TWENTY

Started a new short story today, one about a journalist, struggling with the reality of being assigned what to write and what to write about, and what if he went freelance.. partially inspired by a friend of mine, who’s a photojournalist, with more than advanced knowledge in journalism, but also with my own edge, incorporation of occupational qualms. I’m sipping the remainder of last night’s Sangio.. the one made by my friend Mike.. and, curtly, it’s completely changed its intention, it seems. But that could be a result of the exhaustion I feel, currently. Kenwood Foot Race, three days away. I’ll run tomorrow, anywhere from 6.2 to 10 miles, we’ll see. Then, no running on the 3rd, then the 4th, the race, where Lawndale and I meet again, competitively. Relaxed, finally… Another sip.. more showing of the oak, that’s for sure, but I don’t mind.. I still deem it integrated, rather than hindering, or overcompensating. When I make this year’s barrel, or barrels, what should I want to accent? Yes, vintage, to an extent, but I want my wines to have a distinct voice, intention, presence– I want them to be truly alive– So many say, ‘wine is a living thing’, but have no idea how that can morph. I want my wines to be stories, characters, captures of moments, of moments, dilemmas and dreams. More poetry needed, yes, but it has to take prose form, and I have to rely on this wine, and I have to imagine mySelf sipping it on the Road, in some Italian village, not some swanky hotel, or resort– that’s not Literary, not at all, that’s falsified. Tonight, in the lobby of the Fountaingrove Hilton, not quite the fluffy aura I’d hoped for. Everyone was so normal, calm, but I did pick up on some travelers talking about Racer 5, what I was sipping, saying, or one character (man, early 50s) did: “Yeah, this Racer 5 is pretty good, a lot of the locals love it…” Not sure if he ordered it, but I thought his vocal pulse was interesting, like he had the scoop on what we drink. Not sure how to measure it, but I heard love for the county’s beer, and whatever else he wanted to say, which I can’t remember right now. But it was so quiet there, relaxed. Was hoping for the traveler tavern, but no, I had normality.. always my bloody story. And my character, the one I created today, doesn’t want to be “assigned” anything. He writes.. yes in journalist mode, or form, but he wants to be free in his paginated prance.. truly freelance.. he’s beyond the simply ‘who what where why when how’ tumble. But I become incensed thinking about what he has to ingest from the authority, the bloody devil editor. So that’s my fault, and I don’t mean it like that.. I mean, that’s a fault of Mike Madigan’s, that I have this ever-going skirmish with badge-holders. The goddamn editors. They can’t write so they judge writers’ works. That makes sense.