racked rushing, writing

Tonight, Pinot.  Not sure why I took this bottle home, when I had the choice of all those Cabs, Cab-centered blends.  And that erotic ’09 Merlot.  I’m scribbling in hurry as time is shortened by reality.  Working, fatherhood, the spoken word I’m writing…  Honestly, poetry has re-devoured me.  And I love it.  The consciousness flood.  Capturing everything from this desk’s top’s mess, to the content on my phone’s notepad, to the receipts in my wallet (all of which should just be thrown to trash…  Why DO I still have them?)  The business cards, done.  On the floor, in car.  But, I’m thinking of killing the other blog again.  Why?  Just started to get into it.  AND, I printed those business cards, with its URL on top, BOLD.  Going to leave it alone for a couple days, come back to it.  Maybe I should make it more conversational, interactive.  Like synergistic journalism.  Is there such a thing?  Well, there is now.  And there should be, especially with anything having to do with wine.  Speaking in grapes’ sake, this ’09 SoCoast Pinot is musical tonight.  Reciting to me.  It taunts poetry duel.  It wants me to write song, verse, rhyme.  Must be the rain, its pairing with the glassed Burgundy.

Couldn’t believe how forward the drops were today in AV.  They followed me home, ordering me to reflect on the last tour with the 2 under-30 physicians in the last weeks of their residency (think they said they had 3 weeks left…and were celebrating a 1-year wedding anniversary).  The other couple, 50s, married for 30+ years, with a daughter at Harvard.  Debriefing with Self on both character couples.  Thinking, I’m still more that invited to Self-adorn in greatness.  May not need the PhD.  But I WANT it.  This rain’s telling me to live.  In the writing, and only the writing.  The Pinot just nods, agrees, laughing at me through its own self-strengthened poetry.  Another character on inner-screen: a man, early sixties, convinced he wants to write 5 books, but hasn’t written a word.  All he does is dream about his books.  He’s not a failed writer, as he’s never really written.  How he can write them, he only thinks, dreams, steams.  How he should have written them, already.  Part of me feels distraught for his station.  Other, joyful that he still dreams, has dreams.  With my day, my new Now, all I can do is write in moments, streaming flexes.  This Pinot, quite playful with palate tonight.  More than it has been, past.

9:38pm.  Little Jack, my animatedly inquisitive son, deconstructing all elements at his sides.  He knows more than the nurses proclaim.  He has to, with those eyes, that stare, colorful glare.  He tells me to write the way I want.  To not worry, he’s loves who I am, what I do writing.  And that’s all I need.  A sip, for such.  With this tilt, more herbal patterns.  What is this Pinot trying to say?

Might be up past when I should tonight.  Want to write song, verse.  Want to just play with words as the winemakers I know, admire, do with their barreled berries, levels.  Music, piquantly celebratory for my reality.  More artistic, to write rushed, to compose a song in a three minute perch, or less.  That’s when a reader or listener should recognize it as believable, newfangled, mellifluous.  Sip to scribble.  Sip my scribbles so I can laugh back at this Pinot.

Just had a flash back of my freshman math class.  My teacher, Mr. Anthony, never noticed that I wasn’t paying attention.  And I should have been, really.  I would have done better, and I might be able to NOW budget better.  So what was I doing?  Writing.  Mostly song, poetry.  I would play with the songs’ lineup, how it would appear on a CD insert.  I also remember writing “unreleased” songs, for a followup CD.  Many of the songs I would write in 2’s.  So, two songs per class.  One week, if I remember credibly, I wrote five songs in three days.  So how did I do on the test that week?  Not good.  At all.

All for the Craft.  Take that, Burgundy…

(3/27/12, Tuesday — 10:22pm)