Tonight with dinner, sparkling berry water, Diet Coke. And now back to clear berry bubbles. The wine club room today, draining all energy I hoped to have for this sitting. Was just watching a show on publishing, what publishers do to writers, how they scam, swindle, secularized them. Not happening to this indi Artist. EVER. Got a few tips today. Nothing impressive, or economically relevant, but surely enough to pay for tomorrow’s morning mocha. After shift, a little tasting with Ty Caton. Haven’t had his wines in some time. Forgot how madly magical they were, are. Wound up walking away with a bottle of his red blend. Don’t remember varietal components. And it doesn’t matter. It’s a great wine that I can’t wait to have on one of my sipNscribble nights. First assignment this morning, with my Zin-induced hangover, a private tasting with 8 people from Wisconsin. Nice group, all in industry, enjoying what I had to say about the wines; my esoteric Literary deconstruction of bottled character. One of them said, “Your level of expertise is incredible.” I thanked him, laughing internally. Yes, I’ve learned a lot through Self instruction, from Katie’s winemaking lectures, tasting, my coworkers over years. But, what I’m really doing, ALL I’m doing: sharing passion. I am no wine expert. A Literary Theory/Literature/Writing expert, maybe. But I’m definitely not an oeno-sage.
This water’s lost its electricity, sadly. Tomorrow, in tasting Room. Starting day again with group of 8, private vineyard tour & tasting. project R, closer now.. so much so that I need to review my writings for first recital. Looking at the Plath book, immediate right, here atop kitchen table. Think I need another Diet Coke. That won’t keep me up too late, right? Been uploading poems during day, over last few days, from phone. Love that I do that, have that habit, but also hate Self for it. No ink hits page lines. Shame. An iphone is in no way an Artist’s tool. I recover from the mood folding, realize I don’t have time for it, with all these projects, dreams, fired irons b4 the writer. So lovely to sip this water as I’m doing. Red wine, regardless of varietal, sounds in no way like something that should be allowed on palate.
One note from the other day, an elderly man comparing wine affinity to stamp collecting. The gentleman, Roy, was 85, I believe. A former lawyer, and WW2 veteran. He moved slow alongside his wife. She, too, full of questions, worry, anxiety. They were all from New York, five total. One of them, an accounting professor [adjunct]. Made me think, as I always do, of time, how I’m aging as Writer, Human, new father. How Jack’s going to be 7 months, before too long. Taking a short break to look through these Plath pages, maybe cruise to Stanford’s site, for project R ideas, twists.. any innovation.
Really bothers me when I don’t write, as I failed to last night. Again, glad I’m sipping this bubbled form. Didn’t need to read much of her work. Need to go deeper into my moments, I understand after reading the Feb 17 entry, page 329. Her book, facedown, pages pointed towards me, spine towards door; floating on Composition book like a superior manuscript, which it is, entirely. My tip money, occupying the small alley between the books and this monster’s right side. How much do I have? Somewhat don’t want to know. And.. I didn’t count. Almost did, but just folded the bills nicely into wallet’s compartment. Should stop session, go to bed. Hoping, more than most wishes right now, that I wake prematurely 2morrow. So I can write. That’s it. Want to walk into tasting Room, knowing I posted new material. Or just wrote, no post. Just realized it’s Saturday night. Doesn’t, even with most grand of microscopic suggestions, feel like a Saturday night. It’s my schedule, doing this to me. Would love to read a journal entry from 10 years ago, see what I was doing on a Sat, Sun, or any night. Have to dig through those old pages, find my gems.
(8/25/12, Saturday)