Following with impulse to write, but it’s difficult, from this exhaustion, whatever bug has invaded my lining. Jack’s birthday party today.. family, friends, celebrating my son’s life. 1 year on plant, for my little Artist. Alice, already, now at 8:26p, retired. One interaction I have to record from party: a conversation between my friend Melissa’s husband, Troy, and I. About drawing, painting.. something I need to answer, a curiosity that need be quelled. I told him the other day, that I want to ask him a couple question.. everything from how to start, to what I should draw, what I should start drawing, what he does, and all pertaining. He told me, as I do with students or anyone else curious about writing, “Just start drawing…go to a park, bring your sketch pad, and play with color composition.” Glad I heard it from his dialogue den. Now, this’ll be precisely what I’ll do.. just play with colors, inventory every effort, session.
Still feeling symptoms. Light cough, intermittent sniffles, rare sneezes. Combatting it with a 2008 Decoy Merlot, that my winemaker sis brought in her supply of wine for Kerouac’s gathering. This is just the type of Merlot I want to produce. Poured night’s cap just over ten minutes past. Quite full, that bowl. Notes– blackberry, licorice, mint, mocha on nose; palate: syrupy cherry, lingering licorice, mint, thick and slow progression; finish, all notes remaining with generous tannin dispersal. Can’t find anything to critique, really. And why should I? I’m writing about it, writing alongside it.. I love it. Why do we insist on complicating things– moments and matters in Life? ESPECIALLY WINE?.?!!
This blog, beginning to get traction. Significant readership. So what do I do? “Monetize” it? Did Hemingway have ads on the sides of his pages? I want this to be a gallery of Life.. MY life. Not a forum for soul selling. So that issue’s anesthetized. Glad. It’s. Dead.
Back in TR, morrow. These evidences of slowness need to depart, already. Need another Merlot kiss. ’08, again my vintage of interest. Katie and I didn’t get to talk business today, and that’s fine. BUT, our bottling’s right around the corner. Need to ask her about aging potential, final fining, or blending. Last minute edits, possible adjustments.
Honesty, in this prose: calling in sick, tomorrow. Don’t think I’m sick enough, thankfully. Would rather be in that Room, talking to people, listening to their demands, be they wine club members or other. Domestic, abroad, interstate…
On mind: poem. Cubist standalone’s. Still have quite a bit of the Decoy left. Sipping with melodic murmur. This writer can’t afford to be “sick.” Writers like mySelf, Mr. Hemingway, don’t get “sick.” We have a certain power that makes illness unknown, even symptoms’ thick. Just looked at clock. 8:52pm. May be right behind Ms. Alice. Tomorrow morning, on way to Estate: buying sketchpad, colored pencils down the street. Cheap as I can find, to be sure I do something with them, so there’ll be no pressure. Either I do it, or I don’t. Just going to blend colors, color intensities, blending on top of other blends. Was interesting today, Troy telling me to look at a translucent glass sheet, tell him what colors I saw. He told me that’s how you deconstruct what you see as an illustrator. Going to try this, FINALLY. Write what I find, or don’t find. Who am I doing it for? ME!