Clocking in, 3:28pm. No stress in this writer. Not now, as I’m viciously prepared for class, plans both typed. Still putting finishing touches on lecture notes, plans. On mocha2, unstoppable. With honesty pushing me like a vindictive Caribbean wind, I’m sure I’ll be putting at least 1000 words into book. My book, only showing writer struggles. Guess that’s my topic, if I had to be “committed” to one.
And trying to paint, still fearful. Why? Why can’t I just fill a canvas as I did when younger, at Arundel. Used to just draw, create with any conscious care. Age, diluting freedom. Shame, yet another. But I’m taking it seriously. Why? that helps with fluidity, I’m finding. Jack, only 8 days away from 1 year on planet. How did that happen? Looking out at Hwy 12, passing cars. Everyone in a rush. Me, too, so I SHOULD judge. People behind me, at bigger table. Paranoid they’re watching my pushes. Egotist, I’m a writer, and I’m just being honest.
3:40pm. Think I’ll leave at 4:20-something. SO I can print the lessons, lecture notes, give self a last second to think of additions. This coffee shop, filling. Claustrophobic, a little. But I’m writing past it, through…
Tomorrow in winery. Want to revisit wine again. Know I tasted it just the other day, but I want to stay in close contact with my ever-zooming character in that buried barrel. Always amazing me, every time I’m in that Kunde cave, just how many barrels line those channels, how many different efforts, creations, future sips in there sit. My office, eternally mobile, so I’d love to write in that darkness, by my barrel, or anyone’s, if I could. Even to scribble a note, just in an unexpected space.
Leaving this laptop for sheets, pen on the actual canvas. And the painting, or drawing fantasy, soon. Why not just try? If ever to break from words, off to colors. And they don’t have to make sense. Do they? What if I’m trying to sell them? What if I’m not? Am I allowed to paint for mySelf? For what do I want to be known/remembered? I’ll launch at 4:20p, exactly. Looking to go into the classRoom BLAZING. All pistons exponentially pulsating. Not looking to overwhelm the students, but certainly keep each on/in spinning attention. Not sure I’ll be teaching over summer, and that could be a boon.. in fact I know it is, as I want to be in winemaking mode, completely, thoroughly.
Getting distracted, a bit tired. How, with all this caffeine in the writer? Unknown. Just saw my song list read “Artist Unknown” for last song. What a horrible, sad thing to be, an unseen Creator. Not me. Was going to say, “Won’t” be me. But it’s already not. I’m heard, I know. I’m read, they’ve me told. This chair, uncomfortable. Maybe it’s just my mood, and I need to be mobile, as I so boasted. Not in mood for this device, for longer. Time for paper, want to at least for next 20-or-so minutes make believe I’m writing in Paris, as I did that night, those nights, a little during days–