Literary Love Letter

10:05pm.  Still hot.  All I can think about, Grandma, her leaving us.  Not sure how to address this, so I won’t for now.  Maybe I never will.  Sipping the ’07 Rhône blend I last night opened.  Only had glass’ half before leaving to see her for last time.


Just took first sip.. more open, tenacious in palate approach, resonance.  Ran 4.99 miles today, according to device anyway.  Then walked up that hill, Woodview, with Jill.  Yes, a little tired, but ready to write.  I need to write this evening.  Like Grandma told me, “It’s your life, you have your choice.” While running, thought of some notes I want out in public, that I need heard, or read.  All about wine’s industry, how it always has a way of devaluing the consumer, its “employees.” Why do any of its elements have to be overcomplicated?  Not going to further into it drill, as it’s not worth my time.  What is…  Literature, my lectures, this new blog idea.  One subtitle: Literature, Thought, Reading, Writing.  But it’s only tentative.  And I need to find that Faulkner collection, somewhere upstairs.  Took quite a bit of notes today in Room, on everything from lecture ideas to writing prompts.  The direct aim of this coming term: to carry me to road; to be invited to speak at Conferences on everything from theory, to my favorite Authors (Plath, Poe, Capote..), to writing itSelf.

10:16pm.  Need another sip.  Spoke to Blair this morning, arranged to have both barrels racked on Wednesday, early morning.  Today in tasting Room, back on education’s varietal plate, a goofy Economics professor, with PhD, moving with his wife to an IA university.  Then, not much later, a dean from a NC college, who asked me questions, quite gently and enthusiastically, about everything from my syllabi to writing activities [in-class], textual selections to how many “formal” essays I assign in Comp sections.  Today’s theme: the classRoom, my lectures, Literature, my permanent return to campus.  This new blog, many solicitations for ideas exchange.  I want to see what other English Instructors have arranged for their matriculants.   

Hard for me to concentrate with news on.  I’ll turn it off in a minute.  Supposed to be hotter than scorched kettle in morrow.  I’ll try to record, I promise.  But Saturdays, especially this portion in season, proven to be extremely packed.  And I think I’m mountain’d, but I’m not sure– don’t want to talk about work.  Want to divulge and reiterate more dreams: the office, Road, travel, pen2paper, more new wines.  Living from entries on paper.. only poetry.  Fighting wine’s industry with Art, speech.  Grandma ordered me to follow my choices.. and mine, to fight, with words, entries, SPEECH.

Now, relaxing.  What I need after last night.  Glass, empty.  In a minute, fully full.  Tastes like Syrah charcoal.  Ghostly swirl samba, if that makes sense.  No?  Good.  Need some music, something that makes me more musical  This TV, ALL TV: poison.  OFF.

10:39pm.  Would love to just fall, or push Self into spoken word.. but I want 1,000 words for night.  Sorry, reader.. I know that’s much to read, from a wildly wined writer, after long day– for you, not me.  Want that glass NOW–  Much better.  Was getting a bit intemperate.  Writing movie on, thinking of Hemingway.  OH drat.. still haven’t read Jim’s short story.. Jim’s the gentleman who used to work at winery, one day coming in, leaving a copy of his piece in an envelope with my name exteriorly scribed.  Hopefully, getting up earlier, morrow.  We’ll see.  Ah, this blend tastes amazing, luminously with the air conditioning.  Travel, on mind– yes, there are dozens of spots on list to hit.  But I just want to see my city again, walk by the gardens, under the arc, by the tower, sip whatever wine I find, have a beer in Le Méridien Étoile lobby.. write for a couple hours, then be out gathering characters.  Need the road, badly, especially now.  Grandma’s disembark taught me, again, that life is what we want of it, how we shape it, and that it’s predatorily curt, not fair.  Fine.. if it wants scuffle, then I’ll hand-deliver, by letter’s way.

This wine, delightfully daunting.  Better tonight than last night.  Maybe as I know Grandma’s free from her pain.  Me, just beginning my greatest battle.  Autonomy.  All written, each stage, level, layer.  New blog, on mind, how wine’s skeletal sensuousness skips about my senses.  That’s what Literature does, especially from my preferred Authors.  Wish I had that Plath journal entry collection down here, well as the book’s draft.  Only have read first 5 pages.  Should be bloody done by now.

Night’s cap?  Yes.  Needed.  Was so odd leaving Grandma’s apartment complex, alone, as Mom & Dad went out the east exit, me the south.  I heard some music playing, in that unoccupied lobby.  I looked up, saw floor, floor, floor, floor.  Started to laugh, lightly, as I could just hear her saying I needed to get home, go to bed, “You have work tomorrow, Michael.”

Want to finish this entry before 11:30pm.  Writing against time, my greatest enemy.  It’s foolish if it thinks it’ll muffle or miff me.  I’m capping night with another glass of this blend, and I’m simply going to enjoy aimless types, enjoying how people fear me– a writer in their immediacy, afraid they’ll see their character on a page.  And they should.  ‘Cause as I said, I don’t fear a thing, NO ONE, in wine’s sloppy industry.  You affront me, you’ll see YOUR name, devil.  Know such.

Relaxed, with sitting’s final glassed cap.  Could sip this perpetual puddle all night.  “Perpetual puddle,” how simplistic, amateur a description, if I can critique Self, before Jim.  I’d be inclined to favor Mr. Jim, as I know he’s far more traveled than I.  Wishing mySelf back to Paris, Île Saint-Louis.  The nurse last night, asking if Grandma was named after Zelda Fitzgerald.  Interesting, especially since I just read Gatsby with the 100 section.  Miss those students, the discussions.  Have to dive into this new blog, the ideas rooted in theory, text, Live by Literature.. now I’m truly THINKING.  No devil industry looking over the writer’s shoulder.. snitch on me, see your name, devil.  Calming.  Sorry, reader.  Must be the Syrah in this blend.  Either way, I’m typing my Life, choice.

Thanks, Grandma … Love, mike