. And I woke to him running into the room, Daddy, daddy, I have cars!” he exclaimed, referencing the cars one of the children next door him gifted. And I woke still very much feeling the run from yesterday. Thinking of running tomorrow morning, waking at the hour of my mother-in-law, near 4:30, to hit possibly 8 miles.. that would be amazing. Slight pain in knee left but nothing bothersome, nothing that woke me in the night’s middle. Interim before work, when I collect, but not like the last winery, this place welcomes me and my creativity from what I can see– oh, forgot I have to email my editor/publisher, sent her some thoughts on writing about Mendocino Wineries and Oregon spots, but she can only appreciate them at this time, which I of course appreciate and wait and gather more ideas and research if not for my own writings, the MOCK SOMM series or whatever. Reviewing my friend Blair’s wine tonight, well as a Bacigalupi PS. So that’s two Petite Sirahs.. I can do that, no problem. I actually don’t now that much about Petite Sirah, I know it’s dark and used for blending a lot, and my sister made one that scored 90-something.. but not much more. So tonight I’m educated.
Just off phone with Ms. Alice. She ran 3 miles. Her last weekday off before Summer School. I sometimes forget, and I don’t know why, that we both teach, that we both value education. And that we both love the students and acknowledge the students being harmed by the political scuffles and the skirmishes between instruction and administration. I see myself a desperate journalist, needing a story, and I already have what I need in my reality with Jack and Alice and this new Russian River winery and the blogs I’m writing for, with the wines I’m to review tonight– no need to wish, I have everything I need, in this mocha no tweaks necessitated as this Beatnik readies himself for all the stories headed his way and all the notes and how the wines taste today– Distracted by the people walking by, with their kids and I’m only kaleidoscopically turned in my visions of years before me, how Jack will see me in my profession, in my writing, and how the next little Beat will see me, how I act and how I write then I think of Jack reading my work in college. And if anything, that’s becoming a prime aim of this writer’s, with my Beat and my new assignments and the promise they promote and boast and now more people swarm around me and invade the café– think they’re watching me write and reading this prose for free but don’t the “blog” readers? Confounded and confused, astounded and amused–
9:22. Still a good 30+ minutes for my pages and the character I want to shape for my children– “What’s your dad do?” someone asks Jack or his sibling… ‘He’s a writer,” the answer. Simply. Confidently. And with a relucent amour-propre. That will be me, their father– Blair, my winemaking friend with his own label messages me about some new label designs, I envy and enjoy and learn and some much else from him as a creator, then I second-guess my thought of not making wine this vintage, just stick to the writing.. what do I do? I don’t have the money to get the Cab from Cloverdale. So there you go, solved.. just write, they’re subjects, the wines and the processes. Stay in the bottle, you OX!
Have to restart phone.. ugh, tech, why do I do this to myself? Why not just write and post prose to this goddamn blog of mine? ‘Oh cuz you need a visual of some kind..’ What the hell… okay.. just know the writer loses his patience and his cool and… all. More likely I’ll leave early today, to gather Self and write more and contribute to the novel and write thoughts about the MOCK SOMM column and how I could maybe syndicate that and expand it as a brand and company and approach to wine; a methodology and kind pedagogy about wine; falling further into a love with wine, a true non-self-anointing characterization.
After 9:30– edit then leave. A hurried penner, me, incessantly. But one thing to be promised by this crazy writer, I will note all wines today at work and review my brother Blair’s when I get home.. he said the PS has to be open for at least 2 hours, and I trust him.. but I’ll see if I can make that happen, if not, then small poured and swirl the sense right out the bloody juice. Narrative qualities in everything around me, all the people and what they order and the pictures I just took and how I feel about the future and how my children see me… Like Blair, his kids should be more than proud of their father; independent, family-owned wine business and his worldly familiarity with all things wine, and all stories and voices of wine, everything from the bottle type to the cork style to the label, of course, and the fact there’s no foil. Finally! A wine that doesn’t need that added unnecessary flex of process.. with these Archival bottles, you simple twist into the tree, and pull, let breathe.. ugh, now I can’t wait to try the Chard and PS. Asked Alice to find the CH in the rack and put in fridge.. hope she remembers as this has to be done, two pieces, which would give me 1,000+ words of material for the column.. work night, work in wine but not too much. Need those miles in the morning, on a rapid relay to Wellness. And my office. The Road. MY label, Self-publishing.. ZEN.