Rain, arrival jazzy. It tells me to keep writing. Not to fret the release of that chapbook. Just write. Poetry, needed. The Pinot’s remainder, talking to me, instructing that I listen to the drops. Wonder how the vineyards feel about this late rain. Are they grateful, or bitter? Only 8 minutes till 12a. Need verse, and rest. I’m testifying to this page, hoping for a lifelong direction. Little Kerouac depends on it. Finally, he sleeps. All I can see, his eyes connecting with my uncertain vision while gripping him. Makes me feel more fortified, thinking about this little character in my life now, and my days before his presence; while working at that office, thinking it so significant, consequential. When really it was less than a fallen feather in a sewage brook.
If I could, I’d stay up this entire night, using the rain’s BPM for my spoken word. Don’t want to apply anymore, and I shouldn’t have to; prove my Self to people I don’t even know, and probably wouldn’t like working with anyway. Comfortable in this bed, thinking about how free I finally fly.
11:57pm. Will I finish this entry before midnight? Hardly know. But one thing of which I’m ever convinced, I don’t need to care about “the industry’s” perception of my relationship with wine, my winemaking endeavors. The wines I sip, and the bottles I’ll produce, all connect with my nucleus, provoke Life, Art. That’s what keeps me Me. This rain, applauding. Telling me to leave this evil device, flee to paper. [Sorry, monster. Didn’t mean to call you evil.] To actually write. Freely. “That’s your genre, you are the genre,” the notebook calls.
Wine. Has to be the river of reiterating reflection I’ve always needed. Someone could argue the bottle’s contents aren’t Art. And, with some bottles, I’d agree. But the ones I sip, those I’ll produce, all artful; promoting prose, poetry, voracious verse, prove musical.