And I’m back from my run. Has to be over 85, but I wouldn’t let mySelf stop, just like I won’t let mySelf cease with the punching of these keys, now that I’ve finally sat down. Wanted to come upstairs to write as soon as I walked through the door, but I had to cool, open one of my wife’s tall ‘smart waters’ and pace the kitchen till I settled, and my heart slowed. When I opened the door, removed my shoes, it was like a defiant engine, not at all wanting to stop, almost ordering me to get back out there and keep running. But I’m here, with slower breaths and Beats, and the water to my right. Another item crossed from today’s list. Still have to get my hair cut. I’ll do that following shower. One month from today, the Kenwood Foot Race. My goal, to keep a 7:30/mile pace. My numbers for today: [10.01K] 51’05, 8:13/mi, 709 cal (approx, and not that I care about my calorie count, at all). Obviously having work to do, but I don’t want to dumb my runs down to numbers– I sprint because it frees me, and I don’t remember many of the thoughts from the run on purpose, as I want to the run to be its own standalone piece. Never realized what a dangerous sport running is, though, till I thought about it; dangers to the knees, muscles, hamstrings, feet, hips, groin, and who knows what else. Time is catching me so I need to run faster. One day I won’t be able to. Then, maybe, I’ll finally try golf… No, I’ll swim. I hate golf. I sit here at my home desk with no shirt listening to the cars of Yulupa, speeding in and out of Bennet Valley. Which reminds me, I should go up to the winery just up the street, Matanzas Creek, for some tasting, photos, maybe writing.. I don’t know, just to get out. Again, time doesn’t care what it does to me. Dropping the DVD-R’s and lunches off at Alice’s school reminded me of that, how young they all are, those elementary students, watching them play on the playground; how they must see me, as this “grownup”. Kind of funny, kind of sad. But they play, they just play… Why can’t we do that now, as adults? Is that a rule, a law? Not in my 35 Laws.. no sir. Just started re-writing my laws of being 35, and #3 reads, “Everything seen as Art; be a child.” This has to be done, these written laws, as I need to know, or rather the world needs to know and I need to journalistically declare WHO I am and will always be. So free, after my 10K. I feel young, I am young, but why need the writer dwell in age, his age? That’s calculation, the accepted.. what nonsense. She, my character, doesn’t care at all about what she “should” be doing. She’s had it. She’s making wine. For herself. For her family, friends, the openminded sipper. Not publications or corporations, not critics, not the artless folly-fallen flax-wenches that use wine to hoist themselves into some “white- glove” characterization. Can’t wait to write my book on her; what she sees in wine, why she quit her job to sell her own bottles, why she doesn’t believe in wine clubs, and why she uses the creative approach to everything about her wine label. She wouldn’t let Them get ahold of her bottles, ever.
I return after the shower to keys, and the time bragging. 2:24PM, it says, shouts, punches. Why the hostile nature to reality? I’ll type on, thinking of what else I want to get done, what else I want in this newest version of my 35 Laws. A new addition, addressing diet, what I consume. In order to write, I need to be alive, and in order to feel alive and be alive, I need to plan. So cook more, writer! The jazz, bringing me to her space, where she blends, and plans her bottles; she’s in the habit of writing everything down, taking notes that are not just ‘meticulous’ or ‘copious’, but enucleating; exposing and addressing and exploring every aspect to a wine; from oak and oxygen integration to flavor suggestion and how those tones evolve, escalate and tussle with each other when frolicking about one’s senses. She’s in that office, or workshop, or lab of hers all day, even situating a bed next to her desk, one that can transform to a small square that she can easily hide like some stolen coins or gem collection, in her closet. She’s into her wines like a furniture craftsman obsesses over small corners, details not-at-all seeable; she sees her wines as structures, characters, tastable orbs, mini-climate translators; paintings, songs, stages.. and she’s convinced that the one sipping plays the most important role. Without him or her, the one tilting the stem and allowing her creations to introduce themselves, she’s what’s not visible. She wouldn’t let that happen. And she wouldn’t let the “professional winemakers” sway her any degree, any one way, any way at all. She was she, the individual, the transiently and newly said blender, and she would change her story. She thought about how amazing it felt to tell him, her script-subscribing gutless “boss” that she was leaving: “I need to give you my two weeks…” “What are you gonna be doin’ then?” he said, leaning back in his chair, accidentally bumping into his keyboard, knocking off the desk the list of to-do’s which he’d surely go over, harshly, and immaturely, in the always useless morning meeting. “Making my own wine,” she said. And she wanted to say it that way, just that way… My. Own. Wine. What could he do? Nothing. She loved that. She was in charge. She, C——, was now controlling everything in that moment and every moment that would find her from here forward. And that’s what wine was about, well her wine anyway– freedom. Actual passion and love for wine. Humanness. Wine was Human. Is! And she’d make it the rest of her life. She’d sing through these bottles; she’d know her chosen varietals better than any “professional” winemaker. Like I said, I can’t wait to write her novel, about her, all about her, and her wines. Better get started, soon, after I publish these poems and small prose pieces of the first book. Time now, 2:42. And I still need to get my hair quite cut. Time, forever my enemy. But I can run faster, write faster, and live more ferociously than it. And it’s only a simple ‘it’. I’m mountainous and mammoth with my manuscripts.