At the Starbux on 12 & Mission. Should be grading, but I have no interest. All I see, a pile. I’ll commit to 10 pieces at a time. Here I go…
4:57pm. When I walked through this corporate coffee kennel’s doors, all seats were taken, notably the bigger tables that I prefer when I write, grade. I sat at one of the “tall boys,” those uncomfortable tall tables. Then, the older fellow at the bigger table, just at my 12, began to pack. So now, here I sit. Still set on getting a Merlot for tonight. Going to Oliver’s right up the street. Need to get this grading done, stay ahead of the student. Five more items, whatever they are. Just going to pull 5…
Done. Quick because it was in-class writing. Surprised how well my Eng. 100 students progress. All have this unusual fire in them. As do I, here at this table. About to jump to newJournal. Need to actual paint my words onto tangible canvas. Listening to instrumentals, me feeling especially lyrical. I’ll type later tonight. Want to write as Hemingway did. Woolf. Plath. I want to actually WRITE. This is typing. Device-dependent.
9:23pm. Tonight’s Merlot, ’09, Alexander Valley Vineyards. Nice fruit on mid, but a bit hot on nose and finish. Just think it’s young. Bottle’s been open for a bit over an hour. The rest of tonight, about song’s rhymed line. Want full-on ART. After the quiche Alice made, I’m in a relaxed Parisian pose. Can see the tower, highlighted with its own presence. The next morning, getting coffee with Alice, at the shop, metro station just by the hotel. The lady, in her glossy pitch, “Bonjour!” Paris, the only city I ultimately want to see, within which immerse Self, before I expire.
My glass, in the kitchen, about 3-5 yards away. Probably closer to five. Just imagined a football field’s lines at laptop’s 12. About 3 ounces left in bowl. Thinking of the first responses to wine, from 1st blog, the characters I encountered in bottles. In this ’09, I find something finding its voice, or trying. It’s playful, but disorganized. Not going to “score” it. Just think wine deserves better than some contrived number. On the flight back to Paris, which should be soon, I’ll be writing. No wine, no imported or domestic suds. Just Literature. Pen on paper.. INK. No device.
A stayed color net, this day. Well, all hours since that beer last night. Don’t want to forget what spurred this new, renewed, momentum. A Racer 5 I had down the street, a little over 24 hours ago [2/13/13]. My mood switched. I came home to write. And I did, quickly. In tasting Room tomorrow, as I always am Friday. Goal for Self: 10 characters. Dedicate them to page, REAL page.. paper. Looking at the Merlot, in that glass right by the sink. Wonder what it’s doing, if it looks back at the writer. And if not, I don’t blame. I’m entertaining “judging” it, scoring. It’s Art. How dare I, another artist. And I don’t capitalize, I don’t deserve. Not now, thinking as I did. This wine.. I’m drinking it. So it’s brilliant. It’s bottled, sold, at a store. And I bought. I’m still looking for buyers of my pages. So I don’t deserve to EVER judge, anyone or anything.
(2/14/13)