1000 words to book. Done. And after this entry, injecting– or, inoculating, older entries, sessions, into its context. This book, a whirl of consciousness. Met a recent Stanford graduate today, on my cave tour. Think he was a sociology major, but after I told him I admired the English/CW department there very much, he told me how much he loved his Creative Writing experience on campus. He took one of Tobias Woolff’s sections. The envy I felt, in that 58-60 degrees vineyard cavern, surrounded by musty barreled aromatics, overtook me. I have not in any way lost sight of my Stanford sights.
Looking at my fading glass of Merlot. Saddened. Want this wined session to follow itself into the latest of hours. Want to be irresponsible with my writing tonight, opening another bottle, falling asleep only hours before I have to pour. Think I’m on the Mountaintop in morrow. Which is a relief, frankly. Shouldn’t say “relief,” just exciting. Feel like I haven’t been up there in a while. And, I hear there’s buds break like mad, higher one goes on the Estate.
Am I going to make it to my 206 pages by 3/31? Hope so. ‘Cause I can’t wait any longer for the Road, for Newness. And the writer’s glass, empty. And without direction. MY classes, days away. Should probably take some papers to grade tomorrow. OR should I do all at minute last, as I always do? I’d love to write at one of the tables, just outside tent, staring up at hill, with characters on all sides, recording all their words, movements, sip reactions.
But my wishes don’t get granted. “GET” granted– no, I have to grant them. That’s why I need this book finished already. Jack needs it finished. Think there may be a bit of wine left, but not enough to color this entry meaningfully. So, if I’m a new journalist, as I’ve cited, I should go fetch the little presence in that tall glass container. And just look at it. Wish it more. That’s just what the writer’ll do.
Next night alone, I’m opening the best bottle I can find in this condo’d castle. One of those Lancaster’s. Now, staring at this last Merlot pour.. it’s emblem for temperament, moderation, Creativity, writing, pace, peace. Just want to stare at its humility, meekness. The nose reaches me, even from over there, that end table, about two feet away. Staring at that small pour. Just like the tasting Room. OR, now, tasting Tent.
Still gazing. Why don’t I just drink it? Why is there surrealist value in this winking wine placement, glassed? Maybe it’s just in my head. Well, obviously. I’m a writer. IT’s all in my head. Took a picture of it. Yes, obsessed. Odd imagery. NEWness, in this visual kiss. Just what I need, in Kelly’s void. Just realizing how long I’ve known her, how long SHE’s been my subject, character.. chimeric choice. The plume from this petite pour, gripping. Surprising. Finally sipping.