11:01pm. Just watched a news anchor, or correspondent, local, sign-off for his last. But after that, this Friday night, how will he be remembered? Will he be? Maybe he will, as he’s a wonderful Human Being; one caring about the community, conveying credible information. Can’t help but think of how I’ll be recalled, thought of, even casually, when I’m signed off. Could be the Petit Verdot talking. Not sure. But either way, making wine’s on mind. I don’t want my bottles to be influenced by oak; I’d rather they be a product of concert with their barrels. Two ladies, right at day’s end, talking about wine as if they were consumers whose habits should be studied. Like they knew more than winemakers, chemists, every other consumer. Criticizing all for them I poured. Hoping I see Katie tomorrow, not just to talk about our project, but the Craft of bottling Art encompassingly.
All day, honestly, had winemaking on mind. At times, more than writing, more than my projects. May be the first time that’s ever happened. I feel like the Petit Verdot: all alone, ardent; atmospheric, adherent to my aims. Grandma, 90 tomorrow, and still denominating Collin’s passing a couple weeks ago. Life, on its own track. Not sure I wield any weight. But I’ll keep with my songs, verses, spoken pieces. Alarm, for morrow: 5am. And when I wake, only pen2paper. Instrumentals. Recital; seeing Self on stage.
11:13pm. Still have these entries on my iphone, just noticed. From when I used to wait for that brainless oval-headed script stone, Adrianna [A2, as she was the second Adrianna in the toxic office], to meet me on Arnold, so I could drive her to box with me. “When will I use these?” I’m thinking. Maybe I should just delete them. No, don’t believe in that. Tired. But, suddenly grabbed when I read:
“Wine, tonight dinner with family
The cold, for writing, wishing self away
Box is writing assignment, keep telling self
Incubator, death chamber, truest meaning of wine labor camp
Need more notes, for wine, my days, my pages, projects
Brevity better with chilled ballads”
Almost reads a poem, I guess. Off to sleep. I need it. Artists DO need sleep, don’t we?