Tired, still, from last night’s tasting. Night in. Have to remain fortified, and write. Was compelled to leave domicile, be out on this “holiday” weekend. But no. Only studio’d. Dinner, done. Now I can focus on sitting. Sipping: 2008 Cabernet. Which winery, not important. Feel as though I haven’t written in so long. Hate that feeling. project R, my first taught section in nearly 2 years, only 4 days distanced. Am I ready? Think so. Will copy syllabi with own funds, as I want, would rather have, a certain paper type rather than the JC’s generic regenerated sheets. Now, 8:42pm. Planning on writing till 2am. See if that happens… What do I want from night, this session, this quiet to Self? Spoken word, I’m thinking. But then, I think I want the chapbooks addressed. I would, could, write rhymes for those shortened collections. The blogs, bugging me. Why do I have to have a target, stress Self like I am? Why can’t I just write, enjoy? One of my writing movies on, making this night count, matter. IT has to have value.
Busy day at winery. Didn’t have a single spare second, in that wine club member room. Met incredible people, characters that’ll keep the material motioned [should probably open that document here on the monster, now]. Feel like I have 2 much going. Real Artists embrace simplicity, a minimalist approach to their canvass, whatever it is. So why do I take on as much as I do? With this social media, pictures, film, atop the paginated pulses? I can do all that, I’m thinking. Just have to be organized. How many writing movies will I be able to screen, 2nite? hoping to have 1k up on “blog” by the time this film’s finished. Should go upstairs, fetch my mobile office– Plath entries, comp book, semester’s texts…
This Cabernet, reminding me of last night’s development– Katie informing me that we might make a Chardonnay this harvest. Talk about a gift, ON TOP of the bottle she brought back from France, for me. A 1979 Chateau Haut-Batailley Pauillac. Could not believe it. But what I do know, this’ll be popped with family. Such an enjoyable night last night, with everyone. Again reiterating that wine is about family, laughs, occasion. Not prestige, self-elevation, status, like those puffy pigs at the box, believe. Looking at the bottle right now, wondering what the wine inside’s doing. What is its character type? Can’t wait to find out.
Tomorrow, on mountain. Need characters, so I hope I get some, just 2 or 3, that’d be fine. My novel, or short story sequence, starting to take shape in these chapbooks. And this coming semester, just what I needed to cement salable material. Poured Self another glass, smaller than one full, more like a wine club room pour. This wine, with its dark smokey shouts, soft presence and swagger, telling me “relax,” enjoy my night, writing. Pictures from last night… How, why, did it pass so fast? Was looking forward to it all week, now it’s gone. Time, upping its assault on me, again. Have to counterattack, revert to rime.
Almost to day’s 1k. And Kelly, not at all stressed like me. She’s more than likely just painting in her studio, be in on wine glass or white surface, or on wood as she occasionally will. Is she sipping a Cab? Probably not. More than likely a Syrah, or Chardonnay. Think that’s the biggest reason I want to make a Chard.. for my character. Just looked through a couple lecture notes I jotted the other day, in my new comp book [dedicated to this new class], thinking I need to share this consciousness stream with students, as it’ll embolden them to embrace theirs, especially in the brainstorming stages. Going to write something down… Much better, now that it’s in the comp book. Hate waiting to write. Yes, I had the little notebook in my back pocket today, but didn’t even have an eyelash’-worth of scribble time.
9:17pm. No more social/socialist media distractions. Paying attention to this move. The Artist, struggling, just wanting to be heard. And he was, as he refused to not be. Taking Ms. Plath’s book from my bag. Just poured Self a full glass, convincing mySelf I deserve it. Dark as oil, night, vampire attire.. speaking of poem, rhyme, also brandished poetry Comp Book. Just noticed it’s Sept 1st. I mean, I knew that at work today, realized it, whatever.. but just really appreciated it, here on the couch. Time, scoring another missile hit against the penman. Want to watch some footage I shot the other day, but I’m not getting distracted again by this device-grounded material. I don’t resent what I’ve done with cameras, but it’s not writing. It’s not ME, as this page is ME. The wine, beginning to slow me, again. Not getting to last night’s peak. Can’t. I have work 2do, here in these journals. As a diarist, my moment’s of dire fire. Made another note, almost distracted. Slowing my sips, ‘cause I’m a worn writer, 2nite. Can’t even remember what I tasted last night, at Katie’s. And I wasn’t aiming 4 that state, I just arrived there, being with family, surround by love, positive energy. And that’s precisely what I want little Jack to see, unconditionally. Love, conversation, memorable moments, REAL Life.
9:28pm. Thinking that 2morrow might be busier than 2day. Is that possible? Of course, it’s a holiday. Need another sip, just thinking about it. Where’s my glass? Not by side, but in kitchen, so I have to rise, stroll to counter 2 sip. Will make me drink slower, appreciate this St. Francis Russian River Cab– Whoops. Well, it is important, as that’s my family’s base in Sonoma Valley. Yes, I work at Kunde, PROUDLY. But, I’ll 4ever represent St. Francis’s presence, philosophy, wine style, second to MY OWN. Sometimes–no, many times–I feel this industry has a problem with me, my fiery free speech. And, truthfully, at day’s end, I’m fine if it does. I don’t need “the industry.” I have a page, a pen. If anything, it needs me, my love of wine, love of wine lovers.