Back in the classRoom tomorrow. And I can’t wait. After a meeting with a student from last term, which should be incredibly, impressively, brief, I’ll head to the 4th & D spot again. And tomorrow, or actually tonight (just, I won’t print), I’ll begin the 40 poems in less than 2 weeks effort. Thought of this today, just walking around the tasting room, doing nothing, thinking “Pen, paper, poem, print…”. Will have to wait till closer to bed. Now, the dishwasher runs, clumsily, and I can barely concentrate on this casual confessional prose.
Wrote a quick 500 words, a little more really, this morning in Annadel. And where does that go? To this semester Master Project. Really getting sick of all this writing, and no book. BOOK. BOOK… I love that word, and I want one– no, that sounds immature– I’ve always set out to write books, since 1997, in high school. Not once did I then envision writing a bloody blog.
Bills paid, money fading.. need to vend these poems. And I need another beer. But will wait for dinner. Only having two, then stopping. Waking at my cruel 5AM, or 5:30.
Now it’s quiet. Washing, done. Think it may be drying. But either way, these key touches sound loud. And today at winery, nothing significant to convey, or report. 2013 SB being bottled. Was going to shoot footage, but decided against. I did, however, shoot some footage of the vineyard crews pruning Chardonnay vines, which was dramatically interesting, especially with how dry everything is out there.
Would write, but there’s nothing of note around me, or about me, not now. I’m in pajama pants, waiting for Alice to come downstairs from sitting next to Kerouac while he falls asleep. That’s what he demands, now.. one of us in the room with him, often. Yes, need a beer, to keep this domestic scene interesting. I’m on the verse of saying ‘to the stars with it all’, these scribbles… just bloody gather pages and release! You’re an old man!’
But I hate when I’m that brash with myself. Need to calm down. Hemingway’s chapters that we review tomorrow, need to be thoroughly excavated; we will be looking for the gems. Yes, there are many, but I want the students to look for those points in H’s details that contribute to a thesis, or point. Should write that down in KnoComp, right now… Done.
The poetry will pay for the prose, I’m thinking. OR maybe the reverse. Why do I continue to pressure Self? It’s interesting. That’s been my habit. And how many books has it produced? None. But that changes. Poems, in all objects. Even this plastic garbage container to my right, next to the three cases of my wine. My son loves going to it, throwing things away, showing me he can do what I do. Actually, he can do much more than I, and I’m reminded every time I pass the fridge, with his two standalone paintings magnet’d to its divot’d surface. In less than two years of Life, my little one has surpassed me, proudly displaying his work. He often walks over to it, points up, gives some type of explanation. He’s my mentor. Now, always, forwarding eagerly into his lecture stream.
1/23/14– Have a 2008 Petaluma Gap Syrah open. Haven’t poured glass first, not yet. savoring this anticipatory roar. What happened today? Nothing much, just nice tour on mountain with a couple from S. Lake Tahoe. And after that, monotone. Funny when I think this b/log only has 11 months, 8 days left to live. Then, only the maddened reads…
Wonder what this bottle has… Thinking of short stories, Poe’s work, as always, what I lectured last semester with his collection.
Just took first sip.. lovely. Everything’s punctuated perfectly. I don’t know I have any critiques, it’s an amazing Syrah. I’m not familiar with that pseudo-AVA, but I don’t need to be. I’ll keep sipping. Should email Doug, the winemaker, tell him what I think, that I’m sipping his creation (which was payment for helping harvest his 2013 Syrah, in a small vineyard right by his house). I remember that morning: foggy, cool, quiet, fictional nearly; I wish I brought a notebook, or something to write with, but I had to be in the bloody tasting room, of course, shortly thereafter.
Today, day 2 of the 2week poetry binge. Finished a 3verse piece.. want to read soon. And why would I delay? Poetry’s about the moment.. little editing, perfecting… Just writing, releasing, reciting. That’s how I’ve always understood the form, since Gillian’s class at SSU.
What do I want, from all this, Life? Freedom. Writing. Wine.. only a garnisher, at best. On couch.. should I turn on music, put Self in Paris, or study a writer or two? Don’t know, but I need more wine. My writer friend, still not yet returning my last note. Wonder what she does now. Probably at work, at the bar. Want to work late, at a bar, just once, for the experience.. like a ride-along. See what happens. Imagine the material. Speaking of ‘material’, I still have to edit the 30-day project, then the few writings around it. Maybe I should take a day off, edit the whole thing in 1 sitting. I could do that.. then I’d be less stressed.
Jack, upstairs asleep. But who knows how long that’ll last. Lately, he’s been waking at odd hours, last night 12:44[AM]. Should have another glass of this ’08, jus to make sure it’s safe… That’s what I say in the tasting Room, with the more amiable guests, in humor, to encourage their enjoyment in tasting our wines.
This Syrah, distracting me, with its songs. Only 1 more glass, as I’m quite convinced that the little Artist will be waking at some harsh hour. My lecture on Monday, will not only shake the students, but define a new direction in my diction, teaching philosophy. I want the students to be like this Syrah; bold, confident, distinguished, defiant. And yes, that’s just how I view this wine; unlike any Syrah I’ve sipped.
with certain shades,
Tumult tumbles toward
shore, the grip roars
moving to another town
where voices ebb to wandering