At winery this morning at 8. Actually a couple breaths before. More than a long day. Sales meeting. And while the woman spoke, I wrote– material for C——’s story. And my first thousand for her story: printed, given to a couple friends for a read.
Sipping the Cab I opened last night, and I think of how it’d taste to her. She’d think this is too harsh. C doesn’t like the ultra-syllabic descriptions of wines.. she wants it kept simple, relatable, everything that her winery doesn’t do.
Surprised how tired I am, really. But then I’m not. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be working on my possible routine for Sunday night, Hop Monk in Sebastopol, well as other versed pieces for my first short release. Alice said she’d be going to the gym, early with little Kerouac, so that should free some silent space for the writer, allow me to print some pages, frolic in fruition. Interesting material today. From seeing those two wine club members I really enjoy (one a doctor, his wife a nurse) to meeting a local news anchor I’ve watched on and off since I was about 10. Then, trying some new releases from the winery, for the first time in weeks. Only thinking how they’d taste to her. So, now I think, while thinking about her: tomorrow’s goals; 1) 1,000 words for C——, 2) a standalone poem for recital. Now I want more wine, putting mySelf in her thinking, how she’d react.. what would she see in this pour, the next, the next… Would it influence the wine she eventually makes?
Almost forgot I opened the blend, 2011. I pour a glass, one small, in a moment’s matter. Rain, done for now, but it fell hardily for much of the day. And while in that room, in the “meeting”, I could only think of snow, what my parents are seeing in central Oregon, sipping my Merlot, or Cuvée. Jerry, my friend, one of the vineyard managers at the winery, said he’d be able to get me some fruit this vintage if I wanted it. But where would I store it? Would St. Francis let me keep it in their warehouse if I paid rent… Would they charge me rent? Guess that’s a Katie question. But I have to make wine again, at some point, much like my character… Only difference: she’s never done so before.. she’s barely been out of her office, during the work week. Yes, her family owns a vineyard, sells grapes, makes a little wine, but she’s been distant, inadvertently so, for much her life. Now, she wants to speak through crush… And she will. Make wine for herself, not for someone else’s label. Her direction and understanding of wine won’t be directed. But she has to study. Or does she? Will she just jump in.. literally, tangibly, theologically?
Now, to poems. Ones short, sharp, character shaping. I need to attend this reading on Sunday, read at least one piece to whomever attends. How about one verse.. start them slowly, into my catalogue. Ugh… Need another glass. And need to enjoy my days off, next week. Finishing all grading on Sunday. Tuesday, writing. And that’s all. Possibly even sending something to print, finally. Wouldn’t that be something? So what would I do on Friday, then.. my other day off? Maybe go tasting.. or café writing. There’s a challenge to Self: produce a vicious piece of Fiction, in 8 hours, at 1 café… To just skirr about my pages. I’ll write on all the days off. But Friday will be the most displaying of the three, guaranteed.
Now, finally, to poem.. progressing in wine’s perpetual plumes– perforated perfection.
And now this morning, I feel it necessary to be hard on mySelf with this writing. Even harder than I have been recently. With my second cup right, I revolve in this new character, C——. Back, forth. And the material I scribbled yesterday, while in that infantile meeting, only cements what I’m feeling this morning. MATERIAL. And not just material as in subject matter… As in pages PRINTED. Something I can touch.. a bloody page. Not screens on some devil blog.
Outside, wind, and plenty of it I need note. Perhaps this is the correlative, the thematic edge that’ll send me where I need be. And talking with Bonnie yesterday, about her boyfriend Chris’ graduation from Davis’ V&E program, another rhythmic shove.
Starting with this first chapbook, the poems, and the first thousand on C——, will start this new Month advantageously.
Think the rain may be over, which saddens me, surely. But the coffee comforts. The clock, boasting 8:23AM, mocking my reality, that I can’t stay here, my chair, and write the day away. Yesterday, I was already there, in that room, in the uncomfortable chair, not talking seriously even a partial particle of her position– Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not a bully.. she was very communicative, approachable, and certainly knowledgable about certain aspects of wine’s interconnected and incestuous industry… But I learned nothing. And as a teacher, she was wretchedly weak. Made me think of my instruction, though, motivating me to diversify my presence in front of the students. Like with Thursday, writing an entry to the teaching blog in class, WITH THEM.. having a student, “B”, push the ‘Publish’ button. I thought it worked. It did. So I’ll do it again.
And tomorrow, in SRJC office. Going to willingly cube my Self. Target: grade 60 items. Rubric for Essay 1, for both classes, simple: Intro (5), Organization (5), Voice (5), Mechanics (5), Conclusion (5). Going to stay in Teacher character all day, tomorrow. If I stick to 60 items, I could grade all the formal papers. And I’ve lately found that when I time mySelf, I have better results, definitely working more efficiently.
This song that I’m listening to.. giving me visions of me, traveling. On a train, writing while it speeds past some snow-sewn field, somewhere in the midwest. I sip an espresso, nothing with alcohol so I can focus on my writing. I’m finally here. On the road–Road, capitalized…– What I’ve always seen. And I have no idea what’s next, where I’m going, what I’m going to write about. It’s just my moment, MINE. And I’m going to stay here.
If I take a lunch with any of my coworkers, there’s no way a Lit Lunch will take place– And why did I start a new paragraph, take mySelf off that train, to talk about work? Shame on me… Who cares what you do on lunch, Mike… Just enjoy the sights from that train.
He sat there, feeling the train car’s invincible spherical bodies roll over the tracks, with the most curiously consistent rhythm. It was music, one to which he scribble a verse. Or maybe it was the espresso writing, at this point.
class, do I have some?
I’m involuntarily in one.