Sipping a new wine, an AV Cabernet gifted to me from a cherubic guest today. Find mySelf cosmically engaged by this ’09. Tonight, my Friday. But, tomorrow, work 2B done. Still have to write the second lecture for project R. With this wine glassed, I’m in my obsessive role, thinking I have to write everything, all happening, in all moments. And honestly, it’s one of my qualities I find more favorable. But then, I’m still. My Kelly novel, beginning its official voyage tonight. Pen2paper ONLY. And that character, with her artistic/entrepreneurial/Human/whimsical strokes, can only move this writer. She creates, travels, returns to create more.. to music, coffee, in her home studio.. which is a studio apartment– Stopping there. Saving all for novel.
Kelly’s a character that doesn’t want to be “discovered,” necessarily, but can’t help but be. She’s too much of a presence. She’s too much of what we wish we’d do but don’t, for sakes of being “responsible,” being an “adult.” Thinking I need another pour. My wine–well, Katie’s and mine–in its barrel, resting. Waiting for its home. What I admire about my glass’ current resident: its mouthfeel, those notes of chocolate, maple, cherry and earth. It’s a cautious Cab, but not one lacking confidence or charisma. While with my group, on that hill today, I thought about the incoming travels, writing treks. They’re closer than I think, I’m positive. And when I’m in that hotel Room, like yesterday’s character, I’ll be writing, sipping, capturing everything. What writers do. And if there’s a reason I maintain this “blog” as obsessively as I do, with wine most of the time at side, is to show other Artists how obsessed with Craft I continue. I don’t have a vice, but these pages. Not saying I’m ascended above anyone else, I’m just confident in my presence, like this AV ’09. Have to thank her, next time we meet. Not sure what I did 2 deserve this bottle, but I’m enjoying it. And if that adorable character this reads, I pray she accepts my thanks. Just poured Self another, for novel ahead.
The spoken word, always in scope. If poetry could be my day job– Wait– Why can’t it? Looking out at the below valley while on that tour 2day, enough to move a pen, in metered, rimed form. Tomorrow’s lecture, should go a similar route.. responding 2 surroundings. Just typed the first couple sentences. Last night with Mom & Dad, the Particular Palates themselves, exchanging a multitude of ideas on all from Literature to Life actual. Time shortening, ever more evident as I notice Little London age, develop new senses, abilities, talents. Makes me feel alive, while sad. Honestly, I don’t know what to feel. Just know that I love him like I’ve never loved anything before. And I remember that guest in Kaz’s tasting Room, the first couple that Sunday, telling me [the husband, that is] “You’ll never have loved something so much in your life.” I remember brushing it off, dismissing his dramatism, deeming it excessively emphatic while he was only disclosing insight, sharing past. He was entirely right. Need another sip, while in time’s grip.. pen on my hip.
Coming to the end of this final glass. Profile more even, not that it was uneven before, but it now displays musical voices, palatable pulses of passion, oenological truth. Not going to say “terroir,” as I’m sick of that word being overused, overmisused.. This wine sends a spatial awareness to this writer’s senses. Where is she, who gave the writer this bottle, who sent this ramble into an uneditable expository avalanche? Raising glass.. Poetry on mind, I go to breath long lines; inside my epithet, my sins ride a better bet– Conclusion’s intrusion…
If I didn’t have these pages, this obsession, what would I have? I’m like Dad with aviation.. Katie with wine.. Nick with advertising. Like ME with WRITING. Maybe me be my own species. IS that positive, to acknowledge such? What would Sylvia say? Built in a ray.. Delay. May only have a couple sips left. Curse this bottle. IT cursed me, these reads.