10:12PM. Alice home, little Kerouac still in Monterey. Today’s shift, contributing much to the Self-publishing well. I’m nearly to my budget goal. So I celebrate with this ’11 Russian River Pinot. No, I won’t make 3 pages. But I’m writing, which is more than I can say for the Self of last night. Today, Dad and I finally walked through Annadel. For the first time since I-don’t-know-when. We discussed the concept of ‘intrinsic’.. and how to apply it. His curiosity, or knowledgable pursuit of the word’s circulation, generated, as he disclosed, from an article on Warren Buffett. Interesting, I thought, how this word is so contingent upon, both in definition and theory, denotation and connotation, context. How do you know when something–a characteristic or attribute, value or perception–is sincerely intrinsic? Then, Dad and I talked about all the ways the concept and word could be entertained, and how so many conclusions could be reached, and would be reached by any energetic mind intent on such a surf. But, we also acknowledge that it’s not so much an understanding or clear hold on the thought of ‘intrinsic’ that needs to be valued, but on the dissection of the idea itself. That’s what’s of value here.. the process, more so than the product.
A couple times, Dad and I stopped, admired certain perspectives, or “views” in Annadel’s whirling woods. I explained to him that I much prefer flat running to trail traverses. But when walking, notably with Mr. Madigan, the trail and its rocky challenge don’t diffuse me, even a slight.
This Pinot glass, probably more full than it should be. Lovely… The Napa mission the other day with Chris, on mind. Wish we would have visited one more door. I sip this… Think about my wines, how the quantity fades, but gloriously. Haven’t received one critique or complaint about my bottles. And while applying foils to Zach’s bottles today, towards the end of my shift (first time I’d ever worked on the line..), I could only think of not just my own wine label, but also publishing.. SELF-publishing. My office, my releases.. my Creatively SOVEREIGN voice.
After our walk, Dad and I had a beer at the Mountain Hawk base, had some almonds, crackers, chips, discussed goals, Life, aims, passion. And I’m again reminded of Time’s intention of folding us all under its claw. I don’t have so much a plan, as I entertained with Dad, but more so a vision.. one encompassing and definite. And this night’s final glass is in celebration of not only the day, my saunter with Dad through Annadel’s dimension, but acceptance of who I am… “You’re a writer,” Dad said to me, while at the Mountain Hawk home, deconstructing purpose, passion, “is there anything that you’re more passionate about?” he asked, in a wording somewhat close to what I just typed. I told him ‘no’, “that’s who I am, not just what I do,” I softly retorted. But Dad, where he is, after an amazing career as a commercial airline captain, and what his next chapter is… what I currently turn in my analytical wheels. His story: bullion.
And the day ends. The fridge makes some weird sound, and I think of the Merlot I tasted today, and yesterday, from tanks, while being bottled. Critical as I am of wine, its industry, I can’t stay away. It’s part of this writer.. what he sees, does, breathes, acts, enacts.
So odd, not having my little Artist with us, here, in the condo castle. I hope, and am quite sure, he sleeps well in Monterey. Sure to be frantic tomorrow, with all the groups, reservations. But I’ll make it what I want. The day will never rattle me, at a winery. I stare at this glass of Pinot, about three ounces full, and think about what wine does in its process. I tried explaining this to my group, 9 girls from Cocoa Beach, FL, but they weren’t interested. They just wanted to be driven around the property, after being poured who-knows-how-many wines. And that’s what bothers me: wine not being seen for what it is– energy, effort, ideas, expression from the Earth.. it’s not just alive, it’s voice, it’s culture, history, an encompassing magnet.
My next run will be on the trail Dad and I today walked. Was thrilled that we ran a little on that straightaway, after the first significant incline. Can’t remember the last time Dad and I jogged together. His words make me think about my intrinsic intent.. what I’m meant to do, what I’m “built” to do. I already know.. I’m intended to write. So in that reality, how much of the current currency should I tolerate? When to I enact Pangea, and swim in a more separatist sinew?